i'm a mascot for what you've become,

FIC: Looking out on the day

fidelian — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 11:10:54 GMT

INCEPTION FIC. We all knew it was gonna happen, right?

Title: Looking out on the day
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Word count: 1,527
Rating: PG-13 (use of F-word)
Disclaimer: Do not own. Wish I did, though.
Notes: Haven't written fic at all in over a year. Just playing a little in Chris Nolan's world, and getting inspired again. Title/cut text from Gorillaz' On Melancholy Hill.
Summary: One of the, too many, downsides of Arthur's line of work is that he doesn't dream.

Arthur cowers behind a desk, breathing heavily and trying to think fast. There are projections on the other end of the room, perched and ready to take him down if he grants them a view of so much as a finger. No doors, no windows, no Cobb anywhere to be seen. There’s just Arthur and a gun with an unlimited number of bullets. He’s just going to have to deal with this on his own.

He slips his vest off, bundles it up and throws it out from behind the desk to the left, while he flings himself to the right half a second later. While the projections react to the vest, Arthur gets clean shots at three of the five. They sink to the floor while Arthur rolls and ends up on his feet, runs along the wall and hits the two confused projections that are left. They, too, go down and don’t move.

Arthur pauses then, wipes his forehead with the arm of his shirt and sighs. It’s a good thing he didn’t get killed and woken up; this is a really fucking important job and it, presumably, isn’t done yet. He hears a low chuckle from the desk and twists around, gun automatically pointed at a beautiful woman.

She has long blonde hair in delicate curls, a black strapless dress that looks painted on, and a very entertained smirk on her beautiful face. If Arthur had ever been attracted to women, he would’ve been completely struck. She is perched on the desk, her legs crossed, her stiletto clad foot swinging back and forth.

“Wow,” she says, still smirking. “You can really handle that thing.”

Arthur frowns, glances at his gun. “It’s my job,” he says shortly.

“You’re good at your job then,” the woman chuckles darkly. Her dark eyes are sweeping over Arthur, making him feel naked and extremely uncomfortable.

“What are you?” Arthur demands, tightening the hand that’s gripping the gun. “Projection or extractor?”

“Sweetie,” the woman says, slipping off the desk and smoothing her hands over her dress. “I can be anyone you want me to be.”

“Quit fucking around,” Arthur growls. “I will shoot you.”

She chuckles again, and the sound is almost masculine. It doesn’t fit her small frame and frail voice, and Arthur starts. Who is this person? When he’s focused again, she’s closer, looking at him over the barrel of his gun. To his horror, she leans forward, darts her tongue out and gives the barrel a quick lick.

“No, you won’t,” she says.

Arthur opens his eyes. He’s back in the warehouse and Cobb is looking down at him. “You okay?” he says grimly.

Arthur frowns but nods. “I’m fine, but who the fuck was that?”

“Who?” Cobb asks absentmindedly, already looking over the equipment and looping cords over his arm.

“The girl, there was a girl there!”

Cobb shrugs. “Projection probably.”

He seems to be in a darker mood than usual, not really present in the moment. Arthur knows that his mind is somewhere far away, with the wife he has loved for uncountable years. She’s been gone a month, and Arthur is growing worried. Every job they do, he can glimpse Mal just out of the frame of his sight. She slips around them, glaring and observing their every move. Arthur can feel her, and it hurts to know that in some way she is not at peace. He can only imagine what Cobb is feeling.

“Wait, did we get the info?” Arthur asks, the thought just now occurring to him.

“We did,” Cobb nods. A dark smile flits across his face and is gone in under a second. “He’s fucking the wife’s sister.”

“Of course he is.”

Arthur gets up from the out-of-place lawn chair and helps Cobb with the equipment under silence.

--

One of the, too many, downsides of Arthur’s line of work is that he doesn’t dream. He hasn’t had a dream in years, and can barely remember any he’s ever had at this point. From the moment he falls asleep until the moment he wakes up, all he experiences is blackness. This isn’t something he minds, really, it’s just that he feels like some of his natural imagination has been taken from him.

He and Cobb are in Belfast on a simple job, and they’re staying at a cheap hotel in the middle of town. When they finally get back from shadowing their mark to see her routines, Arthur is ready to collapse. He carefully unbuttons his vest, shirt and pants and folds them over the back of a chair. No use being careless when he has no idea where the nearest drycleaner is.

That night, Arthur dreams.

He’s standing at the ledge of something, looking out over a brilliant city. The fog is hanging lower than the point where he’s standing and he looks around in bewilderment.

He’s on the top of the Eiffel tower.

“Hello,” a voice next to him says.

He spins around and sees the woman from their last job, with the long blonde hair and sharp stiletto heels. “Hi,” he breathes.

“How about this view, then?” the girl smiles and seems honestly interested in what Arthur thinks.

“We’re on top of the fucking Eiffel tower,” Arthur laughs, feeling more free and light than in ages. “I’d say the view is pretty damn okay.”

The girl laughs with him, the low and dangerous laugh that Arthur remembers. He instantly sobers up.

“Who are you?” he asks, letting his eyes take in her every feature and recognizing nothing past the last (first) time they met.

“No one,” she shrugs, “you just interest me.”

“I do?” Arthur asks. He’s not used to having the full attention of someone, that’s not the kind of person he’s ever been. “Why?”

The girl smiles, and it’s a little crooked. “You’re amazing, Arthur.”

When Arthur wakes up, it’s with a confused smile on his face and the memory of how her voice felt wrapped around his name.

--

He doesn’t tell Cobb that he’s seen the girl again, nor that he’s been dreaming on his own accord. They stay in Belfast for a week, and every single night Arthur is taken somewhere with the blonde woman. She shows him Egypt’s pyramids, the rivers of Venice, the ice on the North Pole. They talk about Arthur, about how he grew up in a mind numbingly normal family with 2.5 children and a Volvo, and how he finally got away at sixteen and met Cobb and Mal.

They talk about how Arthur wants to save Cobb, how he too misses Mal being there, and how he wonders if he’s lost them both but in different ways.

She listens to him, her face somber when it should be, and touches his shoulder when he stumbles over his words.

It’s my dream, he thinks. She’s only doing what I want her to.

--
When the job in Belfast is finally over and done with, they head to London. Cobb tells him to relax a few days while he gets some things done. Arthur listens to him, and just wanders around London a few days, relaying buildings and bridges to his memory. Just in case.

The first night in London, he dreams about her.

They’re on the London Eye, slowly revolving and looking over at the Houses of Parliaments and the river below.

“I’m not gonna be able to come anymore,” she says, her hand gently pressed against the glass window.

“Okay,” Arthur says, and he always knew he wouldn’t be permitted to dream on his own forever. This was just a loan from someone higher than them.

“Sorry,” she says hastily. “But I meant what I said, Arthur. You’re amazing.”

“You’re amazing,” Arthur splutters, feels the need to let her know even though she’s just a figment of his imagination. “You’re all I think about during the day.”

Her face softens, and she turns to look at him. “Thank you,” she says, “but I’m nothing special. Besides, we’ll get to see each other again, sooner than you think.” And she kisses him, just a soft notion of their lips barely touching.

Then she’s gone, and Arthur’s alone in a hotel room.

--

“Arthur,” Cobb says when he enters the abandoned warehouse they’re using a while. “Arthur, I want you to meet someone.”

Arthur straightens up from the chair, tucking in his shirt a little and keeping his neck stiff.

Cobb rounds the corner with a man in tow. The man is wearing out-of-date clothes, dress pants with a silk shirt and a tweed jacket. His hair is slicked to one side and he’s impossibly tan.

“This is Eames,” Cobb says. “He’s gonna be with us on this one.”

“Okay,” Arthur says slowly. Cobb very rarely lets someone else work with them, his trust issues make sure of that. Arthur steps over to him and offers Eames his hand. “Arthur.”

“Arthur, charmed,” Eames says, and their eyes meet.

Something clicks very distantly in the very back of Arthur’s mind. “Hey, do I know you from somewhere?”

Eames laughs low and dark and gives Arthur a crooked smile.

fic: tempted by the rest - part 1

fidelian — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 20:53:44 GMT

tempted by the rest
Jon/Brendon (background Ryan/Spencer and Pete/Patrick, plus some Bill Beckett and Tom Conrad) | ~7,800 | PG-13
Summary: Brendon is not gay. College/barista AU (aren't they all?)
Notes: This is just for fun. The boys are too adorable not to play with. Title and cut text from Summer Camp's Play it by ear. In two parts because LJ hates me.

We all know the story; boy is uncomfortable in his own skin, boy kisses other boy, boy comes out to his parents, boy gets kicked out of his home and family. The music thing that boy has considered the issue all his life, really isn’t. The gay thing is.

So boy moves out, desperately looks for an apartment and a decent job to get him through high school and into college, and somehow gets it.

He doesn’t cry or despair, because he has hope. Some day he will come back to his family, better and more put together and maybe even with a wife.

Yeah. That’s the great plan.

Brendon lets his two heavy duffel bags slide off his shoulders and onto the floor at his feet. He looks around at the tiny room, sighing slightly. The bed to the right seems to be taken, a huge and expensive-looking bag perched at the foot of it, random shoes filling the surface.

Left side it is.

He tugs his bags to the bed, slides his guitar off his back and gently sets it at the bed table, and starts to fill the small comforter with stuff. It fills up pretty quick, but not because Brendon has a lot of stuff. As a matter of fact, Brendon barely owns any clothes, just a lot of music books, CDs and sheets of music. When you barely have any money, you tend to prioritize.

When he’s halfway through the second duffel, the door opens. Brendon quickly tugs at the end of his t-shirt and clears his throat. Two guys step into the room, not even noticing Brendon, close it and start lazily making out against the back of it.

Stunned, Brendon stare at them. They’re both tall, taller than him, one of them looks like he just walked out of a Charles Dickens book and the other looks, well, sort of like a boyish girl. When the Oliver Twist-wannabe lets out a small mewl, Brendon gasps and takes an involuntary step back, hitting his foot on the comforter.

The boys freeze, the girlish one whipping around to stare at him with shocked eyes. “Oh shit!”

Brendon feels his cheeks heat uncomfortably. “Um. Sorry.”

Oliver Twist wipes his mouth and chuckles. “What do you have to be sorry for? We should’ve at least given the room a quick look-around before… well, before.”

Wishing he could just run away and find another dorm room to stay, Brendon shrugs. “Shit happens,” he says, barely audibly.

And it really, really does. Brendon was aiming to get away from everything gay, and as soon as he hits college, gay finds him. Brendon really isn’t a pessimistic guy, really, but this is just. Yeah.

“So,” the girly boy says, obviously trying to change the subject. Brendon is thankful for it, even though it’s hard to ignore that the boy’s zipper still is undone. “I guess you’re my new roommate. Spencer Smith.”

Spencer Smith walks over and holds his hand out for Brendon to shake. Brendon can’t help but chuckling a little. “Whoa, alliteration, cool. Brendon Urie.”

“Hi, Brendon,” Spencer smiles, shakes his hands and points at Oliver Twist. “And that’s just the beginning. My boyfriend; Ryan Ross.”

“You’re kidding me,” Brendon grins. “Spencer Smith and Ryan Ross. That’s awesome. That could totally be a song.”

He finally stops rambling and sees that Spencer has this weird face, one eyebrow quirked, arms crossed over his chest, mouth pursed. Brendon looks over at Ryan, suddenly scared that he’s crossed some weird line. Ryan is smirking a little, looking at the floor and biting his lip. He looks back at Spencer, who’s suddenly smiling.

“I like you, Brendon,” he says in a contemplative tone. He turns to Ryan. “Ryan, I like him.”

“I can see that,” Ryan says. “That’s good.”

“We’re gonna have so much fun,” Spencer says. “Wait, do you like shoes?”

Brendon blinks at the obvious importance of the rather silly question. “Um, I enjoy wearing shoes, yes.”

“Okay, then,” Spencer allows. “We’ll get along just fine, I think.”

After a few weeks, Brendon has come to the conclusion that there’s a huge difference between high school kids and college kids in terms of how acceptable being gay is. Just when Brendon has worked his ass off to get a new beginning, without the whispers and judgment and dateless nights, college comes along and is all experimental. More than once, Brendon walks past couples of two boys or two girls, kissing or just holding hands, and it confuses him.

How can something that got him thrown out of his own family and home be acceptable?

Brendon meets Jon Walker in a bar.

Ryan has been talking about this band for weeks, about how the lyrics are so deep and profound, and how the singer’s voice probably could be mistaken for an angel’s. It’s dramatic, yes, but so is Ryan. All in all, Brendon isn’t one to turn down listening to music, and here he is.

Spencer is nodding along with the beat, mindlessly tapping his fingers against the dark wood of their high table. Ryan is next to him, gaping slightly and looking like it’s Christmas in June. The music is really good, Brendon has to admit, and the band has a certain energy. When they’ve played about five songs or so, the singer announces that they’re taking a quick break. Brendon claps as they leave the stage and then turns to the others.

“I’m getting a drink. Anyone want anything?” he asks, leaning his head in the direction of the bar.

“Water?” Spencer asks Ryan, who nods. “Two waters. Thanks, Brendon.”

Brendon winks playfully at Spencer, who rolls his eyes back at him, and heads to the bar. He’s not one of those guys who push past everyone, throwing themselves at a bartender to get their order quicker. He much rather waits behind everyone, bopping along to the music and observing people.

An old Queen song comes on and Brendon groans with happiness, shaking his ass and waving his arms. He probably looks ridiculous, but he couldn’t care one fucking bit.

His eyes are closed, and when he opens them he sees that the bartender is frowning at him and he’s next in line. Brendon just chuckles and leans forward. “Two waters and a Coke, please.”

The bartender looks at him for a moment longer and then starts preparing the drinks. Brendon is practically itching for caffeine right now; Coke is still something fairly new for him, and it’s a wonderful thing.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he coos at the bartender when his order is done, and promptly downs half the glass in one go.

He smacks his lips loudly, but turns slightly when he hears a low chuckle. There’s a strangely familiar guy next to him, a hot guy, a guy with slightly baggy jeans and a simple white t-shirt, a bit of scruff and soft-looking brown curls. The hot guy is currently laughing at Brendon.

Brendon is unsure if he should be offended or if he should join in the laughter. In the end, the guy’s smile is too fucking contagious, and Brendon grins.

“Wow,” the guy says, “you’re a really cool dancer.”

Brendon grins wider, because he knows he’s anything but cool. “Thanks. I’m Brendon, Brendon Urie.”

Brendon sticks out his hand. The guy smirks at him, then his hand, but takes it quickly. “Hello, Brendon, Brendon Urie.” Brendon rolls his eyes. “I’m Jon Walker.”

Brendon pushes his glasses up his nose with one hand, but doesn’t let go of Jon Walker’s with his other. When he finally comes to his senses, he drops Jon’s hand and clears his throat. Jon is still grinning and Brendon is still having trouble figuring out if Jon is flirting, mocking or just being a generally nice guy.

He grabs the glasses off the bar, shrugs a little and says, “Guess I’ll see you around,” but as he heads back to Ryan and Spencer, he can’t resist glancing over his shoulder. Jon is still smiling widely, watching Brendon. His cheeks are warm when he finally gets to the table.

“That was weird,” he mumbles as he climbs back onto the empty high chair. Spencer turns away from the stage and to him.

“What was?”

Brendon looks up from his half-empty glass. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Well, there was this guy at the bar and --“

“Hey,” Ryan suddenly says, looking over Brendon’s shoulder.

Brendon turns around and sees Jon Walker, beer in hand, looking kind of sheepish. For one wild second Brendon wonders if Jon Walker is stalking him now, which would admittedly have been sort of awesome, then,

“Jon,” Spencer smiles, “you made it.”

Jon nods, “Yeah, I was over at the bar, didn’t see you guys here.”

Okay, Brendon knows he’s gaping but this isn’t happening. He automatically looks down at the floor, and sees that Jon is wearing flip-flops. This just further proves that this isn’t happening, that Brendon is sleeping and having some weird mixture between a nightmare and the best dream ever. When he looks up again, Jon meets his eyes and smirks a little.

“Brendon,” Spencer says, and Brendon snaps around to look at him. “This is Jon. He works at our Starbucks and is the most awesome guy on Earth. Also, he makes a mean vanilla latte.”

Starbucks. Of fucking course. Jon is the guy who makes the heavenly chocolate mocha Brendon just recently fell in love with.

“I don’t know about the Earth thing,” Jon says faux-modestly, waving a hand, “but tales of my awesomeness have been told by many a man.”

“Sit down, man,” Ryan says, while both Spencer and Brendon laugh. “It’s about to start again.”

Jon looks away from Brendon, and instead climbs onto the chair next to him. For the rest of the show, Brendon feels the warmth from Jon’s arm being pressed against his on the small table, and somehow he can’t find the will to pull away from it.

There’s an after party, of course, and Ryan is strangely adamant about them going. Brendon isn’t one to turn down a party, though, and after some weird silent eyebrow-action between Ryan and Spencer, neither is he.

Apparently Pete Wentz is the local party king and he hugs all four of them at the door even though Ryan and Jon are the only ones who’ve ever met the guy before. They shuffle into the kitchen and get four plastic cups of cheap beer from a very tall and girlish boy with brown curly hair. The boy winks suggestively when he hands Brendon a cup, and Brendon almost spills beer all over himself.

When they get into the living room, he turns to Spencer.

“So,” he says conversationally, “if this whole town were part of some insanely gay cult, you’d tell me, right?”

Spencer cocks an eyebrow. “Why, you’d wanna join?”

“No,” Brendon says sharply, “I’m not gay.”

In response, Spencer gives him a slow once-over, and Brendon knows he’s silently referring to his pink Converse, tight girl jeans, lavender hoodie and red-rimmed glasses.

“I’m not,” Brendon insists weakly.

“Okay,” Spencer shrugs.

“Okay, then.”

Two hours later, and Brendon has lost the count of how many beers he’s had. Well, alright, he’s only had three cups, but he used to be Mormon, okay? He didn’t drink until he got kicked out, and just a couple of times since then. His tolerance level is well below what he would guess is average.

After getting into a heated discussion with a guy with sideburns and a trucker hat about whether The Beatles were genius or just came up with something new at the right time, Pete Wentz swoops in.

“Hey,” he says, kind of haughtily, eyeing Brendon.

Brendon stumbles a little. “Um, hi. Nice party.”

“Thanks,” Pete says. He glances at the guy in the hat. “Patrick, I need you to dance with me right now.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “We were just having a conversation, Pete. Chill the fuck out.”

Pete glares. “Sorry, dude,” he says to Brendon -- Brendon presumes, even though Pete hasn’t looked away from Patrick -- “I’m stealing my Patrick.”

Shrugging loosely, Brendon watches Pete grab Patrick’s elbow and tug him towards the make-shift dance floor -- Pete’s living room floor -- while Patrick hisses, “Fuck off, Pete, I’m not dancing,” and Pete mutters, “That guy is hot, I need to piss around your feet or something.” Brendon chuckles, because it’s really fucking funny that they thought he was gay.

He lifts his glass and chugs the last of the beer in it, then frowns. He needs more alcohol. Right now. He walks past the dance floor -- past Pete jumping around a seething Patrick and, right on the edge, Ryan and Spencer, completely ignoring the upbeat song, slow dancing with their heads on the other’s shoulder -- and into the kitchen. There are some random people standing around the counters, but Brandon pays them no mind. The guy from before is still there, and he smirks wickedly at Brendon.

“Beer?” Brendon asks.

“Beer,” the guy nods. “William.”

Brendon is confused for a moment. “Um. Brendon.”

“Cute,” William comments, taking Brendon’s cup and filling it to the rim.

“Um,” Brendon says again as beer spills a little over the edge. “That’s enough, I think.”

“I’m trying to get you drunk and willing here,” William grins. “This is not enough.”

Brendon takes an automatic step back, eyes wide. “I’m not, um. I don’t.”

William drops the beer pump and pulls himself to his full length, grinning down at Brendon. “You don’t what?” He slowly walks toward Brendon, swaying his hips and biting his lip.

Brendon thinks that maybe he should be turned on, maybe he should find William sexy, but he doesn’t. His head is kind of swimming and William is slithering and acting strangely, and it just. It isn’t anything Brendon wants a part of. He takes a step back, and another, until his ass hits the kitchen counter. William is so close that his face is blurred, and Brendon scrunches up his face, holding his breath.

“Brendon!” a low voice exclaims, and suddenly there’s a hand firmly on his arm. “I’ve been looking for you. Hello, Bill.”

Brendon slowly opens his eyes and looks straight at Jon Walker. Jon Walker is staring William down, though, his smile thin and eyes guarded.

Now it’s William who takes a step back. “Oh. Sorry, dude, didn’t know he was taken.”

Brendon frowns. “I’m not --“

“Yeah,” Jon says quickly, “it’s cool. Come on, Brendon, let’s dance.”

Brendon is still confused when Jon pulls him onto the dance floor. He puts his hands on Brendon’s waist, while Brendon just frowns, trying to work through the slight daze that’s attacked his brain. He does know that he’s not supposed to do this; his mind is screaming it at him. Jon’s eyes are warm and just a little bit glassy, and when Jon takes Brendon’s hands and gently puts them on the back of his neck, Brendon lets them rest there. Jon grins lazily at the allowance, puts his hands on the sides of Brendon’s waist and pulls him closer.

“Sorry about that,” he whispers into Brendon’s ear, and Brendon is assaulted by his warm breath, his hypnotic smell.

“What?” he breathes before swallowing hard.

Jon chuckles, making goosebumps appear on Brendon’s neck. “Bill can be kind of an ass.” He’s silent for a moment, and then adds, “A slutty ass. Anyway, you looked like you needed some saving.”

“I guess I did,” Brendon says absent-mindedly. His fingers have begun twirling the fine hair on Jon’s neck, purely on their own. Brendon has no say in what his fingers are doing, or how hard his heart is beating. “Thanks for that.” He tugs a little on Jon’s hair, and feels him shiver.

“For what?” Jon breathes, and his eyes are dark and then they’re too close for Brendon to focus on, and then his own slip shut.

Their lips meet, cautious at first, just making sure this is what the other wants. Jon pulls away after a few seconds, his breathing shallow and eyes even darker than before. He doesn’t pull away far, though, stays in Brendon’s space, just out of touch. Brendon whines without meaning to when he realizes that Jon is making sure. He closes the small distance, and this kiss is harder, more urgent, tongues are suddenly involved and Brendon clutches Jon’s neck tighter.

Brendon’s head is swimming mercilessly when his eyes are closed, and suddenly he realizes what he’s doing. He swiftly pulls away from Jon, their lips making a wet sound as they part, and stares at him with wide eyes.

“Shit,” he says, “I’m not gay. I’m not gay.”

Jon looks shocked. ”Um. Okay?”

They just stare at each other for a moment that seems to last forever. Brendon tries to ignore the way his cock is throbbing against his zipper, and how Jon’s thumbs are rubbing against his skin under his shirt. He isn’t gay, seriously, and this is just the shit that got him kicked out of his own family. He shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t.

Then Jon bites his lower lip, frowning, and Brendon thinks for half a second, says, “Fuck it,” and pounces.

They stumble through the door, clutching each other for balance, chuckling into each other’s mouths. The world is a wondrous place for Brendon right now, a place filled with beer and music and Jon Walker, and he casually tries to push Jon onto his bed.

Jon laughs, but pulls Brendon along with him, trailing hot kisses down his neck, pausing only to pull off Brendon’s shirt and toss it on Spencer’s empty but neatly-made bed. Jon flips them over, kneeling over Brendon and grinning mischievously. His fingers find the almost nonexistent hairs that trail from Brendon’s navel and into his jeans, and Brendon groans deeply, throwing a heavy arm over his eyes.

“Shit,” he mutters, “I shouldn’t.”

Jon drags his short nails over Brendon’s stomach. “Don’t worry about it,” he says in a low voice. “I get it.”

Brendon squints at him, moving his arm. Jon is looking at Brendon’s abdomen, letting his fingers trail the slight juts of Brendon’s hips.

“I get it,” he says again, shrugging. “No big deal.”

Brendon doesn’t do anything, just studies Jon’s forlorn expression, almost says something really fucking stupid like I love you or stay forever. Alcohol, he thinks, is very dangerous.

So is Jon Walker.

