Leave You With the Love We Made. [1/1]
title ; Leave You With The Love We Made.
author ;
nextup_charlie
pairing ; pete/patrick & joe/patrick.
summary ; Patrick didn't think that the structure of Pete's "baby blues" was so important...and that he himself wasn't at all...
deadications ;sidnihoudini for making me feel like I'll never be complete. xxdance because it isn't fever-dreamy, Missy, but you know I love you.
beta'd by ; first time; myself. Obviously that didn't work, lol. Second time ; brother, Sasha. Third time; both. (:
i.
Patrick belonged no where near the Drainage Drip--it was the drug addict's paradise, and he felt like saving the destruction of his brain cells for another day. Maybe it wasn't too late to call Kevin; Chicago was only twenty minutes away. Why did he feel like being daring now all of the sudden?
"New prescription for anxiety. Want one?"
A plastic baggie of white disks were lowered into Patrick's vision, and he turned around faster than a scratched record on a turn-table.
The words "no" and "I'm fine" glued to his back teeth, as sticky as the all-natural peanut butter he had choked on earlier that day, so Patrick just shook his head so furiously that his hat flew off.
"Ah, test tomorrow?" Pete Wentz asked sympathetically, pushing three pills out of the top opening and pocketing the rest. They fit his mouth like they were designed that way, and Patrick could just see the diagram in his head already. Object one, Pete Wentz head. Allow three to four inches, diameter-wise, for extra size due to ego-inflation in the event of a compliment...
"No." Pete placed the trucker hat on top of Patrick's head and tried again.
"Project?"
"No."
"Date?" "Wedding?" "Meeting?" "Job interview?"
"No."
"Well then, what the hell kid?!" Pete popped another pill, clearly agitated, and Patrick smiled for the first time all evening.
"I don't want to forget your face."
ii.
It was a routine that Patrick slowly got used to, in a very twisted and gruesome way.
Monday was soccer practice, so Pete avoided taking an excess amount of "baby blues." Three before school, so that his hands would wander a little more often as he and Patrick sat horizontally in the backseat of his car; two before and or during lunch, but only so he could deal with the noise and crowdedness of the cafeteria. One while he changed in the locker room, and four that he thought Patrick didn't see at the diner on 8th while they ate left-over pancakes from breakfast for half-off.
The numbers varied through out the days, but there were three constants to this new addition of Patrick's life; rocks on his window at five-thirty to wake him up so Pete could drive him to school, afternoon naps on Patrick's couch before his parents came home from work, and that little, same, white dust-coated bag.
iii.
When Patrick finally let Pete meet his parents and siblings, he said the dreaded phrase "my friend Pete." It was a classic crime that caused Pete to seethe the rest of the evening, occasionally shooting the odd glance at Patrick, who had not noticed his mistake.
Throughout dinner, all of Pete's answers to Mrs. Stumph's questions were the bare minimum of polite, and more times than Patrick had fingers he had to hit the other's knee when he was being overly-rude.
"What crawled up your ass?!" Patrick hissed when there was a break before dessert. Had this been a lighter situation, he would have beaten Pete to the punch line of that one, and it showed just how mad Pete was that he too chose to ignore the innuendo.
"'My friend Pete,'" he repeated, sounding simultaneously sad and venomous. "Like I mean nothing to you at all." He crossed his tattooed arms over his chest, sniffing in that stupid manly way that said no, I'm not crying, I have allergies.
Patrick melted like liquid gold. He reached his arms around Pete's waist and hugged him tightly, the kind of tight where you want to pour super-glue into the cracks of your hips and arms and right in between your collarbone so that you never have to move ever again, and if you needed to eat, you could feed off the second-hand sweet breath of each other. The kind of tight that signified this was love.
"Come on," Patrick said, taking three of Pete's fingers and hooking their pinkies together. They abandoned the front stoop and walked back inside, where Patrick's mother was handing out saucers of red velvet cake. "Excuse me," and he squeezed Pete's fingers again, "I made a mistake. This is Pete Wentz. My boyfriend."
And Pete cried.
iv.
Soon after Pete and Patrick had sex, Patrick began to notice that Pete took a record amount of a dosage afterwards, within five minutes after their breathing regulated and Pete handed back Patrick's hat.
