Reading Between The Lines

Title : Reading Between The Lines
Summary : When did Pete stop caring? When did Patrick stop listening?
Author : robotic_monkey
Rating : Rish... I only drop one f-bomb, so I'm not sure...
Author's Notes : So I submitted this a while ago, and I guess it got rejected. I actually forgot the title I originally posted it with, so I had to think of a new one on the spot. Based on the song "Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson, but not your typical songfic. For combxthexcrowd. I hope you like it.


Patrick had seen it all. Through the best and the worst of everything, he'd been there. Be it side by side in the van, lost on some badly lit road in the middle of Ohio, or later, side by side on a brightly lit stage in some city in the middle of Ohio... Through all of this, through more then he could even remember (after a while, all of their adventures just melded into one) he'd watched Pete and had come to a conclusion.

Pete Wentz was a one man disaster. Apocalypse walking.

It wasn't so much that he tried to fuck things up, more that nothing seemed to go right for him. Except one. The band was going from strength to strength, and hell, even when Patrick was reading over the lyrics for the new songs, even then, he'd ignored the meaning behind the words screaming from the page, and concentrated on making them fit the melodies in his head, on giving Pete the one good thing he had. The one thing Patrick thought Pete needed. Pete, meanwhile spent his days talking up the album with every magazine journalist, radio show host and TV presenter they met. He ran his mouth and later his pen, ran his fingers over the keyboard, because that was what Pete did.

Build it up for them to tear it down.

It was only when Pete emailed him the lyrics that would later become "Golden" that Patrick finally realised something was wrong. Why it had taken him so long to realise, he didn't know. Day in and day out he had read Pete's words, pausing only to scribble out a few here and there, or maybe mess with the syntax. He wasn't really reading, he was merely looking. The words didn't mean anything, they were just pretty sounds for him to give voice to.

Frantic now at what he had missed, he scrabbled amongst papers he had earlier scrawled on. Squinting through the pencil scribbles, horrified at his ignorance. Patrick was finally, really seeing Pete.

Earlier that week, Pete had sent him:

"The only thing I haven't done yet is die"

"Long live the car crash hearts, cry on the couch til the poets come to life, fix me in forty-five"

and then later:

"I'm boring, but over-compensate with headlines and flash photography"

and finally today, arriving in his inbox:

"The lives we live are only golden-plated"

When did this happen? When did Pete finally stop caring about his life? When did Pete stop loving his life, what they did, the band, the fans, everything? Patrick sat there, surrounded by snowdrifts of lyrics, buried in Pete's thoughts, without a single thought as to what to do about it.

Jarring him, making him jump a little, flurries of paper swirling off his lap, Patrick responded to the phone in his pocket. His caller ID read: Peter Panda. Trying to organise the papers surrounding him whilst simultaneously answering the phone, he rested it on his shoulder and scrabbled around helplessly while he spoke.

"Hey man, listen, I'm gonna drop by the studio and see how you're doing with those lyrics..."

Why had Patrick not realised how dull and listless Pete sounded before? He cut him off mid-sentence.

"Pete, I need to talk to you."


Cut to thirty minutes later and Patrick and Pete are cross legged on the floor, a neat pile of papers between them, a messy pile of crumpled Kleenex just off to the side. Cheeks stained with tears and ruined eyeliner. Patrick had asked questions, and Pete's answers had come, awkwardly at first:

"It's not that I don't love what we're doing, it's more that I feel like I'm drowning in it... There are days when I just can't breathe because of this pressure."

Later, a tearful admission:

"I used feel like my whole life was leading up to this, and now that I've got it, I don't want it. It's fucking tragic. I'm constantly waiting for something to happen, to change how I feel... I'll be waiting my whole life."

And Patrick thinks I could change it, I could change your life, I could change everything... But he doesn't change a thing, he merely hands Pete another tissue as he continues:

"I sometimes just feel like my heart could burst sometimes. I'm so full up and fed up of feeling down. I don't know if I can keep on pretending everything is fine when it isn't."

And Patrick thinks You don't have to pretend to me. You can pour your heart out, and I'll pick you up... But he doesn't say it out loud, instead he leans forward, body language saying everything his mouth can't, his forehead pressed to Pete's, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his knee. Eyes closed, breathing ragged. Pete sniffs loudly, and Patrick's hand moves from Pete's knee to the tissue box and back again.

And then Pete is kneeling, suddenly, pressed flush against Patrick. His mouth is searching, first on Patrick's neck, then his jaw line, his cheek. Patrick feels Pete's eyelashes brush lightly across his face and then away, and they're kissing now, full on, passionate, and Patrick knows exactly what Pete meant by his heart bursting. He's pretty sure his world just collapsed in on itself, all this feeling from one quick movement and sloppy lips on lips. Soft and pleading, so much in one kiss, more than words could say.

They pull apart after an eternity, forever. And looking at Pete's red and black rimmed eyes, smudged and tired and sore, Patrick swears he's never seen anything more beautiful in his life.


This is only my third fic ever... Tear me apart, rip this to shreds. I want to improve. Be as harsh as you like, I'm a big girl. I can take it (you).

EDIT: thank you to everyone who has read this and commented. It means a lot. Thank you.