His fingers suddenly concentrate on Brendon’s jeans, popping the button and pulling down the zipper slowly. He grabs the sides and pulls them down, and Brendon helps by lifting his butt off the mattress. He catches Jon staring at the arch of his back and biting his lip again. Suddenly, there’s a cold draft and Brendon realizes that Jon’s pulled off his underwear at the same time as the jeans. Brendon chuckles.

“See something you like?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

“Are you mocking me, Brendon Urie?” Jon says, smiling crookedly.

“That depends,” Brendon says. “Are you fucking me, Jon Walker?”

Jon’s smile turns wicked.

Brendon wakes up after only a couple of hours’ sleep, feeling completely sober and very hung-over and desperately craving water. It’s still a bit dark outside, and Jon is snoring softly, mouth open against Brendon’s pillow. Brendon just lies there and stares at him for a bit, marveling at the way Jon frowns just a little in his sleep, like he’s concentrating on something, and how his arm is neatly folded around Brendon’s middle, keeping him warm.

He gently slips out from under Jon’s arm and pads out to the bathroom. When he’s taken a leak and sucked fourteen gallons of water straight from the tap, he sneaks back into bed, turning to stare at Jon some more.

Only now Jon’s eyes are open and the snoring has stopped. Brendon twitches in shock and then smiles when he sees that Jon is watching him, not moving away even though their noses are almost touching.

They lay like that for a while, not touching, just observing, staring, memorizing. When Brendon drifts back into sleep, he feels like Jon’s face has been imprinted into the back of his eyelids and will stay there forever.

He hopes so, anyway.

Sunlight filters through the window, tickling Brendon’s face until he groans and flings an arm over his eyes. With his other arm, he tugs Jon tighter against his side. Only, he doesn’t remember Jon being this… fluffy. Cuddly, yes, awesomely so, but not fluffy. Peering out from under his arm, he sees that he is hugging his spare pillow. His bed is otherwise glaringly empty. Snapping up to sit, he blinks sleepily at Spencer’s bed, which is just as well-made as the night before. No Jon.

Brendon pulls himself out of bed, looks down and notices that, okay, he’s still very much naked. He throws on a pair of sweatpants that he’s had since he was fifteen, and rubs his jaw, trying to figure the situation out. There’s no note anywhere in the room, no trace of Jon, nothing for Brendon to prove that Jon ever was here at all.

He finds his pants from the night before, grabs his sidekick from the pocket and texts Spencer.

i think i just had a one night stand w/ jon walker.

Then he flops back onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow. Somehow, Brendon knows that it smells like Jon, and when he takes a huge breath, it almost burns his lungs. His phone vibrates, announcing Spencer’s answer.

youre an idiot

Well, that’s harsh.

--

part two

fic: tempted by the rest - part 2

fidelian — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 20:52:24 GMT

part one

Brendon successfully avoids Jon Walker for a whole four days.

“Come on, Brendon,” Spencer sighs, patting Brendon’s knee.

“It’s got nothing to do with Jon Walker,” Brendon insists, hugging his legs tighter. “I… just don’t like that particular Starbucks anymore.”

Spencer rolls his eyes so over-the-top that his pupils actually disappear into the back of his head, Brendon is sure.

“I don’t! Starbucks are a mean corporation that tries to turn us people into mindless masses by taking our money and making delicious beverages.”

“And now you sound like a retarded version of Ryan,” Spencer mutters.

Brendon pouts. “That’s hurtful and mean, Spencer.”

“Well, I won’t be buying anymore Starbucks for you, just so you know.” At Brendon’s indignant gasp, Spencer continues. “You’re a big boy, Brendon. Just give Jon a chance.”

“I’m not gay,” Brendon says immediately, jutting his chin out in defiance.

“Sure,” and Spencer rolls his eyes again, making Brendon want to pinch his belly, hard, “I didn’t ask you to bend him over the counter and fuck him, you know. The only thing I want to do is take my roommate out for coffee without it being a huge emotional drama.”

Brendon chews his bottom lip, ignoring the way his stomach soars when he just thinks about seeing Jon again. He nods silently, takes Spencer’s offered hand and allows him to pull him to his feet.

The two blocks pass far too quickly, and before Brendon’s even settled with the thought, he’s staring at Jon Walker, who is taking a customer’s order, nodding and looking like he’s concentrating, before turning around to prepare drinks. He’s wearing a black t-shirt under the green apron, and Brendon still isn’t breathing.

“Come on, you pussy,” Spencer hisses, grabbing Brendon’s upper arm and dragging him to the end of Jon’s line. Jon still doesn’t notice them, until there’s only one guy left in front of them.

The guy’s order is an epic one, and Jon is frowning slightly in concentration, pushing buttons on the register, and when he subconsciously glances over the guy’s shoulder and meets Brendon’s wide eyes, he freezes.

And of course, of course, Brendon grins sheepishly and does a very lame wave. Jon smiles widely for a quarter of a second, before turning back to the guy, saying, “Sorry, I didn’t catch that last part.”

And hearing Jon’s voice is like ringing a warning bell somewhere in Brendon’s head. “This is a bad idea, Spence, caffeine is very, very bad for you,” he rambles, tugging on the sleeve of Spencer’s shirt. “Please, Spencer, don’t make me have any.”

“So you’ll have a decaf,” Spencer says coolly, raising an eyebrow and silently daring Brendon to disobey his wishes.

“Hey,” Jon says, and Brendon automatically turns around.

“Um,” he says, oh so eloquently.

“Why, hello Jon,” Spencer says pleasantly, making Brendon stare at him in wonder. “Gosh, I’d almost forgotten you work here.”

Brendon almost groans, and when he looks back at Jon, his cheeks are a very mysterious shade of pink. “Can I have a --“

“One chocolate mocha for Brendon,” a blonde, scruffy guy in a green apron identical to Jon’s announces, putting a cardboard cup on the counter, next to Jon’s hands. “Walker here has told me all about your preferences.”

Jon is even redder now. “Um, this is Tom,” he says, pointing a thumb at the grinning guy next to him. “He’s my roommate.”

“Pleasure,” Spencer says, cocking his hip. ”I’ll have an iced latte.”

Brendon glances at Jon before taking his cup. The awkwardness of this whole encounter is going to make him cry any minute now.

“Jonny,” Tom says, and Brendon almost smiles at the cute nickname, “if you want to take ten, I’ve got this.”

“Um,” Jon says.

“Well, I’ve got to get going!” Spencer says quickly and far too brightly, grabbing his latte. “Class and all that. Darn it. Bye, guys.”

He’s gone before Brendon’s had time to blink.

“Um,” Jon says again.

Tom slams a cup down in front of Jon and says, “Seriously, man. Take a break with your friend here.”

Jon has grabbed the cup and rounded the counter before Brendon’s thought up an excuse to leave. Jon beckons his head toward an empty table at the back of the shop, and Brendon reluctantly follows. His head is almost swimming with panicked thoughts. How embarrassing it is that even though Jon had clearly just wanted a fuck, he has to endure Brendon showing up at his work.

“So,” Jon says, thumbing the plastic lid of his cup. “It’s good to see you.”

Brendon snorts, can’t help it. “You too.”

Jon smiles at him. ”How awkward is this, though?”

“So, so awful,” Brendon agrees, eyes wide and sincere, then has to laugh nervously.

Jon stops smiling and stares at Brendon. When Brendon’s done laughing and frowning slightly at the seriousness of Jon’s expression, Jon clears his throat. “Brendon,” he says in a low voice, “about the other night.” And Brendon is probably having a heart attack. “I really hope we can be friends, at least.”

The bottom of Brendon’s stomach drops, blood is swooshing through his ears. “Oh,” he says, clears his throat, tries again. “Oh. Well. Yeah.”

”I mean,” Jon says quickly. ”I really like you. Um, and I don’t want this to be weird. I just. It would be nice if we could be friends. At least.”

Brendon is staring at the table, rubbing a fingernail against the tabletop and following it with his eyes, and nods a little. “Sure, absolutely. That would be, yeah.”

It’s better than nothing, Brendon reasons. It’s better than just seeing Jon when he’s getting coffee, or to pass him at parties. Pathetic as it sounds, Brendon… wants to be around Jon. As much as he can, in any way he can. And if that means losing some dignity, so be it.

“If you want, I mean,” Jon continues, stopping Brendon’s train of thought. “I’m not. You don’t have to, you know?”

“No worries,” Brendon says, but he won’t meet his eyes. “I like you too, Jon.”

“Good,” Jon says, sounding relieved and something else Brendon can’t identify, “great. Awesome.”

He glances at the clock on the wall, and groans. “Back to the salt mine, I guess.”

Brendon smiles weakly and nods. “Could I get another one of these? For the road, I mean.” He waves his empty cup.

“Of course,” Jon grins, “follow me.”

He does, and stands on the edge of the counter while Jon makes his drink. Tom is almost opposite him, glancing suspiciously at a teenager who’s making eyes at the pastries that are on display. When he sees Brendon, he lights up.

“Hey, man,” he says, “there’s this thing, I mean, my band has a gig next Friday.”

Brendon waits for him to continue. When he doesn’t, Brendon says, “Oh, um. Awesome.”

“I know,” Tom says knowingly. ”You’re coming, right?”

Brendon glances at Jon’s back. “I don’t --“

“Great,” Tom interrupts him. ”Bring your buddies; we need all the support we can get.”

Somehow a bright yellow flier makes its way into Brendon’s hands, and he crumples it into his pocket. He gets his cup, thanks Jon, waves uncertainly at Tom and leaves.

When he crosses the corner, he leans against the wall and heaves a huge breath.

His life just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

The next night, Brendon, Spencer and Ryan are sprawled across Brendon and Spencer’s dorm room floor. Blankets are softening the wood, and Brendon has Ryan’s head in his lap and Spencer’s fingers running through his hair.

They’re on their third Molly Ringwald movie of the night, The Breakfast Club (“Bender is the single hottest headcase ever,” Brendon had declared solemnly at the beginning of the movie, while Ryan and Spencer just nodded in mutual agreement), when Ryan’s Sidekick buzzes obnoxiously.

Ryan groans, waits a minute before disentangling himself from the other guys. He grabs the Sidekick from Spencer’s bed and chuckles when he sees the screen. Spencer doesn’t comment, keeps watching the screen, but Brendon turns around. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Ryan says. ”Jon might be coming over, if that’s alright?”

“Tell him to bring coffee,” Spencer says before Brendon’s even opened his mouth.

“Done,” Ryan says, throwing the Sidekick over his shoulder and back onto the bed before heaving himself back into the human pretzel that is Spencer and Brendon.

Let’s just say that Brendon isn’t focusing on the movie for the next twenty minutes, and when there’s a knock on the door that can belong to none other than Jon Walker, Brendon twitches a little.

“It’s open,” Spencer says just as Jon pulls the door open and comes in, carrying a cup holder with four cups.

“A dude pile,” he says happily. “That’s awesome. Can I join?”

“There’s always room for one more,” Ryan says, not looking away from the screen. “Now be quiet, Bender is taunting Molly Ringwald again.”

“Of course he is,” Jon nods, putting the coffees on the floor in front of the TV set and lowering himself down next to Brendon. “Hey,” he says to Brendon, smiling a little.

“Hey,” Brendon says, smiling too, and he can practically hear Spencer rolling his eyes.

“Coffee?” Jon asks, and at Brendon’s nod he leans up, arching his back and making a slip of skin show between his shirt and jeans, and oh god, that’s Jon being flexible. Brendon’s mind goes racing back to a certain night, how Jon had made Brendon break into little pieces and then put him together again. Jon’s face reappears, and then Brendon is holding a cup of hot coffee, back in the present.

“Thanks,” he breathes.

Jon’s arm is warm against Brendon’s, and he suddenly wishes he was wearing something thicker than a t-shirt. He doesn’t need to think of Jon like this, not when Jon so clearly doesn’t have any deeper feelings for him than friendship, and honestly, a friendship with Jon Walker is nothing to whine about. Brendon is glad to get the chance to see more of Jon, to get to know his quirks and preferences. Not that it’ll ever lead to anything more.

Also, Brendon’s pretty sure he’s gay. And stupid.

When the movie is over, both Ryan and Spencer are snoring, tightly entwined on the blankets. Brendon grins and rolls his eyes at Jon, who chuckles quietly and nods his head towards the door.

Brendon follows him up and out the door, leaning back against it when it’s closed.

“So, thanks for the coffee.”

Jon waves a hand dismissively. “No problem. It was great seeing you again.”

Brendon swallows thickly. “Um, you too.”

He’s just realized how close Jon is, how Brendon probably wouldn’t even have to lean forward to kiss him, just pucker his lips a bit and it would --

He feels a puff of warm breath on his lips, realizes he’s closed his eyes in anticipation, and then.

“Okay,” Jon says, and he sounds a little breathless. “Good night.”

When Brendon’s opened his eyes, heart beating fast, it’s just to see Jon walking away.

Yeah, Brendon’s definitely gay.

They fall into a kind of pattern where Ryan and Jon both show up at Brendon and Spencer’s doorstep every night, different movies and snacks in hand. They curl together on the floor, watch the movies and Brendon has never laughed more in his life. He tries not to be next to Jon too much, tries to keep some distance between them so Jon won’t be uncomfortable. Now that they’ve finally gotten some semblance of a friendship going, Brendon sure as hell isn’t going to destroy it by being clingy. It’s hard, though, and even harder when he’s sleepy and fuzzy and Jon’s arm is lying heavy on his waist.

There are more important things than sex, Brendon reminds himself every single fucking time Jon grins that lazy grin that makes his eyes go a little crinkly at the edges. Friendship is more important, getting to see Jon at all is more important.

So in a week’s time, Brendon manages to reconcile with the fact that Jon Walker always will be his friend and nothing more.

“I’m not wearing these shoes.”

Spencer gives a longsuffering sigh and snaps, “Don’t wear the fucking shoes, then. Forgive me for trying to get you to dress in some style, my fucking bad.”

Toeing out of the torture devices Spencer calls sneakers, he grins and picks up his worn Converse instead. He then goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“Hurry up,” Spencer says, “they’ll be here any minute.”

Brendon gives him a toothpasty grin and nods. Of course that’s when there’s a brief knock, and then the door opens to reveal Jon and Ryan. Brendon ducks back into the bathroom, spits and rinses his mouth quickly and checks himself in the mirror. His hair is awesome as usual, so he heads into the main room.

“Hey, Brendon,” Ryan says, not even looking at him, his arms around Spencer’s waist.

Brendon grins at them, and then catches Jon’s eye. Jon is staring at him, eyes a little wide. “Hi, Jon,” Brendon says, fighting the urge to cross his arms protectively over his chest.

“Hi,” Jon says in a high voice. “We should get going.”

In the car, Brendon muses on the fact that this probably will look like a double date to anyone who sees them. And really, would that be so bad?

They’re taking Ryan’s car (an old and beaten up Citroën that Brendon thinks might’ve been red sometime in the 60’s), and the backseat is so small that Brendon finds himself neatly tucked against Jon’s side. Their arms are awkwardly pressed against each other, touching all the way to their fingers. And maybe when Jon’s fingers twitch a little, Brendon moves his in response.

Tom’s band is awesome, just like Tom himself. Brendon jumps and dances, crashing into people who are just as drunk as he is. He vaguely knows that Spencer is somewhere, probably glaring in his general direction, but he can’t bring himself to care. For once, he’s letting go of responsibilities and sexuality issues and family who doesn’t love him like they should, and just dances.

The small but very energetic crowd moves as one and Brendon grinds against everyone, boy or girl. His mind is very fuzzy and his limbs feel loose, but he’s happier and more relaxed than he’s been in a long time, since before he started looking at boys and going ‘hmm.’

Jon, his mind suddenly tells him, Jon is somewhere around and Brendon isn’t with him. He gasps at this revelation, swiveling around, but Jon is nowhere in sight. He starts pushing through the dancing crowd, trying to get to the bar where he can get a better view. He is stopped right by the edge of the dance floor, though, and he just has time to see a heavily made up face with long blonde hair before there’s someone’s tongue in his mouth.

He reflexively kisses back, stumbling a little but straightening when the strange girl snakes her arms around his waist. Dumbly standing there, moving his mouth against the girl’s, his mind is screaming at him. Why the fuck is he doing this with someone who isn’t Jon Walker?

He instantly pushes the girl away, expecting her to get mad. Apparently Brendon hadn’t exactly rocked her world, because she just shrugs and pushes back onto the dance floor. Brendon lets out a relieved breath and turns around to find Jon and the others.

The turning around turns out to be enough.

The first one he sees is Ryan, who is frowning slightly at him, looking vaguely disappointed. The next one is Spencer, who looks absolutely murderous, his arms crossed over his chest. Then there’s -- of course -- Jon.

Jon is gaping slightly, his arms slack at his sides. There’s something strange in his eyes, something insanely like heartbreak and hopes crashing down, and Brendon is hit by a very irrational wave of shame. He tries to run to Jon, but the alcohol gets the better of him, and he stumbled into a couple that’s making out. He excuses himself and walks on.

“Jon,” he says as soon as he’s within hearing range. “Jon, I’m --“

“It’s okay,” Jon says, shrinking in on himself. Brendon aches when he sees it. “I’m, yeah. I’m gonna head out.”

And he slowly turns around, leaving Brendon with his aching body and the heavy shame that’s clawing at him.

“Are you a fucking moron?” Spencer suddenly hisses at him.

Brendon stares at him dumbly. “Wha --“

“How can you be so fucking cruel?” he goes on, and Ryan puts a cautious hand on his arm. “What has Jon done to deserve that?”

“I don’t,” Brendon mumbles, looking at the spot where Jon had stood, watching him with broken eyes. “He looked so. Sad.”

“Of course he looked sad, you little piece of shit!” Spencer roared. “He just saw his date get drunk and make out with someone else -- a girl nonetheless. How the fuck would you feel, exactly?”

“Date?” is the only thing Brendon can say to that. “His… date?”

“Ryan,” Spencer says calmly. “If you have any affection at all towards Brendon, get him the fuck away from me.”

Ryan looks concerned, like Spencer might actually hurt Brendon, and says, “Guys, let’s just go. We can deal with this in the morning.”

Brendon follows them numbly to the car and doesn’t say a word when they get to the dorm. Ryan follows inside wordlessly and Brendon doesn’t protest.

The only thing he wants is to throw himself in bed and forget this night ever happened.

When Brendon wakes up the next morning with a throbbing head and a dry throat, Spencer is giving him the cold shoulder. Brendon flinches away from every glare and goes out to the communal kitchen to get some breakfast.

When he returns, feeling marginally better physically, Spencer is sitting on his bed, arms crossed and lips pursed.

“Sit down,” he says. “We are going to have a conversation.”

It sounds very ominous and Brendon has noticed that it’s always best to do as Spencer says, so he instantly sits down on the floor.

“Here’s the deal,” Spencer says, staring sharply at Brendon. “Jon likes you.”

Feeling like there’s no way anything will ever make sense again, Brendon shakes his head slowly. “No, he doesn’t.”

Spencer growls darkly. “Believe me. He does.”

“But,” Brendon says, frowning in concentration, “he left. When we had sex and all that, or after, I mean, he left. When you have one night stands, you don’t stay. He left.”

“Think about it, Brendon. You haven’t exactly been all that open about your sexuality, have you? I understand that it’s because your family is such a bunch of prejudiced assholes that don’t accept you for who you are. You’ve done nothing but denying being gay since I’ve met you, when it’s insanely clear that you like Jon.”

Okay, Brendon sure is gaping right about now. He thinks about it, tries to see the situation from Jon’s point of view. “Holy shit,” he says in a weak voice. He’d told Jon he wasn’t gay, and Jon had said it was okay, and then Jon had left when Brendon was sleeping. He was just doing what Brendon had inadvertently asked him. “Fuck.”

“I know, right?” Spencer has turned on the TV and is lazily flipping through the channels. “He’s working today.”

Brendon is already tugging his shoes on and trying to avoid falling on his ass. “I know.”

As he closes the door behind him, Brendon hears Spencer call out, “Bring me back a cinnamon hot chocolate and tell Jon it’s on the house for smacking some sense into you!” and rolls his eyes, ignoring him.

There’s a line.

There’s a huge fucking line blocking Brendon from confessing his love for Jon Walker. Whining, he stands on his toes and tries to see Jon. There he is, behind the counter, and Brendon’s stomach swoops in anticipation. Jon isn’t looking as laid-back as usual, not smiling and joking with customers or making stupid Cocktail moves with Tom. Brendon frowns, feeling bad for ever making Jon sad about anything in the world. When the line is down to just one stressed out college student, Jon sees Brendon and freezes.

“Um, hi,” Brendon says lamely when it’s finally his turn. Jon doesn’t say anything, his palms flat against the counter. “Spencer wants hot chocolate,” Brendon continues without being able to stop himself.

“Spencer could have gotten his hot chocolate himself, couldn’t he?” Jon mutters, turning away from Brendon and grabbing a cardboard cup.

Brendon winces at Jon’s dark tone, but continues talking anyway. “He says to say it should be on the house. Apparently he’s knocked some sense into my thick head.”

Jon stills with his back to Brendon, but turns around slowly, frowning. There’s a line forming behind Brendon, college students and office drones and families with small children. And Brendon doesn’t care.

He walks around the counter, ignores Tom’s yelp of amused laughter, grabs a confused Jon by the neck and kisses him. Hard. In front of the entire Starbucks.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, where it’s just Brendon’s lips against Jon’s, begging for something, anything, to happen. Then Jon opens his mouth, follows Brendon’s lead, carefully puts his hand on Brendon’s arm. When they finally break apart, Jon is breathing heavily, pressing their foreheads together.

“Jon,” Brendon says in a low voice, “Jon, Jon, I’m gay.”

Jon’s eyes snap up to meet his. “Really?”

“Really,” Brendon says, pressing tighter to Jon so he can feel just how gay Brendon is. “Especially for you. I like you, Jon, and I’m so sorry for being such a huge dickhead.”

“That’s, um,” Jon says, squeezing Brendon’s arm. “Thank god,” he finally says, letting out a huge breath.

Tom clears his throat pointedly, getting Brendon and Jon’s reluctant attention. “Dude, get out of here.”

Jon looks at him for another moment and they seem to have a silent conversation consisting mostly of eyebrows and meaningful stares. Then Jon grins balefully and tugs on Brendon’s arm. “Come on.”

Brendon follows willingly, barely noticing that every customer’s eyes are on them as they leave the coffee shop hand in hand, grinning widely.

“I want to tell you this before someone else does,” Jon says quietly, watching his fingers rub patterns over Brendon’s pale stomach.

He lifts his head a little, frowning at Jon’s serious tone. “Yes? What?”

Jon’s quiet, his breath huffing softly against Brendon’s skin. Brendon tugs a little on Jon’s hair, wanting him to continue.

“Um, well,” he finally says, but he doesn’t look at Brendon. “This is embarrassing. I sort of. I saw you coming into my Starbucks the week before our, um. Night together.”

“Okay,” Brendon says, still majorly confused. ”I saw you too, Jon. I just didn’t know you then.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s just. You were so, I don’t know, completely amazing, so I sort of asked around about you and Spencer told me you were his roommate. Then he and Ryan sort of. Well, they took it upon themselves to get us to meet.”

Brendon knows he’s gaping now.

“We met at the bar when I was too damn nervous to go over to your table, and I was so fucking lame. Then, well, I had to get Bill the fuck away from you, and we danced and, you know. Which was awesome, really, it was just amazing.”

Jon is rambling on while Brendon is frowning, piecing together what Jon’s saying with how he remembers it happening.

“But you told me you weren’t gay,” Jon tilts his head up and meets Brendon’s eyes for the first time since he began talking, growling, “you stupid fuck, so I was heartbroken.”

Without even giving it a thought, Brendon strokes Jon’s hair softly. He’s feeling sort of elated, a lightness spreading through his limbs.

“And then, you know, the shit hit the fan,” Jon says, letting out a humorless chuckle. “That was awesome.”

“Stop talking,” Brendon says suddenly. His chest is warm, so warm, and Jon fought for him, fought for his attention, and that’s just.

Jon’s eyes are wide. “Do you hate me? Am I creepy?”

”No, I don’t hate you,” Brendon laughs freely, tugging Jon up by the ears. “Sure, you’re a little creepy, but creepy is nice in my book.”

Jon blushes a little and that is just amazing. He blushes and ducks his head, grinning sheepishly.

“Apparently you’re an idiot, though,” Brendon says impatiently. “Are you gonna kiss me anytime today?”