"Why do you do that?" Patrick whispered, rolling onto his stomach and gripping the corners of his pillow, tracing the sweat on Pete's spine with his eyes.
Pete turned his head ever so slightly to the right. "Just a little helps." His voice cracked so he swallowed and added, "It gets me straight again."
So Patrick took on the role of the scientist. He let Pete fuck him again, that weekend, hugging Pete's star wars sheets to his chest and trying to keep his mind straight, as nails marked down his back and across his hips, the other one preparing him. Pretending that he was having a particularly hard time finding a condom (Patrick thanked God that this kind of acting didn't require Pete seeing the dishonesty in his eyes, or Patrick would be fucked--in the bad way), he pushed the bag under the bed, far away enough that Pete couldn't see them, but close enough to pull out fast if things went wrong.
He resurfaced with the package, shuddering at the sudden emptiness as Pete removed his fingers. Th blood rushed to Patrick's head, beating in his ears as loud as a techno song, in fear and slight anticipation of what was about to happen.
The standard and quickly-becoming mandatory five minutes passed, and Pete's long fingers curled in the air that hovered above the floorboards, the air that probably tasted like the melted chocolate on Pete's dresser and the dust of years of having never cleaned. And the color drained from his face.
Patrick bit his lip, holding his breath and letting it go so very slowly, so very afraid of Pete...he maneuvered himself to the opposite side of the bed, putting as much distance between their bodies as possible.
"Fuck...fuck..." Pete had now sat up, and he progressed to crouching, and then, almost touching and taunting the point of degrading, he was on his hands and knees, his random cursing spiraling into hysterical.
"Patrick, Patrick, have you seen my pills?!" Pete threw his torso onto the bed, shaking the other hard, tears streaming down his face. Patrick, holding onto the mattress as to not fall off, looked fearfully into Pete's eyes. He was in need, a rabid need that he was dependant on, and Patrick had taken that away from him.
"I did it for you, you...you're always..." Patrick started crying too, just as soon as Pete started shaking him furiously, holding his upper arm with a grip vice-like. "I wish you could see the stranger next to me, Pete! I can't tell-ell where you end and the d-drugs begin!"
"Where, Patrick?! I need them!" His experiment had gone all wrong...Patrick didn't think that the structure of Pete's "baby blues" was so important...and that he himself wasn't at all...
v.
His name was Joe. He was Jewish, he was funny and nice. Patrick had met him at Border's Book Store...his name was Joe, and Pete couldn't care less.
For the first month, Pete had been in such great shock that he didn't even leave his house. He picked up the phone every morning at five-thirty and asked if Patrick needed a ride; he progressed to asking what kind of car this Joe had, and after three weeks, he only called to hear that heaving breathing of Patrick's that mean he was trying not to yawn, to have Patrick ask "hello?" even though he knew it was Pete.
The second month brought Pete leaving notes (mostly written on Starbucks napkins) for Patrick in the windshield wipers of Joe Trohman's car. Sometimes, if it was raining, then he should wrap them in plastic, or slip them into the car (right in the spot where Patrick would see before he sat down) after he unlocked the door. He always made sure to let rain water in on Joe's side, or dump a small pile of snow on the cushion.
The third month. February. Patrick was so afraid of receiving flowers at school from Pete that he skipped school with Joe--they had sex in the back of Joe's car (Patrick almost cried, remembering a parade of sessions in Pete's car like this), and Pete waited outside of Patrick's high school until six pm, waiting for him. The next morning, Joe crushed pieces of rose petals into the ground as he sped to school. It was official; they were smitten.
March seventeenth brought Pete leaving a clever note about how Patrick was a saint of breaking hearts, and Patrick added it to a Converse shoe box with "Pete" written on the top in sharpie, a box that he would always have, filled with napkins and ripped bill envelopes.
April twenty-seventh found Pete at Starbucks, planning out something extravagant and very Pete-like for Patrick's birthday.
"Please, leave him alone." Without looking up from his coffee cup, Pete knew it was Joe; the same Joe that made him vehemently hate Borders (he also vowed never to shop there, and instead settled for working there), the Joe that would have Pete celebrating Easter so wildly that you'd think the Bears (finally) won.