“Bossy,” Jon murmurs, leaning down and touching his lips to Brendon’s, “I love it.”

Brendon laughs into Jon’s mouth.

why yes, I am listening to UB40.

fidelian — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 23:06:08 GMT

I suck at updating. End of story.

Many new things going on. Except not really. Am struggling to study for my exam the 15th and trying to find an apartment before I start at the new school. Didn't want a dormroom before, but am actually warming to the idea. It would be kind of nice to be close to other people since I know practically no one in town. Just got word today that my best guyfriend has decided to go to the same school! Thank god. I've known this guy my whole life so it will be so good to have him in the same town as me, even if we're not the kind of friends who hang out every day, or even every month. That guy's one of my best friends.

Also, how about the new songs? I will not be choosing between Panic and the Young Veins (which I just spelled Vines because I'm senile), because I don't feel like I should have to. And they aren't even in the same genre! No reason to make a fuss. I'm really trying here, and as I said to BFF earlier: They're both getting me in the divorce. New Perspective is more my current taste, and it's so powerful. Brendon's voice is one of the best in the business, his and Patrick's are my favorites ever, and his and Spencer's lyrics really work. That was actually my biggest worry about Ryan leaving, cause sure, Brendon's voice is with Panic, but what good is an amazing voice if the words it's singing are shit? No worries, no worries. They've got it covered.

From what I can hear of Change, the lyrics are really good. Ryan's a great lyricist, I've always thought so, and he's found a way to incorporate them into this new style, this new band that I feel he and Jon are really brave to be starting in the first place. It does sound like a typical Beatles song music-wise, but I see no wrong in that. Work it, guys.

Tomorrow: gym, then work. Also, must remember that if I keep eating loads of unhealthy stuff, there's no point in going to the gym.

ranty fia is ranty.

fidelian — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 22:04:34 GMT

Okay, so. At this point it feels weird to even keep yabbering about the Panic non-breakup. I'm freaked out by change, always will be, and this is a big change. These past four years Panic has become a band that I always turn to to feel good. I travelled eight hours in a sweaty bus, got pneumonia and almost passed out to see one of their shows. That it was worth it and that I'd do it again tomorrow is a testament to how much they mean to me.

That said, this is me being selfish. To Jon and Ryan and Brendon and Spencer, this has most likely been planned for a good long while. It has been dealt with, they're on good terms, this is just life. This band got together when they were teenagers, who can say that they have the exact same job now as they did when they were sixteen? Who has the exact same taste in music? Who knows who they want to be and what they want to do at that age?

My friend asked me today if I'd rather Jon hadn't joined Panic, if it had meant that this didn't happen. The honest answer is no, because Jon
has brought so much to the table and he isn't the problem. There isn't a problem, in my opinion. People grow up, they grow apart, they get new ambitions and aspirations and shit happens.

So to the original Panic: thanks for two amazing albums, four amazing years, an amazing show, and a really good time.

Let's get on with the show, people.

fidelian — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 14:15:42 GMT

Dudez, I am on dreamwidth.

Chances are I'll post much more over there, so if you have one you've gotta let me know, 'kay?

Here we go.

...

fidelian — Sun, 24 May 2009 18:19:36 GMT

This freaks me out. It freaks me out in ways that I really don't want to think about, and I have no idea if it's because I try to ignore these sides of someone I somehow looks up to, or if I see too much of myself in it.

pimpin'

fidelian — Tue, 19 May 2009 15:15:15 GMT

So today I passed a veeeery big test that I was sure I would fail. Which pretty much means yay. And since afterxbirth is AWESOME, she wrote me a PATD ficlet!

Go bask in the awesome

Happy patrick stump day!

fidelian — Mon, 11 May 2009 20:25:18 GMT

Dear f-list,

So, everyone and they're grandmother has a twitter right about now, right?

And we've had #markhoppusday and #mikeywayday, right?

Look at this face right here:

afterxbirth and I had a conversation, and decided that this should be his day. So come on, it's #patrickstumpday at twitter!

Help make it happen.

<3

part deux

fidelian — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 21:25:05 GMT

Meeting the parents, or; hey, isn't that your mom? [2/2]
~1,500 || R (language)

Okay, scratch that. Patrick has it far worse than that sissy artist. He’s sweating profusely the whole drive over to the Wentz house, almost turning around more times than he can count. The thought of Pete keeps him on the road, though, and he even finds the courage to knock on the door of the house.

It opens almost before he’s touched the wood, and a grinning Pete is suddenly in his space.

“You’re here!” he whoops, hugging Patrick around the waist and smacking a kiss to his cheek.

“’Course,” Patrick says, as if he didn’t almost cause several traffic accidents in his panic. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Patrick,” a warm voice says, and Patrick quickly pushes Pete away. Pete hits the now-closed door, and huffs.

“Dude,” he wheezes, “You’ve got to stop pushing me around. Domestic violence is never the answer, honey.”

“Don’t call me honey, asshole,” Patrick hisses just as Pete’s mother rounds the corner and into view. Wow. Patrick is amazed at how similar Pete is to his mother. They have the same olive skin and those huge eyes. It actually makes him let his guard down for a moment, until,

“Patrick!” she gushes and hugs him quickly. Patrick is pretty much taken-aback, but does pat her awkwardly on the back a few times before she finally lets him go. “It’s so nice to finally,” she pauses and throws Pete a meaningful glare, “meet you. Come on.”

Patrick looks at Pete with a huge dose of ‘holy mother of god, help me’ in his eyes, and Pete chuckles and follows Patrick and his own mother into the kitchen. Pete’s dad is standing at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smells heavenly. When he sees Patrick and turns around, Patrick notices that he’s wearing an apron that says ‘Kiss The Cook.’ He would have chuckled at that, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d probably puke if he did.

“Patrick,” Pete’s father says, grinning widely, and okay. That’s where Pete’s gotten his enormous smile from. “Hey there.” He wipes his hands on the apron and grabs Patrick’s in a firm shake. “Sit, sit. Dinner will be done in a minute.”

Patrick awkwardly grabs hold of the arm of Pete’s hoodie and pulls him to the kitchen table. They sit across from each other, listening to Pete’s parents’ goodnatured bickering. Pete occasionally adds something to an argument, but mostly just sits there, smiling and laughing. Patrick watches him, finally relaxing in his boyfriend’s home. Not thinking, he puts his hand on the table and twines his fingers with Pete. Pete looks at him, face still stuck in a smile. Patrick leans over the table to say in a low voice,

“I really wish we’ll be like that some day.”

Something flashes in Pete’s eyes. “Yeah? We just went steady a week ago, and you’re planning on babies?”

Patrick chuckles, ducks his head, suddenly feeling stupid. “I don’t know. Sorry. I just. Didn’t mean to freak you out or anything.”

Pete laughs at that and squeezes his hand harder. “Oh, dude. You can’t scare me away. Just say the word and we’ll kidnap someone’s baby and claim it as our own. One condition; it has to be called Uno.”

Pete’s dad lets out a chuckle by the oven, and Patrick reddens when he realizes that he’s heard every word Pete and Patrick’s said. “No grandson of mine will be called Uno, Pete. No way.”

“Who said anything about a son? Uno’s for a girl,” Pete says genially.

“And on that note; dinner’s ready,” Pete’s mother says, bringing over a giant plate of chicken filets.

The whole dinner, Patrick tries to focus on talking to Pete’s parents without choking on his food. It’s pretty hard, since his mind hasn’t left Pete, babies and the future for a long time.

They’re finished with dinner and dessert and have headed into the living room for some TV when Patrick’s cell phone buzzes. Excusing himself, he heads into the bathroom and flips it open.

“Hello?” he hisses, feeling embarrassed that he had to leave the living room.

“Patrick?” comes the panicked voice on the other end.

Oh, fucking hell. “Ryan? Are you fucking kidding me?” Patrick quickly lowers his voice again and turns it into a deadly whisper. “I’m meeting my boyfriend’s parents for the first time. You get that? I told you not to call me.”

“I’m having an anxiety attack,” Ryan wheezes. Patrick stops in his tracks.

“Er, where are you?”

“I’m outside Brendon’s house. I love him, Patrick. He must know.”

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Ryan, are you drunk?”

Ryan laughs suddenly. “On love, maybe. I’m high on life, taking chances as one should. I shall prevail, in love and other areas of my life.”

Patrick thinks for a moment, and makes a quick decision. He isn’t going to let Ryan ruin his own life. “Fucking shit, Ryan. What’s Brendon’s address?”

“Oooh,” Ryan says, “you gonna help me up to his window?”

Ten minutes later, Patrick has finally gotten an address out of Ryan’s drunken mind.

“Um, don’t go anywhere,” Patrick says and hangs up.

He heads out of the bathroom and back to the living room, hanging his head slightly.

“I’m really sorry,” he says when the three occupants all look up to smile at him, “but I’ve got to go.”

“What?” Pete asks. “Why?”

“Ryan,” Patrick simply says, and yeah, that’s pretty much saying it all.

“Oh, shit,” Pete says and ignores his mother’s admonishment, “I’m coming with you.”

Then he finally turns to his parents. “Um, I mean. May I?”

His mom and dad look simply astonished. “Well,” his dad says slowly, “I guess so.”

They follow the kids out to the hall and Pete’s dad opens the front door for them. Pete’s mom catches Patrick in a hug and whispers, “He’s never been this open and happy before. Thank you, Patrick.”

Patrick just blushes and smiles a little at her when she releases him. “Thanks for dinner,” he mumbles lamely and then Pete is pulling him out the door.

Well, that went well.

When they finally get to Brendon’s place, Ryan is nowhere to be found. It’s a big and beautiful house in a very nice neighborhood, which means that it has a reasonably-sized lawn. In the darkness, there was no way of seeing Ryan.

“Shit,” Patrick says. “Okay, you go left, I go right.”

Pete nods, then pulls Patrick close and kisses him furiously. “Be careful, baby,” he whispers dramatically.

Patrick shakes with laughter. “You are seriously the biggest dork I’ve ever --“

“Shhh,” Pete says suddenly. “Did you hear that?”

Patrick strains his ears and yeah. There’s a faint mumbling, almost like barely-held-in laughter. He waves a hand to make Pete follow him, and they quietly pad through the grass towards the sounds.

After a moment, Patrick can just barely make out something between the few trees. He squints, leans closer and groans.

“Patrick?” Brendon asks nervously. “That you?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “Pete’s here too.”

“Howdy,” comes Pete’s voice from behind Patrick.

Patrick’s eyes fall to the ground, and he gasps again. “Oh, Ryan. Not good.”

Ryan is sprawled across the grass, mouth hanging slack, arm slung over his eyes, snoring contentedly.

“I heard him from my room,” Brendon says, looking like he’s trying not to smile. “He was… serenading me, I guess you have to call it.”

“Again; oh, Ryan.” Patrick shakes his head.

“Dude,” Pete says, “everyone knows you can’t serenade someone without a boombox. Has this boy no culture?”

“Yeah, you’re a real Dobler, alright,” Patrick snorts.

Brendon interrupts their bickering. “Guys, seriously.” And yeah, he actually looks worried. “We need to get him home.”

“We’ll do it, no worries,” Pete says. “You can go to sleep again.”

Brendon looks from Pete to Patrick to Ryan. Then he bends down and quickly presses a kiss to the corner of Ryan’s mouth.

“Alas, no prince,” Pete jokes, but Patrick elbows him in the ribs.

When they’ve finally stowed Ryan in the backseat of Patrick’s car, Brendon bids them goodnight and they take off. Ryan actually awakens a little when they get him out of the car, and mumbles something about Brendon’s luscious lips, which is both gross and really doesn’t help their trip up the stairs to Ryan’s room. Like a miracle, they don’t wake up the whole Ross household, and they’re off again.

“Well,” Pete says, yawning slightly, when they park in Patrick’s driveway. “That was an interesting night.”

Patrick chews his lip a little, and catches Pete staring at it. “Did I mess things up too much with your folks?”

“Hell no,” Pete says earnestly, looking Patrick straight in the eye, “they loved you. Seriously, who wouldn’t?”

“Oh, please,” Patrick sighs.

“Shut up and kiss me, cutie,” Pete says in a flighty voice.

Patrick sighs again, but does as Pete asks him.

fidelian — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 21:20:22 GMT

Title: Meeting the parents, or; hey, isn't that your mom? [1/2]
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R (language)
Wordcount: ~3,200
Summary: Well, meeting the parents.
Disclaimer: Oh, please.
Notes: Follow-up, of sorts, to to know him is to love him. Completely for my own sanity, no beta, no big plan.

Patrick has dated Pete Wentz for just about two months when they finally ”get caught.”

It’s been hands down the best two months of his life, and it just keeps getting better. The last two months have been spent in the midst of raging teenage hormones and bliss of finding out one’s true sexual identity. In other words; making out. They have made out in the boys’ bathroom at school in between classes and during lunch, in Patrick’s car parked in weird places all over town, through Patrick’s open window on nights when Pete just can’t go to sleep without seeing him.

The night they’re caught, however, they’re parked right on Patrick’s mom’s driveway, for fuck’s sake, and before Patrick can say ’hell to the no,’ Pete has crawled across the car and into his lap. That’s pretty much when every sane thought leaves Patrick’s body, just like the little sounds Pete always lets out into Patrick’s mouth. They’ve got a good friction going, zipper against zipper, frantically rubbing against each other and kissing sloppily, when Patrick sees a horrified face in the corner of his eye. His mom is in front of the car, dressed in her bathrobe, gaping wordlessly. Patrick shrieks, flails widely, manages to get the car door open just to heave Pete onto the concrete.

”What the fuck, Patrick?” Pete wheezes, rubbing his chest tenderly. ”What’d you -- oh. Hello, Mrs. Stumph.”

Patrick’s mom is still gaping like a fish, staring from Pete to Patrick in total shock.

Patrick gets out of the car, his mind going a mile a minute. ”Mom, shit -- sorry, I mean oops, er.”

There’s a heavy silence, Pete’s still sprawled over the driveway, Patrick is standing half-hidden behind the car door, ready to make his escape at any sign of danger or embarrassment, and his mom is… well, freaking out. Then, without a word, she turns and calmly heads back into the house, not even slamming the door behind her.

”Wow,” Pete mutters, holding out his hand to Patrick, ”glad that went well. Could’ve been fucking awkward.”

Patrick just whimpers a little, takes Pete’s hand and helps him to stand. ”I have to go in there. Holy shit.”

”What, you think she took it badly?” Pete snorts and straightens his thick-framed glasses. ”She just caught her presumably straight seventeen-year-old son rubbing one off on a nerdy guy in her own driveway. I’d have gotten the fucking shotgun if I’d been her.”

”That could be what she’s doing in there, I guess,” Patrick says in a low voice. He’s feeling pretty damn guilty right now. He’s supposed to be able to tell his mom everything, at least almost everything. At least the big stuff, and this is pretty fucking big to Patrick. He’s in love for the first time, with a guy no less, and he kind of wants his mother to hug him and tell him he’s not weird or a freak.

He looks at Pete and sighs. ”I’m sorry, dude. I’m gonna have to talk to her.”

Pete nods. ”Tell her yes from me, by the way.”

”Yes from you?”

Pete laughs. ”Oh, Patrick. When she’s gotten over the initial shock she’ll probably want to have me over for dinner. My folks will wanna meet you too when I’ve told them, by the way. I’ll tell them to set a date and get back to you, yeah?”

Holy fucking shit. ”Did this just turn into a,” Patrick swallows, ”relationship?”

Pete laugs again, even louder this time, and hugs Patrick tightly. ”Dude. It has been for a while now. Sorry to break it to you.”

Patrick nods emphatically, bumping his chin against Pete’s shoulder. ”I should probably get inside.”

Sighing, Pete lets him go and claps him on the cheek. ”Good luck, honey,” he says in a high voice, making Patrick snort, and then in his normal tone, ”Call me later, okay?”

Patrick nods again, smiles and watches Pete turn and walk away. He sighs oh-so-deeply and heads into his own house.

”Mom?” he calls in pretty much a whimper. He turns a corner and into the kitchen and almost shrieks for the second time this night. His mom is sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes huge and her fingers feverishly drumming the wood of the table. She glances at the chair across from her, and Patrick sits immediately and so hard that he almost suspects he’s broken his tailbone.

”I’m really sorry, mom,” he says quickly, hoping against hope that there won’t be a serious argument here. ”I didn’t know how to tell you, but Pete is a great guy, he really is. He likes me so much, and he’s awesome, and I really really --”

”Patrick,” his mother says calmly, interrupting his rambling. Patrick shuts up, eyes wide. ”Calm down. I’m not angry.”

Patrick probably looks very doubtful at that.

”No, I swear,” his mother says, even smiling a little. ”Do I wish you could find a nice girl like that Anna, instead of a boy? Sure. Of course. But it’s not about what I want. It’s about what you want.”

To his horror, Patrick can feel his eyes tearing up a little. He swallows hard and nods sharply.

”You’re gonna have to be prepared for some harsh comments, honey,” his mom says in a low voice. ”Not everyone accepts this lifestyle, you know.”

”I know,” Patrick whispers. ”He’s worth it.”

”Good,” his mom smiles, a genuine one this time, Patrick can tell. ”So, when is this young man coming here for dinner so I can interrogate him properly?”

Patrick snorts wetly and throws himself across the table and into her outstretched arms. ”Thank you, mom. Thank you, thank you.”

”Oh, please,” his mom laughs. ”I saw this coming a mile away.”

”Yeah right.”

”You listened to George Michael when you were seven, for god’s sake. This was inevitable.”

A week later, Patrick is freaking right the fuck out. It’s a Friday, and he’s going to Pete’s to meet his family later that night. Five days ago, Pete had been to dinner at Patrick’s, and he had been charming, naturally. Patrick’s pretty sure that he’s going to have to keep an eye on his mom whenever Pete is over. This does not do anything to ease the pressure, nothing at all. All day at school, he keeps snapping at people, making Ryan even pissier than usual. Which, yeah, was presumed impossible before this day.

”Oh, stop it,” Ryan hisses when Patrick has sighed darkly for the fifth time in as many minutes. ”I am going to claw your eyes out, I mean it.”

”Pete would kill you,” Patrick says teasingly. ”He’s got a thing for defending my honor. I’m his virginal princess.”

Ryan snorts. ”Virginal, my ass. Oh no, I’m sorry, your ass. Which Pete has been fucking for two months.”

Pete has suddenly materialized and gives Ryan a victorious high-five. ”Fuck yeah. I own that ass.”

”You know,” Patrick sighs as Pete slams his tray next to his on the table. People have finally stopped staring at them whenever they’re close to each other. During their first week dating, a jock caught them making out in a bathroom stall, so it was common knowledge that they were ‘the boyfriends.’ Pete loved it, Patrick blushed whenever he heard it. ”I’m looking for someone I used to know. Shy kid, drops stuff a lot? All I can see is this asshole who keeps following me around.”

Pete leans closer. ”I’m your asshole, though. Use it as you see fit.”

”Okay, this isn’t funny anymore,” Ryan says with distaste. ”And I know you’re totally playing footsie under the table, because somehow the toes of my right foot are caught in a highly involuntary threesome.”

Pete waggles his eyebrows suggestively. ”We could invite Brendon and make it an official group thing.”

Ryan blushes, which Ryan never does. ”Shut up.”

”Where is Brendon, by the way?” Pete asks, frowning and looking around.

”Some blonde whore is hitting on him over by the fries,” Ryan says without a moment’s hesitation, even though the fries are behind his back.

”How --” Patrick starts, but Pete interrupts him.

”Honey, he’s obviously gotten magical powers.”

”Don’t call me honey,” Patrick blushes and shoves Pete out of his personal space.

”Also, there’s a mirror behind your backs,” Ryan remarks dryly.

”No magical powers, then?” Pete pouts.

Patrick ignores Pete’s stupidity and leans across the table, closer to Ryan. ”Why don’t you say something?” he asks in a low voice.

Ryan glares at him. ”I’m not in love with Brendon Urie, holy shit.”

”You’re not?” a very disappointed voice says behind him and Ryan gasps.

Patrick leans back guiltily, and Pete nudges his side. ”This is better than cable, dude,” he whispers, ”just lean back and enjoy.”

”Seriously, who are you?” Patrick asks in wonder.

But Pete just flicks his nose and tells him to shush. Ryan has stood up from the table and is facing Brendon with an extremely embarrassed expression. ”But,” he says, ”I,” and this is the first time in their life-long friendship that Patrick’s ever seen him so flummoxed. ”Brendon, I don’t know what to --”

”It’s easy,” Brendon says and flicks his neck. It would probably have been a hair flip, had Brendon had long hair or been a girl. ”Either you like me or you don’t.”

Ryan looks down. ”Of course I do,” he says in a very low voice, his face as red as a tomato.

Brendon shines up. ”Good. Now we can finally date.”

Then he kisses Ryan’s hot cheek, waves at Pete and Patrick and skips away.

”Honestly,” Patrick says as Ryan sinks back onto the bench and buries his face in his hands, ”Brendon is probably either bi-polar or a motherfucking genius.”

”Naw, man,” Pete says, curling his arm around Patrick’s soft waist, ”he’s just trapped in his own little world. He tells me it’s a really happy place, though.”

Patrick gives Ryan’s terrified face one quick glance and says, ”Yeah, I’ll bet.”

Suddenly he feels more sorry for Ryan than he does for himself.

part two

under attack

fidelian — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 17:18:38 GMT

Holy fucking shit. This morning I'd set my alarm at 11 (cause I had a day off and needed the sleep, dammit) but did I get to sleep til then? Oh, hell no. At 8:30 I wake up, feeling like my arm is going to come off. I wear glasses/contacts, so I just saw some blurry black monster sitting on my arm. I grabbed it, threw it into the wall and ran away. My dad went down and killed the thing, and brought it up to me.

It was a bumblebee. A fucking bumblebee.

My life sucks.

When tragedy strikes

fidelian — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 21:07:19 GMT

My laptop has crashed. It just went and died on me and now it feels like my life is over, which leads me to thinking about how thoroughly pathetic I am.

Also, Pete Wentz is melting my braaain.

fic: me pete, you patrick [1/1]

fidelian — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 21:36:43 GMT

Me Pete, You Patrick
R || ~1,600

Notes: caveman!AU. No, I'm sorry to say that I'm not joking. justtothesea is completely to blame, she was even adamant about me using the word 'loincloth'. You, my friend, are awesome and have the greatest brain ever. Plus, she drew me toga!Patrick, so.

Here we go.

Pete isn’t that fond of being a caveman, not really. It’s tedious and lonely and, sometimes, freaking dangerous. He doesn’t remember when he was born or how he became alone, but alone he is, roaming through the wilderness, trying to find shelter or protection.

It gets pretty fucking boring, actually.

That is, until he meets Patrick.

Pete has found a great big hole in a mountain wall. He lovingly decides to call it home for a little while, and settles down. It’s dark and moist, but the walls are flat and light, which means that Pete can squash berries and draw the things he sometimes see in his dreams on them. At night, he draws in the dark and in the morning he tries to figure out what they’re supposed to be.

During the day, he grabs his wooden club and goes hunting. He crouches behind bushes, staring at animals he doesn’t have any names for. When they look like they least expect it, he pounces and, being very tiny but scrappy, he mostly surprises the animals so much that it’s an easy kill.

When he’s seated at the edge of the cave one night, he hears the sound of careless footsteps. He has enough meat to last another day or two, but when an animal gets so close, well, he just can’t resist the tumble.

He feels for the club in the dark, finds it and sneaks out into the night.

There, between two large trees, he sees the outline of the animal. He’s pretty surprised to see that it walks on two feet just like he does, but doesn’t think about it twice before bracing himself against the ground and flying through the air. He lands on the animals back, and it shrieks in shock, trying to throw him off. Pete’s having none of it, though, he enjoys the ride for a minute but then he lifts his heavy club and lets it fall onto the animal’s head. It makes a clunking sound, and then the animal sags to the ground, leaving Pete standing straight and breathing heavily.

He can see the animal a little clearer now, and notices that it looks a little like Pete does. Letting his eyes fall on the animal’s middle, he presses a finger into its stomach.

Hmm. It’s softer than he is. Paler, too, as far as he can see. Also, it’s wearing some weird arrangement of leaves instead of fur, even going so far as to placing something leafy on his head. Pete stares at it in bewilderment for a moment. Why would anyone go through that trouble when you can just wrap yourself in a warm and wet patch of animal skin?

The animal’s lips move a little, aimlessly, a bubble of saliva popping. Pete’s heart clenches. Maybe he doesn’t have to eat this creature. He could keep it as his own instead. He could even find it a nice piece of fur to wear.

Yes. He will keep this animal. Pete takes off its leaf hat, folding it carefully and sticking it inside what would be called his loincloth, grabs the animal by its fine hair and starts pulling him along.

After a while, Pete notices that the grass is rubbing most of the leaves off the creature’s outfit. He stops and admires the view for a bit, finds that it makes him a little warm inside for some reason, but hurries off again. He does want some privacy if he’s going to make this animal his own.

After a couple of yards, Pete hears the animal starting to awake, sounding bewildered and as though it’s protesting. Pete jumps a little and lets go of its hair. Then he stares on as the animal opens his eyes a little, mumbles something and takes a swing at Pete’s leg. Pete just hmm’s a little, before letting his club land on the animal’s head once again. It stills immediately, mouth slack and eyes rolling up into its head.

Shrugging, Pete again takes a hold of its hair and continues his trek to the cave.

When they finally reach the opening, the sky has opened up and moonlight is streaming into the clearing. Pete can see the animal clearly now and is completely enthralled.

It isn’t an animal. Really. It’s a… well, whatever Pete is, but he knows that he’s not a simple animal, made to be eaten by someone smarter than him.

This is something completely new, something Pete doesn’t have a name for. He sits next to it for a while, blabbing into the night air, trying out sounds that might fit.

When he’s ruled out Pffft and Ludntrs, the form next to him lets out a content sound during his sleep.

“Paaatrrick,” he yawns and Pete lights up.

“Patrick,” he repeats with difficulty. “Pete.”

The Patrick opens his eyes then, just a little, and looks at him. Then they fly open wide, and Pete gasps. No, don’t run, he wants to tell Patrick, but he has no words, so he just holds up his hands, mumbling nonsense.

Patrick sits up slowly, caressing the back of his head with ginger hands, wincing. He looks very suspicious when he sees Pete, but he doesn’t run. Pete is very glad, because he’s afraid he might damage the Patrick if he gives him one more whack with the club.

Patrick frowns with his hands on top of his head. He looks at Pete and gestures at it, whining. Pete just stares at him in complete confusion, but then he remembers the leafy head thing.

Smiling genially, he pulls it from his loincloth, dusts it off a little, and presents it to Patrick, who rolls his eyes and pushes it onto his head with such force that a couple of leaves float through the air around him. He’s glaring at Pete with wide, unsure eyes.

To completely still Patrick’s fear, Pete holds up one finger, then runs into the cave. He grabs two pieces of raw meat and runs back, stumbling and whooping. When he plops down next to Patrick again, he holds out one of the pieces and looks proud that he’s providing nourishment for his brand new Patrick.

Patrick, on the other hand, takes the meat, sniffs it and throws it on the ground with disdain. Pete, who is biting into his piece with great gusto, stills and follows Patrick’s movement.

What the fuck is he doing with the food?

Pete taps Patrick on the arm to get his attention. Patrick gives it to him. Pete points to the meat, and then his mouth, then rips a big bite out of his own meat.

Patrick frowns and looks disgusted. He taps Pete on the arm instead, and then he grabs, to Pete’s great bewilderment, one of the few leaves that are still covering his body. He looks at Pete expectantly and then pops the leaf into his mouth, chewing happily and swallowing with a great ‘ah,’ even rubbing his tummy.

Pete stares.

Patrick stares back.

They both ignore each other for a while after that, each eating the type of food they prefer. Pete can’t help but to observe Patrick as he eats, though.

And he finds that he’s enthralled once again. Patrick has full and pink lips, big and bright eyes, and the best smile ever. Not that Pete’s ever really seen a smile before Patrick’s, but he knows that he likes it.

When Patrick finally stops picking and eating leaves off his own body, Pete is very warm and focused and the corners of his vision are blurry. He doesn’t know where the urge comes from, but he crawls over to where Patrick is, slides into Patrick’s lap and puts his arms around Patrick’s neck.

Patrick just frowns at him, has no freaking idea what the fuck is going on, but Pete has a vague clue, a desire that forms somewhere deep inside when he looks at Patrick. So he just goes with it, lets his primal urges loose and they do in the form of Pete’s lips on Patrick’s.

There is a wild moment where this is very much natural and oh god, amazing, but then Patrick is pulling away. His pink, full lips are even pinker and fuller than before, and his eyes are wide and confused. Pete cocks his head, as if to ask, “So, what do you think?”

Patrick starts to smile, something Pete takes as similar to, “Fuck yeah. Let’s do that again,” so he does.

They sit out there for a while, kissing and touching and exploring. Patrick makes noises that somehow sound indecent to Pete, his lips getting more and more swollen.

(There is some confusion when Patrick notices that Pete’s hard. Very hard. Could-cut-through-glass hard.

Pete just grunts sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders, but looks pretty embarrassed.

So Patrick does the only thing he can think of; he grabs Pete’s hardness and tries to rub and squeeze it away.

It goes away. After a while. Apparently it was filled with some stuff that needed to come out.

Five seconds later, it is revealed that Patrick has the same problem.

They rub it away together.)

When it gets too cold to be outside the cave, they huddle inside it, wrapped around each other for warmth. Patrick is the first one to drift off, leaving Pete to hum tonelessly and follow Patrick’s soft skin with his rough fingers.

There are a few stray leaves left still sticking to Patrick’s skin, and Pete can’t resist his curiosity. He picks one and pushes it into his mouth.

Hmm. As he chews, he notices that it’s nowhere near as good as meat, but if his Patrick really likes it, he guesses he could give it a shot.

So he falls asleep, half-chewed leaf in his mouth, completely wrapped around the amazing Patrick he has amazingly enough found, smiling for the first time in his life.

</div>

fic: i took my time (i hurried up) - part four

fidelian — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 11:56:57 GMT

i took my time (i hurried up) [4/4]
R || ~2,000 words

This is it, you guys. Thanks for sticking it out with me. I've met some really cool new people because of this story, and I just gotta say thanks to each and every one of you. Hope you'll like the last part.

part one
part two
part three

And just like that, Patrick has his best friend back again. They start playing pranks on Andy and Joe, singing horribly out of tune with the radio, playing lame road games in the van while state after state rushes by, asks each other questions about things they realize they don’t know about each other yet.

“First kiss,” Patrick says without thinking. He hears dreamy sighs from the backseat, where Andy and Joe are huddled together, thumbing through an old music magazine.

“Nancy Blume,” Joe says, shaking his head slowly. “Good times. A shame we broke up, actually.”

“What happened?” Patrick asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer.

“She stole my Barbie,” Joe says, still staring dreamily into the distance. He suddenly feels everyone’s -- except Pete’s, since he’s driving -- eyes on him, so he adds, “Oh, we were five,” as if their age had been the disturbing part.

After giving that comment the five minutes of laughter it craved, Andy pipes up. “Victoria Ludner,” he says, shuddering slightly. “Nasty piece of work.”

“Let me guess,” Pete grins, glancing at Andy in the rearview mirror. “You were ten.”

“Nine, actually,” Andy says, dignified. “She was fifteen.”

“Oh my god,” Joe roars, socking Andy on the shoulder.

“What can I say? I like my women experienced.”

“Or wrinkled,” Pete mumbles so only Patrick can hear. He bites the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing. Andy notices, of course, since he somehow has vegan super-hearing.

“Patrick,” he says sourly, “ever been kissed?”

Patrick snorts. “Of course I have.”

“Who was your first?” Andy asks, looking skeptical.

“Er,” Patrick glances at Pete and sees that he is grinning madly. “Oh fine. Pete Wentz.”

“No fucking way!” Andy shrieks as the same time as Joe sighs, “Yeah, he’s right there, but who was your first kiss?”

“Pete was,” Patrick mumbles, his cheeks burning. “I was fucking eight so shut up laughing.”

“Oh, Pete,” Andy says, wiping his eyes. “You’re such a cradle robber.”

“Thank you,” Pete says genially, as if he really takes that as a compliment.

“How about you, Wentz?” Joe says, and Patrick wonders if he’s so high he still doesn’t get that Pete was Patrick’s first kiss. “Who was your first smooch?”

“Smooch; Ellie Carpenter,” Pete says quickly, then pauses, “Kiss; Patrick Stumph.”

And just like that, Patrick has no heartbeat. He has no lungs, no legs, no arms, no stomach and absolutely no brain. Just for a moment, then.

“WHAT?” he roars. “WHAT?”

“Oh, shit,” Joe says, nudging Andy, “Pete kissed Patrick and he didn’t even know!”

“What?” Andy says, not even looking at Joe. “Sure he did, he just didn’t know he was Pete’s first kiss.”

“Oh,” Joe says, looking baffled, then, “Oh. Ohhhhhh. Okay, I get it.”

“Hallelujah,” Andy says, even though he doesn’t believe in silly things like religion.

Anyway, so Patrick is trying not to strangle Pete since he would probably fly the van off the road and get all of them killed. It’s almost worth it, though, but not quite.

So he just crosses his arms and glares at the road. He can wait for his opportunity. “You better enjoy the sunset, buddy,” he whispers to Pete. “It will be your last.”

Pete just snorts with laughter and puts his hand on Patrick’s thigh.

Oh. That’s new.

They don’t speak for a long time after that. Really, Patrick thinks, the whole first kiss stuff isn’t all that bad. It’s actually, er, pretty cool.

But Pete should still get his ass kicked, just because.

Pete comes to a full stop just in time. He can hear his dad talking solemnly to someone in the kitchen. Curiosity wins out, so he takes a step to the side and listens to the conversation.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dave,” his dad says and oh, okay, Uncle Stumph is here. “I sure as hell didn’t see this coming.”

See what coming? Pete presses himself closer to the wall.

“I did,” Uncle Stumph says quietly. It’s quiet for a while, Uncle Stumph breathes heavily. “I just can’t believe she kicked me out. Just like that. Like we haven’t been married for almost fifteen years now.”

“I’m so sorry,” Pete’s dad says while Pete tries not to pass out. Everything around him is blurry at the edges and he almost forgets that he has to be quiet.

Fuck this. He has to find Patrick.

He sneaks back up the stairs, climbs out of the window and down the side of the house, like he learned to do when he was seven. His mind is still all over the place as he jumps over the fence that is between his and Patrick’s houses and crosses the lawn. He glances in through the kitchen window, sees Patrick’s mom sitting by the kitchen table, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently, and shit.

When he tries to tap on Patrick’s window, he almost misses because Patrick’s already opened the window and is staring at him with those big eyes.

“Pete,” he says breathlessly. “My dad, he’s.”

“I know,” Pete interrupts him, “He’s at my place, my dad’s taking care of him, no worries.”

Patrick breathes a little easier and Pete wishes there was more he could do for him. “Can I?” he says, motioning at the open window. Patrick looks at him for another moment, nods and moves away.

Pete heaves himself into Patrick’s room, straightening and crossing the room to hug Patrick in the same motion.

“I’m so sorry, ‘Trick, I know how this feels,” he says quietly, stroking Patrick’s back until Patrick’s hugging him tightly, like only Pete has the power to keep him standing.

“It sucks,” Patrick sighs deeply.

“I know.” But Pete is happy that he can hold Patrick, be there for him when he’s sad. He feels safe here, enveloped in the familiar warmth that is Patrick. They just fit somehow, like two guys probably shouldn’t be able to so naturally. It’s a slow realization, something that’s already been brewing in the back of Pete’s mind but hasn’t been allowed to surface. Until now, that is.

“I love you, ‘Trick,” he whispers against Patrick’s warm and soft neck, amazed by the words that had always seemed so natural but were now something huge and scary and just right.

Patrick snorted a little, “Thanks,” he sniffled silently. “Love you, too.”

They slowly pull away from each other, and Pete is trying to look at anything but Patrick, lovely Patrick who he’s been in love with his whole life but only just know really knew.

“So,” Patrick says, surreptitiously wiping his eyes, “you staying over tonight?”

Pete flinches. Can he really stay over now that he knows? Is that fair to Patrick, to sleep in the same bed as him when the whole world has suddenly crashed around Pete and fallen right into place without Patrick even fucking noticing anything?

Yes. He can. “Of course I am.”

The crowd seems to be doing some weird pulsating thing, jumping and screaming and Patrick’s blood is pumping furiously. He sings his heart out, sings Pete’s words and means every single one.

Pete. Pete is a blur next to him, twirling and leaping across the stage, looking like he might have a heart attack any moment and Patrick has never seen him look more alive, which is, yeah. Pretty damn arousing, to be honest.

During the bridge in Calm Before The Storm, Patrick actually has to nudge the guitar, just to make sure he isn’t flashing his hard-on for the whole audience. He glances to his left and sees that Pete is grinning at him, looking amazed and happy and the next thing he knows, Pete’s lips are pressed sloppily against his sweaty neck.

His heart jumps embarrassingly, and he totally messes up the following words, but damn. So worth it, and it almost feels like some weird and insanely fucked up kind of foreplay.

God knows Patrick wants to kiss Pete, wants nothing more and just wishes he had the courage to do it.

The show feels both an eternity and a second long, and when Patrick says so, afterwards, Pete responds, “I know what you mean,” but it doesn’t seem like he’s talking about the same thing Patrick is.

So, naturally, Patrick kisses him. Patrick kisses Pete, Joe wolf-whistles, Andy shakes his head and mumbles, “here we go,” and Pete kisses him back. It’s so natural and almost laughingly right that Patrick almost feels like he already knows how to kiss Pete properly.

When they finally pull apart, they just stare at each other. Then Pete twines his fingers through Patrick’s, grins like a kid in a candy shop and says in a low voice, “Wanna take a walk?”

Patrick glances at Joe and Andy, who are both still looking pretty damn shocked and/or grossed out by the kissing, and nods shyly. Funnily enough, his brain has always worked better without an audience.

Pete grins even wider, tugs at his hand and waves obnoxiously at their bandmates.

“Pete, c’mon,” thirteen-year-old Patrick Stumph tells his best friend.

Pete’s arms just tighten around him, so he sighs and just lets himself be hugged. Pete’s going away after all, and Patrick will be damned if that doesn’t hurt to even think about.

“But I won’t see you for months, Patrick,” Pete whispers. “I’ve never not seen you for months.”

“I know it sucks,” Patrick sighs, “but it’s college, Pete, you should be happy. Think about all the hot sorority girls.”

Pete chuckles against Patrick’s neck, but shakes his head a little. “Don’t want any hot sorority girls if I can’t have my Patrick.”

And that kind of hurts too, so Patrick pulls away and looks down at his beaten Converse. He can feel both his and Pete’s parents’ eyes on him, so he tries desperately not to cry.

“Well,” Pete says, and he sighs a little too, “this is really hard and, shit, so I’ll just. You know. Get going.”

Patrick nods, still not looking at Pete, so he’s surprised when Pete lifts his chin with a finger and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. Pete grins at Patrick’s slack-jawed shock, waves obnoxiously and jumps into his dad’s car. He’s still smiling when the car drives away.

When Patrick gets back up to his room, still a little flummoxed, he searches through his desk and finds a calendar he’d gotten from his crazy aunt at Christmas. He nails it to the wall above his bed and circles the date of Pete’s homecoming with a black sharpie. He’ll cross out the days until that day.

Just for something to do.

“Patrick,” Pete slurs, half-asleep, “’Trickity ‘Trick, love of my life, owner of my soul, P. Stumph. Angels put you in a little pink box with a purple bow on top and strapped it on a unicorn that ran across a rainbow to bring you to me, you know.”

Patrick lifts his head slowly, peering through half-closed lids at the lunatic that’s in his bed. “Huh?”

Pete grins lazily at him, looking sort of high and happier than Patrick has seen him in forever. He smiles back at Pete, memories of their very enthusiastic make-out session earlier flooding back into his mind.

“Never mind,” Patrick mumbles, still smiling as he closes his eyes again. “I know what you mean.”

And he really, really does.

fic: i took my time (i hurried up) - part three

fidelian — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 19:46:34 GMT

i took my time (i hurried up) [3/4]
R || ~2,000 words

THERE WILL BE A FOURTH PART.

part one
part two

The next few gigs, Pete doesn’t come anywhere near Patrick onstage, not leaning his head on Patrick’s shoulder, planting a wet kiss on Patrick’s neck or even crouching down on his knees before Patrick during one of the higher notes. Offstage, they’re back to that polite, impersonal bullshit and it’s making Patrick moodier than usual.

He feels like he almost can’t remember the last time he and Pete just hung out, did the stuff they always used to do. Making music, playing pranks on each other’s parents or siblings, sometimes even studying. When did Pete change from being his best friend to something he can’t put a name on? Because Pete doesn’t feel like, you know, Pete anymore, not when he sometimes still wakes up with Pete’s steady breathing in his ear, his closed eyes just inches away from Patrick’s and it does matter, and Patrick strokes his fingers across Pete’s cheek and it’s not just something friends do. It’s freaking Patrick out because he doesn’t know what this shit is, what he’s supposed to do with it or if Pete even notices anything about his inner hell.

City after city passes by as four sweaty guys sit in a van and play lame road games. Pete is driving more often than not, and Patrick is sort of glad he does. It would be even harder to sit next to him all day every day. Okay, that’s a fucking lie, if Patrick had it his way, Pete would be sitting right there, up in Patrick’s space like always, chatting his ears off. That’s the way it’s fucking supposed to be and now it’s not and Patrick is fucking seventeen and too young to deal with this kind of shit.

Andy corners him when they’re stopping at a gas stop. Patrick doesn’t even know what day of the week it is, has worn the same t-shirt for four days and doesn’t remember the feeling of having newly brushed teeth. Life has been better, let’s just say that.

“Hey, dude, are you okay?” Andy asks in that tone he has, like he really does care but only if it’s alright with you.

“Sure,” Patrick says automatically, looking up from his shitty cell phone. The battery had died a couple of days ago and he kind of needs to let his mom know he’s still alive. “What?”

“I just,” Andy says, leaning against the wall of the tiny grocery store next to the gas station and sighing deeply, “I care about you, Patrick, and I care about Pete. I just don’t want this weird vibe between you to fuck up this band.”

And Patrick freezes because, wow, that thought hasn’t even occurred to him and what the hell. There was no way this band was breaking up, this band was his fucking life, what, would he have to go to college or some shit? What?

Andy seems to notice that Patrick is having the world’s greatest freak-out, so he says, “Hey,” and puts a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, “don’t worry, just. Talk to Pete. You guys are best friends, for fuck’s sake, what’s going on?”

Patrick shakes his head slowly and can’t really look Andy or anyone else in the eye right now, because he has his suspicions about what’s going on, but no. “I dunno,” he says vaguely, shrugging Andy’s hand off. “I need to call my mom, okay.”

Andy nods, still looks like he’s worried, like a fucking mother hen, and goes into the grocery store. Patrick walks back to the gas station, glances at Pete, who is pumping gas into the poor van. Pete doesn’t look at him, he just does a weird karate move against the hose, shrieking wildly. Patrick snorts a little, because it’s just such a Pete thing to do, and heads into the gas station to call his mother.

“Are you eating?” she says before Patrick even has a chance to say hi.

“Mom,” Patrick sighs, “what. Of course I’m eating. You’ve met me, right?”

“I know, I know,” his mom says, sounding a little calmer. Thank god, or whatever. “I just worry about you, honey, don’t mind me.”

And it feels kind of nice to know that someone is worrying about him, so he doesn’t argue about it.

“So,” his mom says, and Patrick hears her taking a deep breath, “how’s life on the road? Are you guys sleeping okay? Do you need any money?”

Just like that, Patrick’s throat is closing up because his mom sounds like home, and right now he doesn’t even know what he’s doing here.

“Mom,” he says, his voice hitching, stopping her nervous blabber, “Mom, I think I maybe want to go home.”

Through the stunned silence on the other end, he can hear a sharp intake of breath behind him. He spins around and sees Pete just a few yards away, the gas bill in his hand, looking like the world was just about to end.

“What,” Patrick says, trying seriously not to pass out. Oh, no, this isn’t happening.

Pete stares at him for another moment, sets his jaw into that angry sculpture that Patrick is so used to seeing nowadays. What he’s not used to seeing, however, is the overwhelming look of disappointment and heartbreak that is burning in Pete’s eyes. In that moment, Patrick just wants to crawl under a rock and die, and as Pete turns and stalks to the van, slamming the driver’s door so hard the whole van shakes a little, Patrick wonders what the hell he’s thinking.

“Mom, I gotta go,” he says vaguely in the general direction of the phone, not caring that he can hear her talking to him while he hangs up.

He feels like a zombie as he walks over to the van, jumps into the backseat and tries not to look at Pete in the rearview mirror. Patrick has never felt like more of an asshole his entire life, because he knows what this band means to Pete, hell, what it means to Patrick himself. He wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world, and here he was, almost doing it just because he got a little fucking homesick. What kind of immature shithead does that make him, really?

“Pete,” he says weakly and doesn’t blame Pete for not giving him an answer. “I’m so sorry. Shit, I don’t even. I just got a little homesick, I don’t even fucking know what I said. I didn’t mean it, shit, Pete, I didn’t mean it at all, in any way. I would never leave this band, never leave you.”

Pete twitches a little at the ‘you,’ but doesn’t move or talk or anything else. He just sits there, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Patrick can see that his knuckles are white and the skin over them stretched taut. He wants to cry so fucking bad right now, but no. Instead, he wonders how long it’ll be until Joe and Andy are back from the store. Probably a little while more, Andy’s probably searching for vegan stuff and he knows Joe is trying to look through the plastic of the nudie magazines on the top shelf.

So he does the first thing he thinks of; he climbs over the gearshift, into the passenger seat and stares at Pete. Patrick is horrified to see that Pete’s eyes are filled with tears and he’s biting his lip. Fuck, his chin is even trembling. Patrick’s seen this face a thousand times before, but he’s never been the cause of it.

Without even thinking about the consequences of his actions, he wrenches Pete’s hands off the wheel, puts his arms around him and presses his nose against Pete’s neck.

“Sorry,” he mumbles against Pete’s shirt. “I love the band, I love you, you’re my best friend.”

Pete is stiff for a moment, then Patrick can feel him relax a little and put his arms around Patrick. They just sit there for a while, enjoying the familiarity of this embrace, marveling at how long it’s been since they were this close.

“’Trick,” Pete says brokenly, muffled against Patrick’s ear and Patrick shivers, “never go anywhere without me, okay?”

“Okay,” Patrick whispers, completely serious.

“No, really,” Pete insists, hugging Patrick even tighter. “Fuck, Patrick, if you ever want to go somewhere that’s else, just grab hold of me first, will you?”

Patrick snorts into Pete’s shirt. “I’ll try. You’re a slippery little sucker, you know.”

Pete laughs his horsey laugh and Patrick’s world is right again.

“I love you, too,” Pete says, and then lets Patrick go.

When Andy and Joe gets back, they’ll drive on, play a gig for hopefully more than two people, sleep crouched together on the floor of the van, have to listen to Pete attempting to sing with the radio, not shower for another week, drive each other crazy, and Patrick thinks maybe he’s in heaven.

There’s a tapping on Patrick’s window just as he’s slipping under, and what the fuck.

Then he remembers that it’s probably Pete, so he decides not to get his dad’s old baseball bat. He yawns, stretches -- he can reach the window from his bed now -- and flips the lock so Pete can open it himself. There’s no fucking way he’s getting out of this warm bed.

“Hey,” Pete says, grinning widely. Patrick guesses it’s because he probably looks funny when he’s half-asleep.

“Hello and go to hell,” he groans, burying his head in his pillow. “I was just about to fall asleep, you asshole.”

“Hey, why don’t you be cranky for a change?” Pete snorts, sitting on the edge of Patrick’s bed.

“What,” Patrick says confusedly. It’s too fucking late in the night or early in the morning for sarcasm. Patrick can only take Pete’s sarcasm after two steady cups of coffee. “Hop in and sleep, you weirdo.”

Pete nods, fidgets a little, then, “How about you sing me something pretty?”

Patrick lifts his head to stare at him.

“Why not?” Pete says, sounding disappointed. “Just think about it, I’d be able to go to sleep much quicker and you would be training your singing at the same time.”

“Wow, fuck you,” Patrick said, almost impressed with how Pete managed to insult Patrick twice in one sentence.

“Please,” Pete says, widening his eyes and pouting. Patrick whines a little. “Pretty please with a P. Stumph on top?”

“Ugh,” Patrick groans, “don’t attempt to tempt me with me.”

Pete stares at him. “Huh?”

“Whatever, I’ll sing,” Patrick sighs. He doesn’t have the strength to fight Pete right now, so whatever. “Climb in, fucker.”

“Ooh, bossy,” Pete grins, “I love it. Now croon me to sleep, lunchbox.”

“Er,” Patrick says as Pete climbs over Patrick to lie behind him, his arm wrapped around Patrick’s waist, “okay, so, I’ll just.”

Pete chuckles and Patrick restrains himself from strangling him. He sings instead, his cheeks burning.

“I’m good to go, and I’m going nowhere fast.” Holy shit, why am I doing this, he’s going to laugh or hit me or. “It could be worse, I could be taking you there with me.”

But Pete doesn’t laugh or even hit him. Patrick feels him stiffen, his grip on Patrick tightening, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Two more weeks, my foot is in the door, I can’t sleep in the wake of Saturday,” he sings, then hums for a little bit because he doesn’t know what’ll go there, and then, “I read about the after-life, but I never really lived,” and that’s all he’s got right now. He goes quiet and the silence is making him insane. Wait. Is Pete asleep?

He turns around little, and is met by a pair of enormous eyes full of wonder. “Patrick,” Pete whispers, “I wrote that.”

Patrick nods, “Well, yeah.”

“I wrote that,” Pete says again, still staring at Patrick like he just grew another head. “And you just.”

Patrick panics. “Oh shit, I’m sorry! Dude, I thought, just. I saw that in one of your old notebooks and thought it would sound awesome in a song, so I just sort of. Wow, sorry, I didn’t mean to, like.”

“Chill, Patrick,” Pete says, smiling and squeezing Patrick’s hip with one hand. “That was. Well, that was the most fucking awesome experience ever, actually.”

Wow. “Really?” Patrick whispers.

“Really fucking really,” Pete says, completely serious. “Thank you, Patrick.”

Patrick blushes.

meme thing

fidelian — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 18:27:27 GMT

1) Comment to this and I will give you 3 people.
2) Post this meme with your answers.
3) Provide pictures and the names of 3 people.
4) Label which you would marry, shag, and throw off a cliff.

Okay, here we go.

afterxbirth gave me Tom DeLonge, Gustaf Noren and Pete Wentz.

1.

Gustaf Norén. It hurts me. It physically hurts me to do this, but I would have to throw him off a cliff if these were my choices. Sorry, honey, still love your band, though.

2.

Tom DeLonge. Oh, man. Oh, man. Look at that guy. There is no fucking way I'd kick this man out of bed. Please take advantage of me, Mr. DeLonge. (Also, we're piercing buddies! Mine's on the left side, though.)

3.

Pete Wentz. Yes, I'd marry Pete Wentz. I know, this little dude is probably clinically insane and oh god, was I concerned when I heard that he was gonna be a father, but you know what? He's on top of shit. He's a good dad, a good husband, has a great career. What more can you ask, really?

Any takers?

i was killing before killing was cool.

fidelian — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 13:10:07 GMT

I have nothing sensible to say except that OH MY GOD -- mcr's kill all your friends is one of the best songs ever written. It never gets old.

I just had to let that feeling out.

(The third and final part of i took my time (i hurried up) will be up later today.)

Also, Patrick Stump. ♥

fic: i took my time (i hurried up) [2/4]

fidelian — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 14:12:35 GMT

Title: i took my time (i hurried up) [2/4]
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R (language)
Wordcount: whole story: 10,500 -- this part: 3,600
Summary: It's a story about growing up and falling in love. With Pete Wentz.
Disclaimer: Oh, please.
Notes: It's an AU where Pete & Patrick's parents are best friends, so P&P have known each other since the beginning. FOB exists. Thanks goes to justtothesea</lj> and cieluna</lj> who both read it and survived.

part one

“Patrick!” Pete shouts, shooting through the mass of confused students that clutters the hallway of the high school.

Patrick freezes for a moment and then looks up. Fuck, not again. “Pete, you have class,” he groans, “you should be at your own school.”

“Fuck school!” Pete yells happily, and finally reaches Patrick. He throws his arms around Patrick’s neck and for a wild second Patrick can’t think of anything at all and then he is at a safe distance again. “I have the greatest news ever!”

Patrick sighs, “Let’s hear it then.”

“Wait,” Pete says, looking around wildly, “it needs to be more climactic.” He jumps onto a bench and throws his arms in the air dramatically. “Are you ready for your life to begin, Patrick Martin Stumph?”

Oh. My. God. “No?” Patrick whimpers, trying to ignore the giggles and stares that are suddenly surrounding him.

“Get ready, baby,” Pete roars, “’cause here it comes: I found us a drummer!”

“Wow,” Patrick says, very happy but still embarrassed, “that’s great, Pete, really, but, please.”

“That’s not everything,” Pete whispers excitedly, like he can’t even talk. “We’re going on tour, baby!”

Patrick jumps up next to Pete on the bench and throws himself at the older boy. Then they both just start jumping up and down. “What?” Patrick shouts, over and over again, “What? What?”

“Dude, I booked like, forty gigs all over the place for us, I’ve been working on this for ages,” Pete laughs, “I’ve even struck a deal with this guy I know, and we’re borrowing his van.”

“Oh god,” Patrick says, sinking to a sitting position on the abused bench. The people around them are starting to get tired of the freak out and walk on to their respective classes. Pete plops down on his ass and faces him. “I can’t believe this. When?”

“In two weeks, dude,” Pete grins, hitting his shoulder. “We have to start practicing with Andy, you’re cutting school right the fuck now, okay?”

Patrick just nods, his brain is a thousand miles away. They have a drummer. They’re going on tour. They’re going to give the music thing a serious shot. Then he gapes when Pete’s words actually register.

“Wait, not Andy Hurley?”

Patrick is with Pete the first time he hears music. Not like, hears music ‘cause, yeah, but really truly hears music. They’re fiddling around with Patrick’s dad’s old record player (Pete mostly just wants to play with the “pointy thing” as he calls it, making it spin across the soft garment that covers the bottom of the device) and they put on one that says David Bowie: The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars and from the first note, there’s no use trying to get through to Patrick.

It’s like, ice cream and puppies and rainbows and unicorns and sunsets and ice cream. The best things in life all put together in one big black circle of hard plastic, and Patrick is stunned.

“Pete,” he breathes when the record ends and he sees that Pete has drifted across the room, now interested in Patrick’s various Disney movies. “Pete, what was that?”

“Huh?” Pete says, looking up from the worn cover of The Little Mermaid. “What?”

“That,” Patrick says, feeling confused and pointing at the record player. Had Pete not heard what Patrick just had?

“Music,” Pete shrugs, “pretty awesome, isn’t it?”

“Huh,” Patrick says. “Music.”

They listen to the record again and again and after a while Patrick can sing along with some of the lyrics. Pete’s eyes widen comically when Patrick opens his mouth to sing, and he sort of looks like he just invented ice cream.

“Can you like, always do that?” Pete breathes carefully, as if he doesn’t want to scare Patrick away.

Patrick is even more confused now, so he just shrugs. Pete drops the subject but Patrick catches him staring at him more than once in the next weeks.

One night, when Pete and his dad is having dinner with Patrick’s family, Pete announces that Patrick has the voice of Pete’s soul and that he just wants to thank them for deciding to have children.

Patrick blushes and almost chokes on his food.

“Mom, please calm down,” Patrick begs, trying to stop his mother from stuffing another pair of boxers into his already too-full duffel bag. “I’m not even going to be away that long.”

“I know,” his mom says, stopping and leaning against the wall, looking completely drained with nervousness. “I just. I don’t know how to let you go away like this. You’re sixteen, Patrick, you’re still…”

Patrick understands what she’s saying, because he sort of feels the same. Stuffing himself and his things into a tiny van with three other guys suddenly sounds like the worst idea ever. Patrick can’t even sing, for fuck’s sake, he doesn’t care what Pete thinks. Pete just has shitty taste in music, which would explain his shitty bass-playing.

But then he feels bad. Pete is his best friend and he’s doing his best.

“I’ll miss you,” he says quietly and his mother looks at him with tears in her eyes.

She smiles ruefully and crosses the room to hug him tightly and kiss him on the forehead. “I know. I’ll miss you too.”

There is a knock on the doorframe and Pete waltzes in. “Group hug?” he asks genially and walks over. He slings one arm around Patrick’s waist and one around Patrick’s mom’s. His mom laughs, kisses Pete’s forehead too and breaks away. Patrick can feel Pete give his waist a quick squeeze before letting go, and he can’t explain his sharp intake of breath.

“Okay, here’s the deal, Auntie Stumph,” Pete says and he always calls her ‘Auntie Stumph’ even though Patrick’s mom has switched back to her maiden name after the divorce (“She’s my Auntie Stumph, Patrick, deal with it”), “Young Patrick here will not be participating in any sort of frolicking, drinking or any activity that even remotely could lead to venereal diseases and/or, god forbid, babies. Deal?”

“Sounds good, Pete,” Patrick’s mom says and shakes Pete’s outstretched hand. “Thanks for looking after my little boy,” she adds and Patrick groans.

He follows his mom and Pete down the stairs, dragging his duffel bag behind him and trying not to die or kill anyone else with it. When they reach the front door, his mom gives him and Pete one last kiss each and sends them on their way, the tears in her eyes finally spilling over.

Patrick feels like shit as he and Pete make their way over to the van. Pete looks at him and puts his arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “Hey, ‘Trick,” he says softly in Patrick’s ear, “it’s alright. You’re going to be a rock star, it’s your destiny.”

“Yeah,” Patrick snorts disbelievingly, but he still feels a little better as they grab one end of his bag and tries to press it into the back of the van. “Thanks.”

“What I’m here for,” Pete grins, but Patrick can see a shadow cross his eyes at the words. He tries not to think about it too much, that train of thought will never end well.

There is one night where Patrick is sleeping in his bed, his back pressed against Pete’s front, and he hears something strange through his hazy dreams. Someone is chanting around him, whispering great things about love and stars and meant-to-be and ever-after.

He guesses it’s the wind playing songs against his window and promptly sinks back into his dream world, the beautiful words following him there.

The next morning, Pete has already left when Patrick wakes up.

“Pete, what the fuck did you just do?”

Patrick is seething. The fucker had just licked his brand new guitar on stage in front of at least, well, ten people. Licked it. Dragged his long pink tongue all over the strings -- which, by the way, hello, Patrick had just tuned to perfection -- and looking like he was having the world’s greatest fucking orgasm.

“That was pretty damn awesome in my opinion,” Joe pipes up, offering Pete a high-five.

Pete jumps so he can reach and slap Joe’s hand, but he still looks a little ashamed. He fucking should, Patrick thinks. “This is so gross, Pete, seriously.”

“What’s so gross about it?” Pete says, suddenly defensive. “Does the idea of my saliva being anywhere near your precious self disgust you that much? I do brush my fucking teeth every once in a while, you know.”

Joe whistles impressively while Patrick just gapes like a goldfish. “Dude, harsh.”

Patrick is still staring incredulously at Pete because Pete never gets mad at Patrick. In this friendship it’s Patrick who is the equivalent of the ‘moody bitch.’ He doesn’t say anything, so Pete turns around and walks away, leaving Patrick feeling like he just got hit by his own car or some shit like that, his after-show buzz fading fast to be replaced with confusion and dammit, dammit, dammit.

Pete doesn’t ignore Patrick like Patrick feared he would do. Instead he just treats him like he would someone he doesn’t know very well. Kind of polite and quiet and not saying anything he doesn’t have to, just answering direct questions. It’s seriously freaking Patrick out and when Pete doesn’t even sleep with his head on Patrick’s shoulder, that’s fucking it.

“Pete,” Patrick says, pinching a sleeping Pete’s arm.

“Ow, fuck,” Pete says automatically, his eyes flying open. “What the fuck do you want, Stumph?”

“We’re talking this out, right now,” Patrick says with far more bravery than he has. He just wants this shit to be over with so he can have his Pete back.

Pete glares at him for a moment, but sighs and looks around at the other two sleeping on the floor of the van. Both Andy and Joe are snoring softly, so Pete nods for Patrick to get out. Pete follows and they walk in silence for a couple of minutes. It’s June and warm enough to walk around barefoot, to Patrick’s vague delight. He loves feeling grass under the pads of his feet and between his toes. It reminds him of times when he was little and Pete was his idol, the kind of person he wanted to be when he got older. He’s older now, and actually being Pete isn’t as tempting as it once was. Pete is a pretty messed up guy, to be completely honest. It has no effect on him being Patrick’s best friend or something Patrick just thinks to be mean, it’s a simple fact. He knows Pete almost never sleeps, he obsesses over exactly every little thing in his life and he can never fucking settle.

They simultaneously sink into the damp grass, sitting cross-legged next to each other and gazing up at the starless sky, shoulders barely touching. Patrick glances over at Pete and sees the old Pete, his Pete, the Pete that protected him and made him laugh and made him angrier than anyone else ever could. When the hell did they start to grow apart? Who decided that that would be a good idea?

He asks Pete just this, and Pete looks mystified.

“You’re my best friend,” he says incredulously, “right?”

Patrick’s eyes widen. “Of course I am, you dick. I just.”

“Hmm,” Pete says, still frowning. “Just.”

And it’s a really big word right now, ‘just,’ and Patrick doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t know what it is that he wants from Pete. He lets his eyes travel over Pete’s small form, the tattoos that curled around his neck and arms, his dark bangs that almost always got in the way of his eyes, the big eyes that could convince Patrick to do fucking anything, the lips that Patrick sometimes found himself thinking about, even when he didn’t want to.

And that’s just it, right there. Friends don’t think about other friends’ lips. That’s a well-known fact, even for Patrick who, to be honest, has never had all that many friends. He has Pete and that has always been enough. Andy and Joe are an unexpected bonus, Pete is everything.

“I,” he says, and he doesn’t know how to end the sentence until he’s already done it, “I don’t know who I’d be if I didn’t know you.”

Pete doesn’t smile, doesn’t even acknowledge that Patrick spoke, but Patrick knows him and knows that he’s mulling that one over before even touching it with a pole.

“I feel the same,” he says finally, pronouncing each word carefully.

Patrick feels like he just won something but he doesn’t know what the race or contest is. He turns to look at Pete. “This is weird,” he says, grinning a little, “awkward as hell.”

Pete smiles too, meeting Patrick eyes. “Don’t know why,” he shrugs, “it’s just you and me after all.”

Something in that sentence makes Patrick act before thinking, and his lips are softly pressed against Pete’s surprised ones in what is their second kiss. They just sit there for a moment, their lips touching, and Patrick thinks this must be what dying feels like. He breaks away quickly, staring wildly at Pete who is wide-eyed. Patrick sees that Pete’s lips are swollen and then he gets up and runs back to the van. He throws himself inside and burrows his head in his pillow, trying not to scream into it.

He tries to snore authentically when Pete climbs over him to his sleeping bag over an hour later.

Their first kiss happens when Patrick is eight and Pete is thirteen. Patrick has been noticing that some boys and girls in his class have started going out, kissing each other briefly in the hallways and calling each other ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend.’ He’s feeling pretty damn confused about the whole thing, not really getting the point of it.

He goes over to Pete’s house after school, still stuck on the whole kissing thing. Pete is standing on his bed and drawing big things he calls ‘bartskulls’ all over the walls with a permanent marker and looks very very busted when Patrick walks into the room.

“Oh,” Pete says, grinning suddenly, “I thought you were my mom. I saw my whole life flashing by there for a second.”

Patrick frowned at him and pointed to the enormous bartskull that is painted over the head of Pete's bed. “Er, she’ll probably see it sometime.”

Pete sighs, “I know, but I’ll enjoy it until then. I’m living life to the fullest, you know.”

Patrick nods, pretending that he understands.

“So,” Pete says, “what can I do you for, kid?”

Patrick hates it when Pete calls him kid. It makes him feel like Pete’s little brother, and Patrick does not want to be Pete’s brother. Pete’s his best friend, that’s it.

He doesn’t call him on it, though, he has other, bigger, things on his mind right now. “Pete,” he begins, stops, doesn’t know how to continue, “people in my school have started to sort of… kiss each other. All over the place.”

He looks up to see Pete grinning wickedly at him. “They have, have they?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making Patrick really nervous in the process.

So he just nods, wishing he’d never said anything.

“What’s so bad about it, then?” Pete says, now lying on the bed and carefully painting his fingernails black with the marker.

“I don’t know,” Patrick says, because he really doesn’t, but, “I just don’t get it, I guess.”

“Don’t get what?” And now Pete is looking confused, too.

“What’s so great about kissing,” Patrick says, shaking his head. He plops onto the bed next to Pete, leaning his head on Pete’s shoulder. “I think it looks pretty gross.”

Pete throws his head back and brays a laugh. “It’s not gross, Patrick,” he says, calming down. “It’s pretty awesome.”

“Liar,” Patrick snorts.

“Am not,” Pete says defiantly, and he turns around to lay on his side, facing Patrick. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Before Patrick can even have a brainwave, Pete’s lips are against his. His eyes widen, his heart thuds crazily, his lips are throbbing weirdly. His eight-year-old body is wreaking havoc on itself just because his lips are touching someone else’s. After a moment, Pete pulls away, grins and smacks his lips.

“See?” he says and slaps Patrick’s still frozen shoulder. “Awesome, right?”

Patrick just stares at him. After that, Pete’s lips are sort of a main thing in his life.

They begin to get bigger and bigger gigs as the weeks wear on, and one night Patrick even sees some kids in the audience singing along to the songs. It makes him mess up the rest of the song, but it’s still one of the best things that ever happened to him.

“Did you see that?” he shrieks when they leave the stage for the night, pumping his fist in the air. “They fucking knew the words!”

“Really?” Andy says, and he’s the only one that actually looks interested. “Wow, wonder how they pulled that off. It’s not like you can get us at a record store.”

“Wait,” Joe says, and suddenly he seems interested too, “does this mean we have groupies? Dude. I hope we have groupies.”

Patrick laughs and socks the back of his head. “Shut up,” he says, “they knew the words. This is too awesome.”

“Oh please,” Pete says, rolling his eyes, “it’s not the words, it’s the guy who sings them.”

Patrick is nonplussed. “Huh? What does this have to do with me?”

“I can’t believe you’re such a virgin,” Pete says and his tone hurts Patrick somewhat, “they thought you were hot, okay?”

“Hot?” Patrick squeaks. Andy chuckles at him before wiping his face with a very questionable towel. Joe is crouched on the floor, lighting a celebratory post-show joint -- as opposed to the celebratory pre-show joint he had before heading on stage -- and doesn’t really seem to care about the subject anymore. “I’m not hot,” Patrick says in total confusion, because he’s not.

Pete just rolls his eyes again and sighs, which pisses Patrick off but he doesn’t say anything about it.

And when they head out of the back room to hang out in the club and grab a drink, a girl comes up to Patrick.

“Hey,” she says, leaning against the bar, and she has long jet black hair, a lip ring and too much dark make-up. But she’s still kind of hot and Patrick blushes.

“Hi,” he says, wondering how he ended back up in puberty when his voice cracks a little. He isn’t very good with girls, has never actually been that interested in them. Music was his true love, he usually told someone when they asked. He glances over at Pete and thinks of how Pete’s never even asked him about girls or crushes. How the fuck did he know Patrick was a virgin? For all he knew, Patrick could’ve been laid a thousand times, Pete never cares enough to ask about it anyway, he just jumps to conclusions and throws them in faces.

“Loved the show,” the girl says and Patrick looks away from Pete’s hunched form and at her again.

“Thanks,” he says, and he means it. They’re getting better and better as a band, but they’re far from where they want to be.

The girl leans forward, her lips grazes his ear, and whispers, “I have a thing for singers,” and Patrick feels a small hand on his upper thigh, right near his crotch.

He glances at Pete again, sees Pete glaring back at him, his eyes burning with anger that Patrick doesn’t deserve because he hasn’t done anything wrong, right? A girl is flirting with him, Pete is neither his father nor his boyfriend, so how the hell is this his business anyway?

The girl whispers something that he doesn’t hear over the furious rush of blood through his ears, but when she turns around and tugs on his hand, he follows after just a second’s hesitation. As they cross the bar, he can feel Joe and Andy’s eyes on him, and they look mystified. Pete’s gaze weighs heaviest on Patrick’s back, but he’ll be damned if he turns around now.

He’s lead into a handicap bathroom and hasn’t even closed the door completely behind him before he’s being pressed up against it, effectively closing it shut. The girl, he doesn’t even know her fucking name, has latched on to his neck, probably leaving marks. When she realizes that he’s not really into it, she targets his mouth instead, pressing her lips against Patrick’s and moaning. It feels kind of good, but not even half as good as when it had been Pete’s lips touching his. And that’s how it goes; the girl does this, Patrick compares it with Pete, the girl does that, Patrick compares it with Pete.

After a while of making out with absolutely no response from Patrick, the girl wrenches herself away from him with a groan.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she says, and Patrick doesn’t know so she storms out of the bathroom, leaving the door open behind her. And of course Pete is leaning against the wall opposite the door, his arms crossed and his eyes somber. Patrick is still breathing deeply from the very messed up make-out session and doesn’t even remember if his jeans are buttoned. He does know that he’ll never forget the look Pete gives him right then, just before walking away from him.

And how the fuck is this Patrick’s life?

--

part three

very unserious business below.

fidelian — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 21:42:58 GMT

So I just posted the first part of the story I oh-so-affectionately call "the monsterfic from hell" and yaay, because people seem to not hate it, at the very least. I'm currently writing on a story I don't love. I'm also cooking something very hot but slightly disturbing that justtothesea feels needs to be brought into this world. Working on it, bb.

I have the test from hell this Friday, people. This means you'll be seeing a lot of fic, because I'm a first-class procrastinator. That would be my superhero name. The Procrastinator. Catchy, don't you think? (Everything in my life seems to be "from hell" lately. Wtf?)

Also, if the clip of Pete and Patrick "dancing" and Patrick CURTSYING isn't the greatest thing my eyes have ever seen, then inform me what is. Because, seriously. (The humping-air clip maybe? Does that top this? Oh, who am I kidding, of course it does.)

I apologize.

fic: i took my time (i hurried up) - part one

fidelian — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 15:31:19 GMT

Title: i took my time (i hurried up) [1/3]
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R (language)
Wordcount: whole story: 10,500 -- this part: almost 3,000
Summary: It's a story about growing up and falling in love. With Pete Wentz.
Disclaimer: Oh, please.
Notes: I can't believe I'm finally posting this monster. It's an AU where Pete & Patrick's parents are best friends, so P&P have known each other since the beginning. FOB exists. Thanks goes to justtothesea and cieluna who both read it and survived.

“Patrick, pssst, Trick!”

Patrick hears something filter through the hazy colors of Dream Land, but after some serious -- mostly unconscious -- consideration, he decides to ignore it.

“Patrick, you lazy fuck, c’mon!”

What the hell? The cogs in Patrick’s sleepy brain slowly starts functioning again, one by one. Someone is outside his window. Hissing at him. He lifts his head and pushes the curtain to the side, peering through the foggy glass.

Of course. Pete fucking Wentz.

“Pete,” Patrick groans, flopping over onto his back. “Go home. I hate you.”

He hears a choked intake of breath and stops. Gazing outside again, he sees that Pete’s lip is trembling and his eyes are wide and glassy. Cursing his weakness for Pete’s eyes, Patrick gets out of bed and pulls the window open.

“C’mon,” he mumbles. “Get in.”

Pete doesn’t say anything, he just scrambles totally gracelessly into Patrick’s room and lands ass-first on the floor. It isn’t remotely funny, though, cause it’s fucking ass o’clock in the morning and Patrick has to get up in four hours and Pete is staring at the floor, looking completely lost.

Patrick sighs weakly and slides down to the floor, leaning his back against the bed. He lets his head fall back. “What’s wrong, Pete?”

Pete just sobs dryly, shakes his head a little and Patrick sighs again.

“Pete, dude, if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help you.”

Pete looks up at him then, his eyes so open and innocent and filled with a sadness that makes Patrick feel like he should take a step back or something.

“Can I stay here? Just tonight, please,” and Pete’s voice cracks a little around the last word.

How can Patrick say no and still pride himself on having a soul? He can’t, so he just nods briefly and climbs back into bed. Pete lifts himself off the floor, lies down with his back against Patrick’s front. He sniffles weakly until Patrick puts his arm around his waist and pulls him closer. Patrick doesn’t sleep until he hears Pete’s broken snores.

“Pete, come down here! There’s someone here who wants to meet you.”

Pete shoots up from his fire trucks, which were just trying to save a burning city but to no avail, and races down the stairs. He sprints into the kitchen and sees that his dad’s best friend, Uncle Stumph, is there and Pete hasn’t seen Uncle Stumph in a while and he likes him very much. The first thing he sees is that Uncle Stumph is holding a pile of sheets and Pete wonders why.

“Pete, this is Patrick,” his dad says and Uncle Stumph angles the sheets a bit so Pete can see something pink and chubby peeking out of them.

“Wow,” Pete says, taking two steps forward to get a closer look. The sheets fall back a little and Pete can see a tuft of strawberry-colored hair on the baby’s head. Pete gapes at the little bundle and slowly reaches out to press a palm gently against its tiny cheek. He’s completely enthralled and doesn’t understand why he’s never gotten to see Patrick before. “Can I keep him?” he asks, completely serious.

Uncle Stumph and dad laugh loudly and Patrick makes a little noise, waving his chubby arms. “What?” Pete says, and then, “Shh, you disturb the Patrick.”

Pete gets to stare at the Patrick for the rest of the afternoon, but then Uncle Stumph says he has to go home.

“Fine,” Pete says, smiling. “You can come visit my Patrick whenever you want, Uncle Stumph.”

Dad and Uncle Stumph laugh again, and Dad pats Pete’s shoulder. “Pete, you know Patrick’s not yours. He’s Uncle Stumph’s and Auntie Stumph would be very sad if she didn’t get Patrick back.”

Pete is frozen and stares at him. Is he going to take away the best gift Pete’s ever gotten? His lower lip begins to tremble and he clenches his fists angrily.

“NO!” he yells, “It’s MY Patrick, MINE!”

And then his Patrick begins to scream. Pete feels so bad that he starts crying too, rubbing his eyes and shaking all over.

Dad lowers himself to his knees and looks Pete in the eyes. He puts his hands on Pete’s shoulders and squeezes gently. “Pete, you know the Stumphs live right next door. You can go over there and visit Patrick all the time if you want to.”

Pete stops sobbing but sniffles a little, still suspicious of all this. Will he maybe get to keep his Patrick?

“But, dad, he’s mine,” he says defiantly, sticking his chin out.

“Sure,” Uncle Stumph chuckles, “I think Patrick would like that. Are you Pete’s Patrick?” he chuckles at the baby and like a miracle, Patrick stops crying.

Pete laughs, happy that Patrick agrees with him, says, “Told you so,” and lets Patrick go home with his father.

He’ll see him tomorrow, and the day after that, and so on, because Patrick belonged to Pete and that’s just how it was.

When Patrick first started high school, a lot of people wondered why the Pete Wentz -- Arma Angelus, Racetraitor, that Pete Wentz -- always came around just to hang out with Patrick -- Stumph, you know, the pale short dude with the hats -- at lunch time or in the parking lot after school. Nowadays, four years later, it’s somewhat normal, though people are still perplexed by the pair of best friends.

‘Cause Pete is Patrick’s best friend, for better or worse. And when Pete suddenly shows up at lunch just to give Patrick a bear hug, Joe swears that they’re fucking going to get married someday, and Patrick is dead if Joe isn’t made best man.

Patrick just blushes, snorts and tells him that gay marriage isn’t legal in Illinois, which so isn’t what he plans to say but it just slips out anyway.

“Whatever, dude,” Joe laughs. “None of my business anyway.”

Patrick doesn’t really know if Joe is his friend or not. He’s much cooler than Patrick, has friends in bands that play the scene, smokes weed in his car during break and always gets high-fived in the school hallways. Still, Joe seems to like talking to Patrick about music so that’s cool. Patrick already has a friend, anyway.

He spends fifth period biology doodling shitty drawings of stick figures with emo hair and weird tattoos, then he sighs and starts writing down some shitty lyrics that will never be sung by anyone anyway, so why bother. The lesson never seems to end, even though his cell phone vibrates every ten seconds. He blushes every time he reads a text, Pete always sends crude come-ons to him and he can’t understand why. It makes him pretty uncomfortable but he can’t make Pete stop doing it, so he endures it, never ever admitting that actually, yeah, it’s pretty great.

The teacher eventually sees him staring open-mouthed at his phone and takes it away, seemingly without a second thought. It isn’t the first time this happens and it probably won’t be the last.

He gets it back at the end of class and shuffles to his locker, feeling heavy and drained. The only thing he wants to do right now is go home and pass out, maybe put on one of his dad’s old records and pretend this isn’t really his life. He passes some jocks who laugh at his hat -- which, fair enough, has a sunbathing penguin on it -- and tries to trip him -- Patrick just sighs and steps right over their out-stretched feet, he’s no newbie – and then the sun is in his face and he’s trying to remember when he parked his car when he drove to school half-asleep in the morning.

Finally finding his old beat-up car, Patrick yawns widely and slips through the creaking door, plopping into the driver’s seat and pushing the key into the ignition. That is when he realizes that someone else is in the car.

“Oh,” he gasps and almost hits his head on the steering wheel.

Pete is in the passenger seat, grinning with those ridiculous horse teeth and looking like Christmas came early.

“What the fuck?” Patrick says, still breathing deeply. “Get out of my car, you asshole. You almost killed me.” He ignores the fact that his stomach is behaving weirdly; he had slept wrapped around this dude just last night.

Pete’s face falls a little. “I’d never kill you, ‘Trick. I love you too much.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, though Pete’s words make him cringe a little inside. He doesn’t know what to do with all the things Pete always says to him, so he thinks it’s probably for the best just to ignore them.

“What do you want?” he snaps, and the image of him snoozing the afternoon away in his warm bed seems to be slipping further and further away. He knows Pete far too well.

“Nothing,” Pete says and Patrick can almost see the halo glinting over his head. “Just.”

Another eye-roll. This is ridiculous. “You broke into my fucking car. You literally gave me a minor heart attack. You texted me so much my teacher took my phone. I’ll ask again. What do you want?”

Pete looks away from Patrick, tugs a little on the frayed edge of the old seat and stares at his fingers. Patrick waits patiently, knows that everything will come out in its own time.

“I,” Pete says, but stops, and then starts again, “I don’t want to go home.”

He sounds so weak and small that Patrick starts to feel sorry for him, which he really doesn’t want to do when he’s so fucking annoyed at him. But this is Pete, after all. What can he do?

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Patrick says quietly. He knows that Pete always is just a little bit depressed, but he doesn’t usually come knocking on Patrick’s window at night. Unless he’s bored. But still, Patrick can see there’s a difference.

Pete shakes his head quickly, and then stops. “Yeah. I mean, could we maybe like, get a coffee or something?”

Patrick nods, starts the car, which roars awake -- on the third try, fucking piece of crap -- and turns it in the direction of the nearest Starbuck’s.

Ten minutes later, Patrick perches next to Pete on the hood of his car, sipping a huge coffee and trying not to fall asleep sitting. Pete is drinking some weird caramel toffee latte thing and Patrick frowns at the sickly sweet smell that is trickling through the hole in the cup.

“Dude,” he says, bumping Pete’s shoulder with his own, “there’s no fucking coffee in your fucking coffee.”

Pete actually snorts a little and takes a huge gulp of the liquid-sugar-with-small-traces-of-coffee, and looks like he somehow thinks it tastes good. Patrick isn’t surprised. Sugar is Pete’s only major food-group.

“So,” he says, waiting again.

“Yeah,” Pete says, sobering and looking away. “Well.”

Patrick waits and waits, he doesn’t want to push Pete; he’ll never tell Patrick anything if he’s pushed into it. It’s silent for a couple of minutes, and then Pete clears his throat and straightens up a little.

“So,” he says, in a very much falsely bright tone, “my folks are getting divorced.”

Patrick’s stomach drops.

“Again,” Pete continues, chuckling and shaking his head. “As if second chances ever work, anyway, right?”

Patrick pretends that he doesn’t hear Pete’s attempts at casualness, instead he puts his arm around Pete’s bony shoulders, hugging him tight against his side and sharing his body warmth.

They stay there a while after that.

Patrick glares at the stupid boy in front of him. The boy is laughing and jumping around, almost dropping Patrick’s favorite teddy bear on the ground.

“Ugh,” he says, leaning forward and trying to reach for his teddy, wanting it back so badly it hurts him.

“Ha!” the boy shrieks, “You can’t reach it, you can’t reach it!”

Patrick growls impressively, banging his tiny fists against the gravel of the sandbox. He wishes his daddy was there to help him get his teddy back while angry tears leak from his scrunched up eyes.

“Teddy!” he whines, reaching for it again but not far enough. “Teddy, Teddy!”

“Ha, ha,” the stupid boy taunts, still wiggling Patrick’s teddy in front of him. “Your ugly bear is going to die!”

That’s it, fear seizes Patrick’s small body and he wails with grief, wanting nothing more than his teddy and to be left alone. Then, the stupid boy is suddenly gone and Patrick sees that Pete comes shooting from nowhere, tackling the boy to the ground and screaming with fury.

“Leave him alone, you idiot!” he shouts, punching the bigger boy in the stomach until he cries. Then Pete takes the teddy bear, walks over to where Patrick is sitting and staring at him in wonder. “Here,” Pete says, “I saved him for you.”

“Tanks,” Patrick tries, “tanks.”

Pete shows his wide grin and hugs Patrick tightly. “Welcome, ‘Trick. Love you.”

And Patrick has never loved anyone, not even mommy or his teddy bear, as much as he loves Pete right then.

Pete starts tapping on Patrick’s window almost every night, and Patrick doesn’t mind at all. In fact, he sort of maybe looks forward to it all day every single day. Not that he’ll ever admit it.

Pete is late tonight, though, so Patrick sneaks downstairs and takes his dad’s acoustic guitar back to his room. He settles down on his bed and starts playing some chords, just to see how they sound together. The melody he creates makes something inside him flutter, like he wants to do this all the time, maybe forever.

He shakes it off, thinking of forever or the future always freaks him out, and starts softly playing some classic Saves the Day instead. Humming softly to the strumming of the guitar, he closes his eyes and tries not to fall asleep, just in case.

Halfway into the second song, he hears a dull thud against the window. He stiffens and snaps his eyes over to see Pete staring at him with his forehead pressed against the glass, looking awed. Patrick blushes, unnecessarily hides the guitar under his bed and walks over to pull the window up and let Pete in.

Pete is still staring at him, his eyes are burning him somehow, and Patrick kind of wants him to go away and never mention this to anyone ever.

“Patrick,” he just says, and it’s like a whole new word, like Patrick’s never heard his own fucking name before, and something in his stomach crawls. He doesn’t know if he likes it or not.

“Shut up,” he says quickly, wanting nothing more than for his ugly carpet to swallow him whole.

“Patrick,” Pete says again, and climbs through the window. He straightens up, takes a step closer to Patrick and puts a hand against Patrick’s blazing cheek.

Patrick is frozen, he doesn’t know what’s going on or if Pete’s messing with him or if this is just simply the end of the world.

“Patrick,” he says yet again, a strange determination in his voice now. “We’re starting a band. Right. The fuck. Now.”

Well, that wasn’t what he thought Pete was going to say.

“But why does he have to go?” a five-year-old Patrick whines, tugging at the leg of his dad’s pants.

“It’s not the end of the world, Patrick,” his dad smiles at him, patting him on the top of his hat, “he’ll only be gone a few weeks, it’s just summer camp.”

“But, but,” Patrick sniffles, looking up at his dad with huge eyes, “why?”

His dad sighs, but still smiles at him. “You’re just going to have to get by without Pete for a while, honey,” he says, then mumbles, “honestly, attached by the hip,” and walks away, leaving Patrick still sad and confused.

He sits in front of his old and beaten-up teddy bear, thinking furiously of a way to make Pete stay with him. His mom walks in just as he’s carefully wrapping his bear in his old blanket.

“Honey, what are you doing?” she asks, looking confused.

Patrick looks up, gaping. “I’m keeping my Pete.”

His mom frowns and crouches down next to him. “I don’t understand,” she admits, “How?”

“Pete’s getting Teddy,” Patrick said, as if it is the logical solution to this ordeal. “Pete’s staying here and playing with me all the time.”

His mom suddenly chuckles. She slips his oversized -- it used to be his dad’s -- hat off, runs her fingers through his fine hair and puts the hat back on. She knows that he for some reason isn’t comfortable without a hat on. “You’re the most amazing boy in the world,” she says quietly, “remember that.”

Patrick looks at her blankly, he doesn’t really understand what she means, but he nods anyway because that’s what she seems to want.

Giving Pete his teddy bear doesn’t keep Pete at home with him for the summer, but he later finds out that Pete doesn’t sleep a single night without it from then on.

It’s something, Patrick guesses.

part two

another one?!

fidelian — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 20:25:54 GMT

Title: What if it was you (that I needed all along)?
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2,400
Summary: You know how it is when you get really drunk, and the next day everyone is sniggering and saying cryptic stuff and you have no idea what the hell is going on? Yeah, that.
Disclaimer: Oh, please.
Notes: This is actually an old thing I just found on my harddrive and thought 'eh, wth' so it's totally unbetaed. Hasn't even been looked at. You have been warned, people.

“Thank you, Chicago, you know we love you!”

The crowd, mostly teenage girls, roared excitedly, masses of bodies pressing against the iron fence. Patrick grinned; he still wasn’t used to this kind of thing, and he hoped he never would be. There was nothing like feeling completely shocked at how many people sang along to the words he had scribbled in shitty notebooks before handing them over for Patrick to make sense of.

“That was fucking awesome,” he shouted, punching his fist in the air as they walked backstage. Andy grinned and gave him a high-five.

“It never gets boring,” Patrick agreed, and Pete could see the glimmer of adrenalin in his eyes.

They filed into their respective buses, Andy and Pete changed into less sweaty clothes, and then they headed out again. There was an after-party going on over at the Cobra bus, and Pete was in partying mode. The high from the show still hadn’t worn off, and he slung an arm around Patrick’s shoulders as they walked.

“Dude, I’m still buzzing all over,” he said, heaving a happy sigh and burrowing his nose in Patrick’s neck, not caring that his skin was moist with stage sweat.

“I know what you mean,” Patrick laughed. “I sort of wanna go up again right now.”

“We totally should,” Pete grinned. “There has to be at least five kids still in the venue. Let’s go for it.”

Patrick chuckled and bumped his hips against Pete’s. Joe’s head suddenly appeared, leaning on Pete’s arm, his cheek against Patrick’s. “Dudes, I’m so in.”

“Hey, Pete!” It was Gabe, doing some weird 80s dance to the music that was coming through the open bus door. “This is your jam, man!”

Pete reluctantly released Patrick and joined Gabe, doing a silly rub against his body. He knew how funny they looked dancing together and had to perform just a little extra when he saw Patrick laughing at them.

That night, Pete slept well for a change. He woke up to some stubborn rays of light streaming in through the small crack in the bunk window. When he sighed and flopped over to lie on his back, he noticed his head throbbing. Oh God, he was fucking hung over. Damn it, he thought, there’s no way I’m going to sleep again now. So instead he sat up and rubbed his eyes dejectedly. His head was still throbbing dully, and it swam a little as he slid to stand on the floor.

Coffee.

Twenty minutes later, he was drowsing in a sun chair in front of the bus. There was a steaming cup of too-strong coffee in one of his hands, and his enormous sunglasses were perched on his nose, effectively shielding him from getting a migraine in the early morning sun. His iPod was on the gravel next to him, so he grabbed it and put the earplugs in. The next hour was spent listening to a new band he was contemplating signing. There were no thoughts running through his head, and he was thankful for it. He just wanted to bask in the glory of the show the night before. He fucking loved Chicago, and shows like this made him homesick. What could L.A. offer him that his hometown couldn’t, after all?

He vaguely heard footsteps shuffling across the gravel but didn’t have time to react before one of the earplugs was ripped from his ear. He jumped a little and looked up.

Joe placed another sun chair next to Pete’s and sprawled across it, puffing lazily on a joint. “You probably shouldn’t be in the sun. You were pretty fucking wasted last night.”

The lisp in Joe’s words told Pete that this probably wasn’t his first smoke of the day. “I wasn’t that bad, was I? I don’t remember being very drunk. Kinda hung over today, though.”

Joe barked with laughter and sank lower into the chair. “You haven’t seen Patrick yet? Dude, that’s awesome! Tell me when you do so I can watch, okay?”

Pete was sufficiently confused right now. “What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, my friend, you’ll know soon enough.”

Pete was sort of scared.

When he didn’t see Patrick all day, he started to worry. He couldn’t remember doing anything stupid last night – well, no more stupid than usual. He had a vague suspicion that he had made out with Ryland, which was, yeah. But maybe he hadn’t. Ryland had given him a small wink when he walked by earlier, though. Pete would have to ask Gabe about that little issue.

Anyway, he decided to go over to the OCD bus to see what the fuck Joe had been on about. When he opened the door, not knocking first, and jumped aboard, he saw Patrick look up at him, sort of panic and look away again. What the fuck?

“Hey ‘Trick,” Pete said, plopping onto the couch next to Patrick, who slowly inched away. Again, what the fuck? “What’s going on?”

“Um, no, nothing,” Patrick said quickly, not even looking up from his laptop. His cheeks were flushed and his cap shielded his eyes from Pete, who was completely nonplussed. What the hell had he done last night, raped someone’s dog?

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Have fun last night?”

Patrick’s eyes flickered to his for a second, then away again. “Sure, well, no, or yeah.”

Well, if that wasn’t the vaguest fucking answer ever.

“Did I do something, er, bad last night?” Pete asked, a little nervous. He really hoped he hadn’t done the naked ninja or something equally insane. Patrick did tend to get a little freaked out by that stuff and Pete was no fan of a freaked out Patrick, no matter how cute he got when he was flustered.

Patrick just looked at him, almost in a sarcastic way, and now Pete was sort of freaking out. “What the hell did I do?” he said, slapping a horrified hand over his mouth. “Did I show my dick? Cause that’s like, just a normal day. Oh, I did Tampa Bay Tommy all over the place, didn’t I? Did I hump Andy or something? What the fuck did I do?”

Patrick was still staring at him. “You honestly don’t remember?”

Pete shook his head, wondering how the fuck this was his life and why he was such a lousy drunk.

“Then,” Patrick said, looking at the laptop again. “There’s probably no use talking about it. Whatever. It was nothing.”

“No, dude, seriously.” Pete was a little frantic, tugging at the sleeve of Patrick’s hoodie.

“No, Pete.” It sounded final. Pete tried to pout, but to no avail.

He was just going to have to find out some other way, ‘cause there was no fucking way he was letting this go.

“Why the hell is everyone giggling?”

Joe giggled. “Cause it’s funny, idiot.”

Pete was getting pretty fucking tired of this shit. He’d asked Gabe (“dude, I was probably drunker than even you”), Andy (“you know I don’t approve of the idea of clouding the mind with alcohol, I was reading in the bus”), Dirty (“there was a party? There was a fucking party? Why didn’t anyone fucking tell me?”) and Suarez (“touché”), all for nothing. No one was going to tell him why Patrick was carefully avoiding him or why people laughed every time they saw him.

“It isn’t funny, you dick,” Pete growled. “I know funny, hell, I’m the fucking master of funny, and this is not funny. I don’t even know what I did.”

“That’s the funny part.”

“Right,” Pete said. “Fuck you.”

The next time he saw Patrick was at sound check. They were playing two shows at the Chicago venue, so it was pretty much the same thing as the day before. Patrick still didn’t look at Pete except when he really had to, and it was pissing Pete off. Patrick blushed and cleared his throat every time he caught Pete staring at him, but didn’t acknowledge him in any other way.

During the show, when they covered Mr. Brightside, Pete leaned into Patrick and kissed his neck, as he always did at this part of the song. Patrick sort of hissed into the mic and turned a dark red and Pete just didn’t fucking get it.

Until right after the show.

Vicky-T walked by him when he stood sulking by an enormous amp, and stopped as though she hadn’t really meant to. He looked at her and was just about to say hi when she shushed him. She tucked something into his hand, kissed his cheek and went off after Gabe. Pete stared after her, again completely confused. He looked down at the plastic thing in his hand. It was a DVD case.

He watched it on his Mac in the privacy of his bunk, headphones plugged in securely. As the screen began moving, he froze.

“Well, fuck me,” he whispered in surprise.

The film was simple; it was a home video of Pete and Patrick, leaning across their laps to meet in a kiss on the graveled ground.

That was when the flashbacks happened; Pete leaning into Patrick, a drunken Patrick leaning right back, lips against necks, lips against cheeks, lips against lips, a slow and lopsided walk to the buses, the cold metal of the bus against Pete’s naked back, strangely familiar lips running down his chest and stomach.

“Holy fucking shit,” Pete wheezed. His heart was going a hundred miles per hour.

Okay, sure, he’d known that he had a crush on Patrick, for fuck’s sake, who hadn’t? Every single guy or girl Patrick had ever met had walked away with little hearts in their eyes, and Pete couldn’t blame them. But still. This could royally fuck his life up.

Also, Pete wasn’t completely sure he was even gay. So that was a small problem.

He couldn’t help his mind wandering a little. How it would’ve felt if he and Patrick hadn’t stopped at some groping, if they had gone a bit further. He got an image of Patrick on his knees, Pete’s dick in his mouth, looking up at Pete with heavy-lidded eyes.

Oh shit, he was so gay. Above the belt and otherwise.

“So,” Pete said conversationally as he plopped down next to Patrick in the bus lounge. “We made out.”

Patrick jumped, almost dropped his computer on the floor, and gave a little squeak. Pete had to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing.

“Didn’t we?” he said, though he was completely and totally sure they had.

“Um,” Patrick said, his cheeks flushed. He straightened his hat, a nervous habit, and scratched his neck. “I guess we sort of did.”

“It was awesome,” Pete said, grinning at him, “right?”

Patrick grinned too, looking down at the floor. He laughed a little and nodded. “How’d you remember?”

Pete leaned back against the back of the couch. “You know how Vicky T is always flinging that video camera in everyone’s faces?”

“Oh, no,” Patrick gasped, and finally his eyes met Pete’s. “She filmed us making out?”

“Totally,” Pete said, still grinning. “And I’m telling you, we look pretty damn hot.”

“I highly doubt that.” Patrick rolled his eyes.

“We did, dude, and we really shouldn’t deny the world the hotness that is us any longer.”

Patrick laughed again. “Wait, what did you just say?”

Pete felt a surge of bravery. This would be okay. They would work this out, this could last. He knew because Patrick was the only one who had understood him completely, known his every thought and still hadn’t left him. He was still there every day, through every insane plan or depressed rambling Pete had.

So he jumped on Patrick and straddled his thighs, pushing Patrick back against the couch. Then he rubbed his nose against Patrick’s neck.

“I said, this is too fucking good to go without. You know that I love you.”

Patrick suddenly didn’t look amused anymore, he looked angry. His cheeks turned a deeper red and Pete almost recoiled at the look in his eyes.

“This isn’t some dumb joke, Pete,” he growled darkly. “It’s not fucking funny, it could screw up everything.”

“I know it isn’t funny,” Pete said breathlessly. His eyes flickered to Patrick’s lips. “It isn’t funny at all. It’s pretty fucking great, if you ask me.”

Patrick seemed to consider Pete for a minute, biting his lip. Pete almost groaned at the sight, but sobered when he saw how thoughtful Patrick was.

“If this is some weird prank you’re trying to pull,” he said calmly, “I need to know right now, okay?”

Pete nodded. “It isn’t. I love you. It’s pretty simple, if you ask me.”

Patrick still looked a little doubtful. Pete sighed and leaned forward, but hesitated when he felt a stopping hand over his lips.

“What are you doing?” Patrick said, sounding a little panicked.

“I bas twying two kiff you,” Pete said against Patrick’s clammy palm.

“Oh,” he answered. He bit his lip again, then let go of Pete’s face.

Pete just stared at him for a moment, not really knowing what to do, suddenly insecure about all of this. He looked away from Patrick, staring at the torn wallpaper next to his head, trying not to cry, what the fuck. He almost missed Patrick’s soft whisper.

“Okay.”

Pete snapped his eyes to Patrick’s. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Patrick shrugged. “Let’s do this.”

Pete grinned and leaned forward, and this time his lips met Patrick’s. It was even better than the vague memories of last night, which were pretty damn amazing.

“Oh man,” he gasped when they reluctantly broke apart, their foreheads still touching, Patrick’s hat laying forgotten next to them on the couch. “Wow, I fucking love you.”

Patrick let his fingers touch Pete’s cheek and chuckled a little. “Took you long enough.”

Pete shrugged, leaning toward Patrick again. “Well, some people do call me just a little slow.”

Patrick just snorted against Pete’s mouth, which would’ve been icky but, strangely enough, wasn’t.

When they left the bus much, much later that afternoon, they were met with a chorus of catcalls and applause. Patrick blushed and hid his face against Pete’s neck, but Pete just grinned, gave the Cobras and his own band the finger and led Patrick straight back onto the bus.

They could kill a few more hours before heading out into the world.

--

fidelian — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 16:50:00 GMT

Wow, I got such good feedback on my latest slash story, it's making me sappy. :) I have a much longer one I haven't dared to post, but I might do it now. Ugh, IDEK, I hate posting.

Just listened to "Doug Does Decaydance" for the first time, and it tears me apart to say it, but no. It doesn't appeal to me at all, it makes me annoyed at some of my favorite songs and just no.

New direction in life. Again, you ask? Well, yes. Maybe this time it'll stick.

And shit, I have this amazing Patrick moodtheme but I can't get it to show on this layout, and I'm pretty much HTML-handicapped. Help?

fic: to know him is to love him

fidelian — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 14:05:48 GMT

Title: to know him is to love him
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 5,400
Summary: If Patrick is assumed to be cool, and Pete isn’t, and Patrick doesn’t notice Pete for, what, fourteen years, does that mean he’s a douche or just behaving like cool people are supposed to behave? (highscool!AU where Pete is a nerd and Patrick is generally considered cool.)
Disclaimer: Oh, please.
Notes: Oh my god, I wrote porn. Please don't judge me just because it sucks. Anyway, this is for cielunawho wanted geek!Pete/allstar!Patrick and got this weirdness instead. Hope you don't hate it, bb!

”Look at him,” Ryan says, and Patrick looks up from his battered portable CD player.

“Who?”

“Wentz,” Ryan says, sniggering and nodding to someone behind Patrick.

Patrick automatically turns around, glances at the people crowding the other lunch tables and sees a dark-haired boy with thick-rimmed black glasses. He would’ve been kind of hot if it hadn’t been for his water-combed hair and weird ensemble of clothes.

“Is he new or something?” Patrick asks, frowning. “I don’t really recognize him.”

Ryan laughs suddenly and Patrick follows his eyes back to Wentz, who has just managed to drop his tray and spill milk all over the senior quarterback. Patrick winces as the burly senior gets to his feet and mutters something menacingly to Wentz, who’s looking down at the floor and biting his bottom lip. Patrick realizes with a twinge of pity that he’s trying not to cry.

He turns around again to a Ryan who is gaping happily, his fingers covering his mouth, looking completely bemused. “It’s like a tragedy,” he says dramatically. “I love it. It inspires me.”

Patrick glares at Ryan, who doesn’t notice, and then turns back to his CD player. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Wentz sitting down at a table, staring at his tray and looking miserable.

Patrick stomach hurts for several hours after that.

When Patrick finally stumbles into English class -- five minutes late since Ryan had been doing his tortured artist routine for longer than usual -- he mumbles a, “Sorry,” but the teacher just waves him off, so he heads for his seat.

He grabs his backpack and pulls out a beaten notebook, starting to doodle and desperately scribble sentences that could possibly be made into good lyrics somehow. After ten minutes of this, though, he gives up and sighs deeply. He’ll never be a writer, that’s just how it is, and what is music without lyrics?

Crossing his arms in defiance, he glances around the classroom and starts when he sees a head of black wet hair, neatly combed and flattened.

Wentz is in his English class. Well, that certainly proves that he’s a new kid, because Patrick has never seen him here before. He briefly wonders if Wentz has gotten to know anyone yet.

After class, he rushes to meet up with Ryan for an afternoon of hanging out at Patrick’s house and doing absolutely nothing, and accidentally slams right into the side of someone, sending himself and the other guy sprawling.

“Oh, god,” Patrick groans, picking himself up off the floor and looking around. “I’m so --“

He stops when he sees that he has run into Wentz, of all people. His glasses are crooked, and blood seems to be trickling from his nose.

“I’m sorry,” Wentz is whimpering, staring down at the floor, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please.”

He thinks I’m going to hit him.

“Shit,” Patrick hisses. Well, he can’t just leave the guy bleeding, can he? “Sorry, dude, c’mon.”

And he takes Wentz’s elbow, helping him to his feet.

“Bathroom,” he says after a look at Wentz’s shocked face.

He gathers his and Wentz’s stuff and leads him to the closest bathroom, trying to ignore the guffaws and whispers of the people surrounding them. When they finally get inside and Patrick’s closed the door, he heaves a great sigh against it and looks at Wentz.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, and he is, but he still wishes he could be somewhere else.

Wentz just stares at the floor, his jaw set.

“Dude,” Patrick says, “I’m sorry, I know it must be hard to be the new kid in school, but I’m not --“

And Wentz snorts wetly. “Right. The new kid.”

Patrick frowns. “Er, yeah. Here,” he says, handing Wentz some paper towels to clean the blood off his face. “Can’t be easy. If you ever need any --“

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” Wentz interrupts him coldly. “Can I leave now?”

But Patrick doesn’t want him to go when he’s still angry. What the fuck, he said he was sorry, right? “I said I was sorry,” he mumbles, “no need to be such a dick about it.”

Wentz, who had been halfway out the door, whips around and throws the bloody paper towel on the floor. “I’m the dick?” he hisses. He comes back in and closes the door behind him, looking thoroughly pissed off and making Patrick take an automatic step back. “We’ve had nearly every single class together since kindergarten, you asshole. Just because you have all your popular friends and just because you’re some sort of musical genius or whatever, it doesn’t mean I need you. It doesn’t mean you’re any better than me. So just, fuck off or something.”

Patrick gapes as Wentz leaves, feeling more horrible than he ever has before in his life. Memories of a black-haired kid with too many teeth in various ages come flooding into his mind, and he groans deeply.

Pete Wentz. Dammit.

“Stop laughing,” Patrick groans weakly.

He told Ryan about the bathroom incident, and Ryan hasn’t stopped laughing since. His twig of a body is shaking with mirth, his eyes tearing.

“I don’t know if I ever will,” Ryan gasps between busts of laughter. “I can’t believe you didn’t remember him! I thought you were kidding yesterday.”

Patrick winces. “I’ve kind of, I don’t know, been too busy with, I don’t know, music and all to really notice…” He trails off because the excuse is so lame.

“I don’t doubt it,” Ryan says, finally calming down and taking deep breaths. “Besides, Wentz isn’t really someone worth remembering, right?”

“Why not?” Patrick frowns.

“Well,” Ryan says, frowning too. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? He’s a giant nerd, Patrick.”

“So is Brendon,” Patrick mutters.

“What’s that?” Ryan hisses menacingly, and Patrick just shrugs.

Ryan has had a massive crush on Brendon for a while now, not that he’s ever told Patrick. He just accidentally came across a painting of a dark-haired boy with crazy eyes and a goofy smile one time when Ryan had left him alone in his room. He’d never mentioned the incident to Ryan for fear of being murdered in his sleep.

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “Why does it matter if he’s a nerd, anyway?”

“Oh, please,” Ryan snorts and gets up from his kitchen chair. He had lured Patrick here under the promise of cupcakes, so he goes to the refrigerator to get them out. “You’re one of the coolest guys in school. Actually, you might be the coolest.” A pause. “After yours truly, of course.”

“Of course,” Patrick agrees automatically, even though he’s completely confused. “And, uh, I’m not that cool.”

Ryan laughs again, almost sending the tray of cupcakes flying, and plops onto the chair again. “Patrick Stumph. I do love you, dear Patrick.”

Well… that’s just.

“What, you think I’m kidding?”

“Er,” Patrick stammers, “you love --“

Ryan sighs pointedly, so Patrick shuts up. “About you being cool. You are. You’re an awesome musician, you don’t have the greatest grades ever, you wouldn’t be found dead without a hat, and you’re just a generally laid-back dude. You’re cool, Patrick.”

“You’re delusional, Ryan,” Patrick mumbles, but his brain has gotten going.

If Patrick is assumed to be cool, and Pete isn’t, and Patrick doesn’t notice Pete for, what, fourteen years, does that mean he’s a douche or just behaving like cool people are supposed to behave? Does it mean that he’s the ultimate high school cliché or, please no, that he’s seen as some sort of tortured artist like Ryan keeps calling himself in a grave voice?

His brain suddenly stops functioning for an eternal second.

Wait.

Does this mean he’s supposed to look down at Pete Wentz?

Oh, fuck. Patrick feels sort of sick with himself. He’s not fucking going to accept this.

“No,” he says loudly, and Ryan yelps and accidentally presses a cupcake against his nose.

“What?” he asks thickly, trying to get the frosting out of his nostrils.

“I’m not accepting this. I’m not going to be an ass just because all those idiots at that school seem to think that I’m something I’m not.”

Ryan stares at him. “Huh?”

“Whatever,” Patrick says, but he has made a definite decision. He’s going to befriend Pete Wentz, no matter what it takes.

The next day, Patrick is determined. Sure, the last time he saw Pete Wentz the guy had looked like he hadn’t minded Patrick dead, but this is high school after all. It isn’t like Patrick can blame him or anything.

He doesn’t see Pete until lunchtime, and is actually a little surprised to see that he does sit with a small group of people. Brendon is one of them, Patrick notices, and he is very shocked that he hasn’t noticed it earlier.

Bracing himself, he grabs his tray tighter and approaches the table.

“Er,” he says, getting everyone’s attention, naturally. “Hey.”

Pete glares at him. “Yes? What can we lower beings do for you today, your highness?”

Patrick winces. “I just,” and then he notices that someone is standing right behind him.

“Patrick,” Ryan says warningly, “what are you doing?”

Patrick looks around and sees his best friend’s confused face. “Er, nothing.” He turns back to Pete. “Sorry, I have to, yeah. Bye, Pete. Bye, Brendon,” he says without thinking and Ryan gasps.

“Er, bye,” Brendon says, chuckling a little.

When he heads to his normal table, he’s inwardly cursing himself and his stupid, stupid decisions.

Patrick owns a car. It’s a small, shitty car, but it’s a car and he loves it very much. He’d gotten it on his sixteenth birthday, his parents had looked sheepish that they couldn’t give him a better or newer one, but Patrick had never cared about stuff like that.

However, he’s very surprised to see a skinny person in much too tight jeans leaning against the driver’s door and cleaning his glasses when school is over the same day.

“Pete?” he mumbles, and walks faster.

Pete spots him and straightens up, putting his glasses back on. “What the hell was that?”

He sounds angry, and Patrick is, again, fucking confused. “What was what?”

“Why did you come over at lunch?” Pete snaps. “Do you get some weird pleasure out of making fun of people?”

“No!” Patrick stresses, coming a little closer. “No, no, I just… I sort of wanted to, er.”

“What?”

“I wanted to,” Patrick takes a deep breath, “I wanted to try to be your friend, but I can see now that it’s a fucking waste of time, so.”

Well, Pete certainly looks shocked at that. Then he seems to pull himself together and glares coolly at Patrick. “And why would you ever try to be friends with me?”

Patrick shrugs. “I’m not cool.”

Pete snorts. “That’s for sure.”

They look at each other, and Patrick can’t help but chuckle a little. He tries to stop, but after a while he notices Pete’s lip twitching and then he’s laughing too.

So, yeah, this is weird, Patrick thinks as he tries to stop laughing.

“Hey,” he says, trying to get Pete to go somewhere before he changes his mind and gets pissed off again, “wanna go get some coffee or something?”

Pete is still chuckling a little, lifts his glasses to wipe at his eyes, and nods. Patrick grins. Yes.

They spend the rest of the afternoon at Starbucks, talking about music and movies and stuff they’ve done. Patrick finds out that Pete has more humor than anyone else he’s ever met, that he bites his lip when he thinks that maybe he’s said too much, that he shows ten enormous teeth when he grins. He basically finds out that Pete is awesome.

“So,” Patrick says, sipping the last of his third latte, “what’s your thing?”

“Thing?” Pete frowns.

“Yeah, I mean. What do you do in your free time? What are you into?”

“Oh,” Pete almost blushes a little, and Patrick’s stomach does something very weird. “Well, I write sometimes.”

“You do?” Patrick says encouragingly. “That’s awesome. Wish I could do that. I’m lousy, though, I figure I have some weird filter that stops my thoughts from coming out on paper. Or something.”

Pete chuckles. “That sucks. Writing is really freeing sometimes. Makes me forget stuff I don’t want to remember.”

Patrick nods, knowing the feeling so well.

“Hey,” Pete says, “so, you know music, right?”

Patrick nods, “Yeah. I’m no pro or anything, but I could drum before I could run, so, yeah.”

“That’s cool,” Pete nods too. “Wish I could play an instrument.”

“Wish I could write,” Patrick mutters. Oh, wait.

He lets out a sharp breath and Pete looks at him. “What?”

“I may just have the greatest idea ever,” Patrick says, amazed that the solution to his trouble is so simple. “You write words, I write music.”

Pete just stares at him through his thick glasses.

“You write words, I write music,” Patrick repeats, grinning.

Pete suddenly starts to grin, too.

When they had exchanged numbers and parted ways, Patrick felt elated. This could really be something. This could be exactly what he’s been wanting his whole life.

That night, he dreams about big teeth and music and something he doesn’t have a name for.

Patrick is late for English class yet again, and rushes into the classroom just as the teacher is trying to get a movie started. Sliding noiselessly into his seat, he turns to the left to look for Pete, who is sitting diagonally from him. Pete turns around in his seat, along with some others, and gives Patrick a big grin, which he returns.

After class, they walk to their lockers together, talking about music and movies and how much school sucks. People keep guffawing and pointing at them for some reason, and Patrick can see Pete growing redder and redder in the face.

“What the fuck is everyone staring at?” Patrick hisses as Pete fumbles to open his locker.

“What do you think?” Pete mutters, apparently mostly to himself. “A nerd hanging out with the cool music guy, what a scandal. So fucking stupid.”

“Hey,” Patrick says, reacting to that last part. He grabs Pete’s wrist. “You’re not stupid. And you’re not a nerd. Nerd is just a word assholes use when they want to feel better about themselves.”

Pete stares at him, and then nods, smiling a little despite himself. It’s lunchtime, so they head to the cafeteria, where a kind of awkward situation comes up. They each have a tray, but their usual tables are across the hall from each other.

“Er,” Pete says, shuffling his feet. “Brendon is over there.”

Patrick looks and, indeed, sees Brendon Urie waving frantically with a huge grin on his face, looking surprised. “Right,” Patrick says, not knowing what Pete wants him to do or say.

“Do you,” Pete says, quietly, like he knows Patrick will laugh at him and say no, “Do you maybe want to join --“

“Yeah,” Patrick interrupts him, nodding.

Pete looks a little surprised but smiles and follows him to the table.

“Hi!” Brendon says before Patrick’s even set his tray on the table. “I’m Brendon.”

“Okay,” he says even though he just yesterday called Brendon by his name, and automatically adds, “Patrick.”

Brendon snorts, as if like, hello, everyone knows who Patrick Stumph is. It makes Patrick a little uncomfortable and he wishes Ryan was here.

“Patrick,” a voice says behind him, and Ryan really needs to stop sneaking up on him from behind. He turns around in his chair. “Excuse me, but what are you doing over here?”

“Oh,” Patrick says, “Ryan. You were late, so.”

Pete looks down at his food, his face a mask of disappointment. Patrick realizes that Pete thinks he’s going to go over to his usual table just because Ryan showed up.

“Sit down, dude,” Patrick says to Ryan, who gapes, but does so in a seemingly automatic move.

“Hi!” Brendon says, grinning brightly at Ryan. “I’m Brendon.”

Ryan just looks at him without any expression for a moment, and then turns to his food. The table is dead silent for a while, until Ryan leaves before Patrick’s even finished eating. Patrick watches his tense back as he disappears out the door.

“Did I say something?” Brendon asks Patrick worriedly.

“No,” Patrick says, “he’s just. Well, Ryan.”

-------

“So,” Patrick says when he and Pete have emptied their trays and headed back out into the packed hallway. “Do you maybe wanna come over today? We could try some music stuff.”

Pete grins widely at him, and nods. “Yeah. I want that.”

Patrick grins back.

-------

Three hours later, Patrick has cleaned his room, done last night’s dishes, made sure there were Cokes in the fridge and fed the evil cat his mom insisted on keeping in the house. When the doorbell rings shrilly, Patrick’s heart jumps a little.

“Hey,” he says, when he’s opened the door to find Pete, with too-tight jeans, water combed hair and smudged glasses. Patrick looks down to see a plate wrapped with tinfoil in Pete’s hands.

“Hey,” Pete says, grinning. He follows Patrick’s eyes and clears his throat. “Yeah. Cookies. My mom’s kind of lame.”

Patrick chuckles and takes the plate. “Thanks, dude, and tell your mom thanks. And PS, my mom makes me mow old people’s lawns in the summer. Moms are lame, that’s a fact.”

Pete nods, “I love your house.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says again, “let me just throw these in the fridge and we’ll go downstairs.”

When he’s in the kitchen, he can hear Pete’s confused voice, “Downstairs?”

“Basement,” Patrick calls, “instruments and stuff.”

“Right,” Pete says, and when Patrick comes back to the hall he’s astounded to see that Pete’s blushing a little through his tan skin. It sort of makes Patrick a little hot, too, and he clears his throat.

“Let’s get to it, then, I guess.”

When they’ve gone down to the basement and Patrick flips the lights on, he hears Pete gasp. “Wow.”

The walls are covered with posters of artists from Bowie to Louie Armstrong, and one wall is covered with shelves that are overflowing with CDs. Oh, and the instruments. Patrick owns three guitars (one acoustic, two electric; one his own and then his father’s old one), a massive drum set, a bass, a trumpet, a saxophone, an accordion, and something Patrick doesn’t even have a name for, but makes wicked sounds during acoustic songs.

“Holy shit,” Pete is chuckling nervously. “You like music, don’t you?”

Patrick shrugs, which makes Pete chuckle a bit more. Patrick thinks he’s looking kind of relaxed right now, more than usually anyway, and it’s making him a little giddy. Pete is such a strung kid, always tense and prepared for a quick escape. Patrick understands that Pete likes the basement, is impressed by it and feels a little at home there.

“Okay,” Pete says, “very insecure of my own ability right now.”

Patrick laughs. “No need to be, I’m sure you’re awesome.”

“I am sort of awesome,” Pete nods absent-mindedly. Yeah, definitely less tense.

They plop down on the tattered couch Patrick had pushed down the basement stairs when his mom said they were throwing it away. Pete pulls three very worn notebooks out of his backpack and blushes. “Er, these are my notes.”

Patrick’s heart skips a beat. He’s nervous, he realizes. “Okay. Can I see them?”

Pete bites his lip, and Patrick’s eyes automatically follow the motion intently, then hands the first notebook over. Patrick tries to smile at him in reassurance, before opening the book and reading.

It’s incredible, as far as Patrick can tell. The sentences are a little long and disjointed sometimes, but oh god, these are lyrics. Patrick can make amazing things with these lyrics, and he’s suddenly so elated he has to stop reading.

“This is perfect,” he grins excitedly at Pete, who has been nervously watching him read. “Perfect, Pete, thank you.”

Pete smiles hesitantly. “You think so?”

Patrick nods, too excited for words. Pete lets out a relieved breath and it hits Patrick’s face and he looks at Pete’s abused lips and then he is kissing Pete.

The funny thing is that Patrick isn’t gay, per say, but he’s never not been gay either. He’s been the type of guy who falls for the person, not the gender, but that’s almost never happened either. His first and only girlfriend was Anna, a very cute and boyish girl that Patrick spent two years with. She had cheated on him, and Patrick hadn’t been interested in anyone since then. He wasn’t angry or overly heart-broken, he just wasn’t interested.

Until this Pete guy showed up. There is something very special about Pete, the sense that if he hadn’t been too scared to be shot down, he could be someone completely amazing.

Pete opens his mouth against Patrick’s when Patrick probed him to, and the kiss turns deeper while Patrick runs his hands over Pete’s sides and back. Pete seems too shocked to move anything but his mouth, but Patrick doesn’t mind, because he’s really fucking good with his mouth, apparently.

They break apart for air, their foreheads pressing together, and stare at each other.

“What -“ Patrick says, but then Pete’s eyes widen, and he grabs his backpack and stumbles up the stairs. Ten seconds later, Patrick hears the front door opening and closing. He’s still breathing heavily, his pants are uncomfortably tight, his heart is beating too fast and his head is swimming.

Shit, this wasn’t good.

-------

So apparently Pete Wentz is the love of Patrick Stumph’s life. Or something like that. Because Patrick sure can’t get Pete out of his head or even sleep that night. He reads Pete notebooks and learns almost every word in them by heart.

-------

The day is a day like any other, with the pretty big exception of Patrick looking for Pete every time he sets foot in a new room or hallway. It isn’t until second period he finally spots him. It’s in the hallway where Pete’s locker is, and Patrick can’t explain exactly what it is that he’s doing there but. Pete hasn’t seen him yet, opening his locker and rummaging for his books. Two jocks knocks into him slightly as they pass, and Pete hits his head against the locker door, his glasses pushed askew. Patrick can’t help smiling at the unnoticed death glare Pete sends the jocks. He looks like a furious kitten.

Patrick walks forward without even thinking about it.

“Pete,” he calls out when he’s close enough, preparing himself for Pete’s flight.

His head snaps up and he sees him, he slams his locker shut and starts going the opposite direction.

“Hey,” Patrick says, jogging the last few feet and catching Pete by the elbow. “Hey, Pete, come on.”

Pete comes to a halt, but doesn’t shrug Patrick’s hand off. Instead, he turns around to face him.

“Yes?” he asks, completely devoid of any emotion.

“Pete,” Patrick says, ignoring Pete’s apparent disinterest; he wouldn’t have ran if he didn’t care, “we need to talk about this. Okay?”

They look at each other for a tense moment, and then Pete nods.

“Good,” Patrick exhales. “Er, how about the parking lot after school?”

Pete just nods again, his eyes tight.

“Good,” Patrick says again. After a second, he realizes he’s still got Pete’s arm in a firm hold. “Oh, sorry,” he says and lets Pete go.

Pete doesn’t say anything before walking straight past Patrick and to class.

-------

“Here’s the thing,” Pete says as he soon as he’s in Patrick’s hearing range, “I’m not gay.”

Patrick, who is leaning against the driver’s door of his shitty car, is so surprised by this share of information that he almost lets out a nervous laugh. “Dude,” he says instead, “me neither. I just.”

“Well?” Pete says, gripping the straps of his backpack and looking jumpy. “Why’d you fucking do it then?”

Patrick is starting to feel a little bit defensive right about now. “Fuck if I know,” he snaps, “You just, with your lyrics and everything and oh god, you’re so lame, but anyway.”

Pete glares at him. “I am not lame. And I don’t know why you kissed me, and it’s made me so fucking confused because you have the greatest lips ever and I’m totally lame.”

This time, Patrick has to laugh a little hysterically. Pete blinks.

“Do you,” he gasps between fits of giggles, “Pete, do you maybe want to come over?”

Pete stares at him for a moment, from under lips half-closed with suspicion, and then he softens and nods. Patrick opens the car door, grinning brilliantly.

-------

“Seriously,” Pete breathes between kisses, “I’m not gay.”

“Yeah,” Patrick mumbles against Pete’s lips, “me neither, dude.”

They’re on the basement couch, Pete straddling Patrick’s hips and digging his fingers into Patrick’s chest.

“I want,” Pete says, unsure, “I want.”

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick says, and he pulls Pete’s shirt right off. It almost catches on their connected mouths, so they pull apart for less than a second. Patrick drags his fingernails gently over Pete’s chest, and Pete groans into his mouth.

Next thing, Patrick is unzipping Pete’s girlpants and reaching into them, to find that there is no underwear to hinder his movement.

“Why -“ he gasps, as his fingers close around Pete’s hard dick and pulls it free.

“Oh,” Pete says, though he sounds thoroughly gone, “uncomfortable. Like being free.”

Patrick chuckles and starts moving his hand up and down experimentally. He’s never done this before, and he’s afraid that Pete’s not going to like it.

“Nnngh, Patrick, oh my god, how the fuck -“

Pete is rambling, but it’s mostly good stuff, so Patrick keeps going, dipping his tongue into Pete’s slack mouth now and again.

Patrick goes a little faster, Pete gets a little louder, lets out three sharp breaths and then something warm and sticky is spurting across Patrick’s stomach, where Pete has pulled up his shirt.

Before Patrick can revel in the icky, Pete is sinking onto him, breathing in his ear and patting his sideburns unconsciously. Patrick lifts his leg and places it between his in one swift motion, and pushes up against it. He does it two, three times and then he’s gone too, and he’ll have to wash his jeans when his mother isn’t home.

“Patrick,” Pete says, in a deeper voice than usual, still breathless, “Patrick, I want you to fuck me.”

Well, that’s just terrifying.

“Huh?” Patrick squeaks.

Pete sits up on his ankles, still straddling Patrick, pressing their foreheads together. “Want you to fuck me,” he repeats, his eyes dark, “don’t you want to?”

Patrick nods furiously before he’s even processed the question, and oh my god.

“Good,” Pete says, sounding a little relieved, “come on, then.”

“Er,” Patrick says unsurely. “I don’t have any. You know, lube or condoms or stuff.”

Pete stares at him. Then he pouts. “Why not?”

Well, Patrick just has to chuckle at that. “It’s not like I bring home boys to fuck every day, Pete!”

“So,” Pete says, and now he’s smiling again, “this would be your first time?”

“With a guy, yes,” Patrick replies immediately, and when he looks at Pete, shirtless Pete with ruffled hair, red cheeks and lopsided glasses, he just thinks, fuck Anna, this is too incredible to be true.

Pete buries his face in Patrick’s neck. “Tomorrow?” His voice is muffled.

Patrick’s glad Pete can’t see the panic in his eyes when he replies, “Sure. Tomorrow.”

------

The next day, Patrick is a nervous wreck. Ryan doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes are on Brendon more often than not these days, but Patrick doesn’t mind. Actually, he thanks god for Ryan’s ignorance, because that is one conversation he would rather live without.

He and Ryan sit with Pete and Brendon at lunch, and the conversation is mostly Brendon saying weird things to Ryan and Ryan looking at Brendon with awe in his usually-cynic eyes. Pete and Patrick are pointedly not looking at each other, but after ten or so minutes, Patrick can feel the weight of Pete’s Converse resting on top of his.

It’s really strange to realize that you’re suddenly in the high school cafeteria, playing footsie with a guy. Actually, it’s pretty awesome.

When he leaves the cafeteria, Patrick realizes that he’s just consented to going on a double date with Pete, Brendon and Ryan that same weekend, and vaguely thinks that however horrifying that situation might be, he’ll still be with Pete. So that’s alright.

------

They meet at Patrick’s car after school, and go to the nearest grocery store, feeling pretty damn awkward. When they’ve hastily grabbed a bottle of lube and a pack of condoms, they realize what the girl behind the cash register must think.

(“Well, she is right.”

“Shut up, Pete, this is horrible.”

“Don’t be a fucking pussy or I won’t let you put your dick anywhere near my ass.”

“Touché, Mr. Wentz.”)

------

Patrick’s mom is, thankfully, going to be late tonight. Pete seems sort of glad that he doesn’t have to have his first real gay experience on a ratty couch in a basement. Patrick agrees.

His bed has Transformers sheets. Pete says that it must be some sort of sign that they’re meant to be together, and Patrick relaxes. Pete isn’t Anna, Pete is amazing and hot and will never fuck around on him.

When the initial awkwardness is done with, they simply pull each other’s clothes off and slip into bed. Patrick strokes Pete slowly, wants to make him comfortable.

“I’m really sorry, but this is probably going to hurt,” Patrick says and Pete’s glazed eyes widen, “A lot.”

Pete frowns and slaps his shoulder.

“It’ll probably get better, though,” Patrick says, letting his lips graze Pete’s earlobe and loving the way it makes Pete shiver, “A lot better.”

He makes eye contact with Pete, brushes away a few stray bangs from Pete’s forehead, and kisses him. He deepens the kiss quickly, wanting to give Pete something else to think about while Patrick works him open.

Patrick, without breaking the kiss, grabs the bottle and squeezes some lube into his hand. He covers the fingers on one hand, and lets it crawl down between Pete’s thighs. Pete squirms a little, “’s cold,” he chuckles against Patrick’s lips, and then Patrick has one finger inside of him. Pete inhales sharply, nearly biting Patrick’s bottom lip off, and stiffens.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” Patrick says, “I hurt you, shit, I’ll just stop and -“

“Fuck no,” Pete says, breathing heavily, grasping Patrick’s upper arm. “C’mon, do it.”

So Patrick does.

When he finally sinks into Pete it’s like heaven and hell; heaven because oh god, he’s inside Pete Wentz, and hell because oh shit, Pete Wentz is not entertained and Patrick must not move too quickly here.

In the end, Patrick has Pete moaning and squirming and egging him on and when he finally comes, it’s deeply into Pete (or the condom inside Pete) and when Pete comes, it’s all over them both and Patrick grins lazily as he slumps on top of Pete.

“Holy shit,” Pete says, breathing heavily. “I can’t fucking believe we just did that.”

Patrick nods, still too exhausted to say anything. He also thinks that if he were to say anything, it would probably be that he loves Pete, and that would be weird, to say the least. Instead, he rolls off Pete and hugs him from behind, resting their cheeks together.

“If only the jocks at school knew what Wentz the Nerd just did,” Pete chuckles disdainfully.

Patrick frowns. “You’re not a nerd.”

“I am,” Pete yawns. “But that’s okay. Apparently you’re into nerds.”

“Nuh-uh,” Patrick says, kissing Pete’s neck. “I’m just into the one nerd, thank you very much.”

He can feel more than see Pete’s smile, and he smiles too. Pete turns around and kisses him lazily. Then he settles against him and starts to drift off.

Patrick watches him with great interest. He thinks of how he’s going to have to wash the sheets before his mom comes home, but he doesn’t move.

Right now, Pete’s fluttering eyelids are far more interesting.

fic: dare (but not as in courage)

fidelian — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 12:33:33 GMT

Title: dare (but not as in courage)
Rating: R (?)
Wordcount: 3,560
Summary: “Joe,” Patrick says again, a heavy weight sort of being lifted from his stomach as he talks, “when has Pete ever not done something anyone has dared him to do?”
Notes: This is the result of a pretty cracky conversation with josiemus_prime

Living with Pete Wentz isn’t exactly easy. Actually, it’s pretty damn hard and fuck the rest of his life, Patrick’s not even sure how he’s going to last the first week. Since they are major rock stars, Pete’s house is very big and light and could’ve been amazing. There are huge windows on almost every wall, a great kitchen, nice wallpapers and cool paintings. It’s just that this is Pete’s house, which means that there is a Pete living in it, which in turn means that there is Pete’s shit strewn about and covering literally every surface.

“Er,” Patrick says, dropping his duffel bag next to his foot and turning his head around to look at the warzone Pete incessantly calls ‘their future love nest.’ “Pete, I don’t.”

He sees Pete, standing with his hands on his hips, looking like he thinks he deserves a biscuit for a job well done.

“Weren’t you supposed to,” Patrick says, trying to stay calm, “I don’t know, clean the place up a little? I’ve got all my stuff outside, and you know.”

Pete’s face falls a little. “What? I did clean. Look!” He points at the counter next to him. “For the last two months, there’s been a very weird stain here. It was, I don’t know, jam or ketchup or blood or some shit, and now it’s gone. And that’s just the start!”

He grabs Patrick’s hand and drags him around the house, pointing out stuff that he’s apparently taken care of. Patrick gets more and more worked up for every room they pass by. How was he supposed to live with someone who didn’t know what the fuck cleaning meant?

Turns out, this was just the beginning of what would later be known as ‘Patrick’s Great Freak-Out.’

“How long have these been lying here?” Patrick asks Pete, trying to pinch his nose shut with two fingers.

Pete, who’s reading on the kitchen island and swinging his legs back and forth like the kid he sometimes -- okay, more often than not -- acts like, looks up from his thick book and frowns slightly. “What the hell do I know, couple of weeks? I’ve had pizza delivered for a while.”

“Er,” Patrick says, peering into a pot and quickly pulling away. He thinks that maybe something had been moving inside it and doesn’t have the courage to look. “Why didn’t you just take care of the dishes so they wouldn’t have to turn into this?”

“This, meaning?” Pete says, actually looking confused.

“Oh my god,” Patrick says. He is going need a pair of really thick rubber gloves, some sort of plugging device for his nose and a whole lot of constructive anger to deal with this mess.

Pete is kissing Patrick’s neck, straddling his waist and leaning over him with his hands on either side of Patrick’s head. The bed, at least, has newly washed linen -- Patrick can feel them against his naked back, he hadn’t had time to check before Pete had essentially tackled him -- and Patrick is eternally grateful for it.

As Pete reaches his mouth, Patrick lets his hands travel from Pete’s waist to his ass, down his legs and --

“OH SHIT,” he shrieks when his hand meets something wet and squicky, and he instinctively tries to sit up straight, making his forehead crash into Pete’s nose.

“Fucking ow,” Pete roars, rolling off Patrick and pressing his hands against his bleeding nose. Patrick flips the bedside lamp on and sees clearly that the wet thing he’d felt was an ancient plate of what looked like meatloaf.

“Holy shit,” he says under his breath before turning to Pete, who is breathing snippily, still clutching at his nose. “Dude, I’m so sorry, I put my hand in that green fucking meatloaf and just like, freaked out.”

“Great,” Pete moans, “sure, no big, I’ll just.”

And he scrambles clumsily out of bed, feeling his way into the adjoined bathroom. Patrick hears the shower starting and sighs heavily. There was going to have to be some changes around here.

Patrick doesn’t have anything against giving the house a thorough scrub by himself -- Pete would probably just have been in the way -- so he starts making piles, throwing away unnecessary shit and storing away the things he knows Pete would want to keep. Patrick cleans the house from floor to ceiling and then unpacks his own stuff, feeling warm at the sight of his things among Pete’s.

No, this is not the issue at all. The issue is the day-to-day living. Patrick is not going to do all the dishes, the washing, and the vacuuming. Pete is damn well going to help if he wants to or not.

“Pete,” he says one night over dinner -- Pete said it was on him so, naturally, pizza -- “we need to set up some ground rules.”

Pete looks up at him and smiles through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza, “You sound just like my mom.”

Patrick ignores that comment. “We’re going to split the housework in half.”

“Aw, can’t we just get a housekeeper?”

“Pete,” Patrick says sternly, feeling ridiculous and just like Pete’s mom, “just because we can afford help doesn’t mean we need it. You’re just being lazy.”

Pete pouts, “Says the guy who once got fucking diagnosed with being lazy.”

“So,” Patrick continues bravely, trying very hard to ignore that comment too, “how about we switch it around? I do the dishes one night, you do them the night after that and so on. I’ll do the first wash, you do it the next time.”

There’s a pondering silence where Pete swallows a whole slice of pizza, looking like he is planning an escape route. Patrick can actually see the wheels turning in Pete’s head and his eyes darting from the door behind Patrick’s back to the kitchen window to the left. When their eyes meet, Patrick shakes his head slowly. Pete sighs.

“Okay,” he groans, “I’m in. But the last slice is mine.”

Patrick fights the urge to pump his fist in the air, smiles serenely and happily gives the last slice of pizza to Pete.

This brand new system works for a whole three days. Pete is actually doing everything he’s supposed to do, looking ridiculously proud of himself and wearing -- seriously -- an apron that reads “Kiss me, I’m awesome.”

Patrick yawns as he wobbles into the kitchen one morning, flailing slightly when he tries to find the coffeemaker without having to open his eyes. His hands meet not the plastic he was looking for, but a stack of dirty plates that crash to the floor, making him jump.

He stares at the mess of broken porcelain and leftovers before groaning deeply. Why the hell did he ever agree to live with Pete fucking Wentz?

“Dude,” Joe says, the phone line crackling slightly as he inhales. “I don’t know. Maybe you should do that whole sex withdrawal thing, works like a charm for me and the wife. Well, mostly the wife, to be completely honest.”

Patrick sighs. Why did he think Joe would be any help again? “No doubt. Doesn’t sound very fun for me, though, does it?”

Silence, then, “Suppose not. Huh. Sort of wish the wife would look at it that way.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, spinning the cord of the ancient phone between his thumb and finger. He really just wants Pete to get this by himself, to just get why Patrick needs things at least a little bit tidy. Rotten dishes and moldy old clothes strewn over every available space wasn’t exactly what Patrick had had in mind when he finally agreed to move in with Pete. It just, sort of. It disappoints him a little that Pete can’t do that much for him.

And now he sounds like a girl.

“Sorry, Joe, but I don’t know how to live like this,” he says, sighing again, wishing this didn’t bother him as much as it does.

“Dude, you don’t think you’re being just a little bit anal?” Joe rasps, and then he giggles uncontrollably. “Anal!” Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose and curses the day he butted in on Joe’s conversation in Border’s. Scratch that, though; he wouldn’t have Pete without that seriously nerdy obsessive move.

“I don’t have the strength to deal with this domestic shit,” Patrick says, just a little panicky. “I’m not even in my thirties, dude.”

“Shit, I dare you to just let the place be and see how long it takes for Pete to get uncomfortable. He could probably go months, crazy fucker.”

And Patrick knows that Joe is probably stoned -- even though The Wife is currently eight months pregnant, with little Trohman twins nonetheless -- but that’s it.

“Joe,” Patrick says, stopping Joe’s manic laughter, “Joe, that’s perfect! Seriously.”

“Huh?”

“Joe,” Patrick says again, a heavy weight sort of being lifted from his stomach as he talks, “when has Pete ever not done something anyone has dared him to do?”

Silence. “Er. Never, probably?”

“Exactly,” Patrick hisses, “he even drank his own piss on a dare, for god’s sake.”

“Ew,” Joe says, even though Patrick knows he’s already heard about it a thousand times before. It still deserves a hearty ew, and why is Patrick in love with this guy again? “What?”

“Ugh, never mind,” Patrick says, but his mind is flying, soaring, hopefully trying to figure out all the different ways this could actually work without Pete killing Patrick in his sleep. They are few but seem effective enough. “Gotta go, but thanks!” And Patrick hangs up.

He has business to attend to.

“No, are you fucking kidding me?” Pete yells into his iPhone, the food in front of him forgotten. Patrick sighs as Pete bangs his fist on the table in frustration. “No kid is ever going to be able to buy a T-shirt for $100, okay? I’m not allowing this. I’m calling Brad on you. Yes, I am! Well, believe it ‘cause it’s fucking true!”

Patrick shakes his head slightly at Pete’s business strategies. His mind is elsewhere, though, and his eyes are tracing the half-empty plate in front of Pete and the vague outline of undone dishes that are cluttering the kitchen counter, despite it being Pete’s turn to wash them. He turns back to Pete when he hears the beep as Pete hangs up on whatever business associate had just called him. They look at each other over the table for a second, and then Pete winds his fingers through Patrick’s and turns back to his food.

And for a moment, Patrick doesn’t want to play these fucking games with Pete because he loves Pete in spite, and because, of his messiness. He should just grow up and let Pete be Pete. Patrick squeezes Pete’s fingers tighter, sighing a little. Yeah. No worries. He’d live with the mess.

He freezes as he sees a bit of Pete’s tomato sauce slide off his fork and onto the white carpet. His throat closes when Pete looks at the stain, shrugs and rubs it further into the carpet with a sock-clad foot, then looks up at Patrick and grins widely.

Oh, hell no. He isn’t taking this shit for another minute.

“So,” he says, plastering a smile onto his face, “I’ve been living here for two weeks now. Panicking yet?”

Pete brays a laugh and shakes his head. “Not even close, dude. I love it.”

And sure, Patrick’s stomach turns very warm when he hears that, but still. “Me too,” he says in a low voice, ducking his head. He takes a deep breath. “Hey dude, so guess what?”

“What?”

“I did the dishes in less than ten minutes the other day,” Patrick grins and Pete gapes at him.

“No fucking way, I haven’t made it in less than half an hour.” And it’s so Pete to have actually clocked himself doing the dishes.

Patrick smirks at him. “There’s no way you’ll do it faster than me. I’m like, the master of dishes. It’s not an official title or anything, but still.”

“An honor,” Pete nods seriously, “I totally get it.”

“I dare you,” Patrick says, and it somehow sounds like a curse, “to do the dishes in less than ten minutes.”

Pete stares at him for a moment, and fear seizes Patrick. Pete’s figured it out, he’s going to hate Patrick forever, he’ll have to live on the street, mourning his lost love and stealing breadcrumbs from doves. Then Pete grins devilishly, “It’s so on.”

The first night Pete does the dishes in twenty minutes. The night after that, he pushes Patrick away when he is collecting the plates, running over to the sink and pulling his rubber gloves on as he goes. Sixteen minutes. A week later, he’s done in eight, and gives Patrick a brilliant grin.

“And that’s how it’s done,” he smirks, crawling into Patrick’s lap and flinging dishwater all over Patrick’s shirt.

Patrick doesn’t mention that, usually, on a dare, you don’t get nine tries. No, because Patrick is currently enjoying life as it should be. And yes, he is very much ignoring that small twinge of guilt that starts to prick at him whenever he sees Pete’s back, his arms scrubbing away at plates, cutlery and glasses.

Apparently guilt can fade into dull background noise, because Patrick keeps on daring Pete to do more and more stuff. Not intentionally, really, but when he’s on Garageband, on the verge of making a song truly awesome, it just doesn’t seem a good idea to go do dishes or folding laundry.

He’s noticed that Pete is getting less and less excited with the whole thing, and -- well, it’s mostly just funny to watch. Patrick says “Dude, I’ve folded that in twelve seconds,” Pete squirms a little, glancing at the large table cloth, groans and gets to work with it. Eleven seconds later, he glares at Patrick in reluctant triumph, and Patrick bites his lip to keep himself from laughing.

It gets funnier and funnier with time, and Patrick is living the life. Actually, it kind of feels like living at his mom’s house again. With more sex, though, thank god.

The one thing Patrick doesn’t dare Pete to do is cook. That just seems like a suicide mission, and Patrick isn’t too fond of finding dog hairs in his food, thank you very much. Besides, he has to draw the line somewhere.

Then, suddenly, one day Pete looks up from the dishes at Patrick, who is sitting on the floor next to him, his eyes closed and humming a little to himself. He senses Pete’s eyes on him and opens his own to confirm. Yes, Pete is staring at him. Or maybe glaring.

Something very fundamental is happening inside Pete Wentz’s head, that’s for sure. He stares and stares, his hands still groping cutlery in the soapy water in the sink, his eyes trained on Patrick’s, a small wrinkle of concentration between his eyebrows. Patrick is suddenly terrified. This is it; this is where his first really fucking great relationship and the best friendship in the world end. It will probably go down in history, labeled ‘Patrick Stump is really fucking stupid and lazy and inconsiderate’ and Patrick’s stomach churns.

But Pete just lets out a soft, “Hm,” turns away from Patrick and whistles a little as he finishes the dishes.

Patrick isn’t completely sure that his heart ever will return to beating at its normal rhythm.

”I’m onto you,” Pete says in a low hiss one night, leaning into Patrick’s side. “And trust me when I say that justice will be served.”

Patrick probably has a minor aneurysm, but pulls himself together quickly and tries to look casually angelic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says in an even voice, only twitching a little.

Pete stares silently at him for a moment and then turns to go feed Hemmingway, just like Patrick had dared him to do ten minutes earlier.

Patrick stares at him faux-innocently, and as soon as Pete has rounded the corner and out of sight, Patrick rushes up the stairs and into their bedroom, rummaging through the pants he wore yesterday and finally finding his phone inside an old sock.

He presses 4 on the speed-dial and hisses, “Joe, fuck, answer!”

A click and then, “The Awesome Joseph at your service, sir.”

“Well, shit,” Patrick says, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, and smudging them in the process. “Help me,” he whines, “Pete’s figured your shitty plan out.”

“My shitty plan?” Joe gasped. “I didn’t fucking say anything, it was all you, dude. You didn’t want to play the wife card, remember?”

“Fine, sorry, just, help?”

“Fill me in,” Joe says after a moment’s consideration, and Patrick does. “Huh,” Joe says lightly, “you’re fucked.”

Patrick groans. “What should I do?”

“Well,” Joe says with the infinite wisdom that only smoking up four hours a day can give a person, “you should probably apologize.”

Patrick deflates. “Apologize? That’s your great plan? Just, admit defeat or whatever?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Joe chuckles. “It’s over, Patrick.”

“No,” Patrick whines, “but. He was just starting to do what he was supposed to, I got so much Garageband time in, and fuck. It can’t be over.”

Silence. “I believe that the power has gone to your head, Patrick.”

Well, that’s just wrong. “What?”

“You have joined the dark side. I understand you, though, apparently the benefits of being evil are magnificent.”

“What, fuck, Joe, put the fucking joint down,” Patrick groans, “I’m not evil.”

Joe seems to ponder this for a moment. “No, perhaps not. You are lazy, though.”

Patrick doesn’t argue that, because, wow, so true. “And?”

“And,” Joe says, as if he’s speaking to a child, “you don’t think that maybe you’ve been using Pete just a little, because you don’t like fucking housework either?”

Oh god. He just got admonished -- and rightly so -- by Joe Trohman. “Yeah, I’ve gotta go. Thanks again.”

“What?” Joe says. “Hello? Oh, right, yes. Have fun.”

“Er, whatever,” Patrick mumbles and hangs up.

He has some serious groveling to do.

“Why is my life a bad sit-com?” Patrick sighs to Hemmy.

Hemmy whines a little. Patrick sighs again, realizing he’s talking to a fucking dog. “Where’s daddy?” he asks, despite the previous realization. Hemmy whines again.

“Right here,” a voice says behind Patrick and he turns around to see Pete leaning against the door frame, looking less than amused.

“Oh, hey,” Patrick says nervously, suddenly startled into having The Conversation. “Wow, you look great,” he adds automatically because hey, couldn’t hurt.

Pete frowns and Patrick now notices that Pete is wearing an outfit that could probably turn people blind. “Thanks,” Pete says uncertainly.

“So,” Patrick says, trying to get past that small blunder. He scratches Hemmy’s ear one last time and stands up to look at Pete properly. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“Oh, really?” Pete says sarcastically and Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says nonetheless, “I kind of… dared you to do stuff. A lot.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Pete says drily.

“Er,” Patrick says, “yeah, so. I’m really sorry, dude. I just. I’m pretty lazy, as you know, and Joe said that maybe the power thing went a little to my head. A little. So, yeah, I’m really sorry, and I love you, and all that. So please don’t throw me out, okay?”

Pete stares at him, face completely blank.

“Please?” Patrick whispers.

“You love me, huh?” Pete says, still looking like a statue. It’s freaking Patrick right the fuck out, but he nods furiously even though he’s blushing. Pete suddenly fidgets a little nervously. Patrick is confused. “Good,” Pete says, “hold on to that feeling, please, ‘cause you’ll probably not exactly love me in a moment.”

Patrick is even more confused. “Huh, what?”

But Pete just takes Patrick’s hand and leads him up the stairs. Hmm, Patrick thinks, this didn’t exactly feel sexy. But who knows how Pete’s mind works, and, well, how could Patrick say no?

But when they reach their bedroom, Pete just takes a deep breath and opens the door to one of the closets.

“No,” Patrick gasps, “Pete, you didn’t.”

Pete just nods shamefully. “I did, of course I did.”

The closet was filled with dirty clothes and plates and glasses and cutlery and oh god Patrick is living with a freak.

“I sort of got pissed off,” Pete says quietly, “that you were daring me all the time. So when you weren’t looking and it was the times it should’ve been your turn to do something, I just stuck it in here.”

Patrick is probably gaping like a fucking fish, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“So,” Pete continues, “anyway, here you go, dude. Knock yourself out.”

Patrick sighs deeply, but Pete kisses him. As their kisses grow more and more intense, he thinks how he shouldn’t, he should be starting with the shit in the closet. But when Pete’s hand innocently brushes against Patrick’s fly, he comes to the conclusion that it can probably wait an hour or two. It will be there waiting for him, right now he has better things to do.