Uninterested, Pete looked away like Joe was just a raindrop that had landed on his wrist. Joe pulled out a black-metal, intricately-designed veranda chair and sat down across from Pete, folding his hands together. "I love him, okay? But he loves you. He...he'll never...Look, you'll appreciate this, Mr. Poet." He fully had Pete's attention now. "I love this boy, and I try. I try my hardest to hold his hand and hug him and kiss him and...love him. But I know that no matter how hard I try, everytime he looks me straight in the eye, he'll always wish he was looking in someone else's. But I want to try."
Joe stood up and left. The notes stopped.
a/n;
MODS ;
Sorry, mods, about the disaster that was my spelling and un-betaness, haha. Word wasn't working, it kept closing out so we had to rely on typing it in the update box. But finally it opened and got checked; should all be good now. (:
READERS ;
I've tried a new style here, it's kinda of dificult for me, but I enjoyed the outcome of it. Tell me what you think, I'd love to hear comments! Concrit is welcome and enjoyed, and flames will be used to light the fire that Pete and Patrick are curently sexing by! (:
author ;
nextup_charliepairing ; pete/patrick & joe/patrick.
summary ; Patrick didn't think that the structure of Pete's "baby blues" was so important...and that he himself wasn't at all...
deadications ;
sidnihoudini for making me feel like I'll never be complete. xxdance because it isn't fever-dreamy, Missy, but you know I love you.beta'd by ; first time; myself. Obviously that didn't work, lol. Second time ; brother, Sasha. Third time; both. (:
i.
Patrick belonged no where near the Drainage Drip--it was the drug addict's paradise, and he felt like saving the destruction of his brain cells for another day. Maybe it wasn't too late to call Kevin; Chicago was only twenty minutes away. Why did he feel like being daring now all of the sudden?
"New prescription for anxiety. Want one?"
A plastic baggie of white disks were lowered into Patrick's vision, and he turned around faster than a scratched record on a turn-table.
The words "no" and "I'm fine" glued to his back teeth, as sticky as the all-natural peanut butter he had choked on earlier that day, so Patrick just shook his head so furiously that his hat flew off.
"Ah, test tomorrow?" Pete Wentz asked sympathetically, pushing three pills out of the top opening and pocketing the rest. They fit his mouth like they were designed that way, and Patrick could just see the diagram in his head already. Object one, Pete Wentz head. Allow three to four inches, diameter-wise, for extra size due to ego-inflation in the event of a compliment...
"No." Pete placed the trucker hat on top of Patrick's head and tried again.
"Project?"
"No."
"Date?" "Wedding?" "Meeting?" "Job interview?"
"No."
"Well then, what the hell kid?!" Pete popped another pill, clearly agitated, and Patrick smiled for the first time all evening.
"I don't want to forget your face."
ii.
It was a routine that Patrick slowly got used to, in a very twisted and gruesome way.
Monday was soccer practice, so Pete avoided taking an excess amount of "baby blues." Three before school, so that his hands would wander a little more often as he and Patrick sat horizontally in the backseat of his car; two before and or during lunch, but only so he could deal with the noise and crowdedness of the cafeteria. One while he changed in the locker room, and four that he thought Patrick didn't see at the diner on 8th while they ate left-over pancakes from breakfast for half-off.
The numbers varied through out the days, but there were three constants to this new addition of Patrick's life; rocks on his window at five-thirty to wake him up so Pete could drive him to school, afternoon naps on Patrick's couch before his parents came home from work, and that little, same, white dust-coated bag.
iii.
When Patrick finally let Pete meet his parents and siblings, he said the dreaded phrase "my friend Pete." It was a classic crime that caused Pete to seethe the rest of the evening, occasionally shooting the odd glance at Patrick, who had not noticed his mistake.
Throughout dinner, all of Pete's answers to Mrs. Stumph's questions were the bare minimum of polite, and more times than Patrick had fingers he had to hit the other's knee when he was being overly-rude.
"What crawled up your ass?!" Patrick hissed when there was a break before dessert. Had this been a lighter situation, he would have beaten Pete to the punch line of that one, and it showed just how mad Pete was that he too chose to ignore the innuendo.
"'My friend Pete,'" he repeated, sounding simultaneously sad and venomous. "Like I mean nothing to you at all." He crossed his tattooed arms over his chest, sniffing in that stupid manly way that said no, I'm not crying, I have allergies.
Patrick melted like liquid gold. He reached his arms around Pete's waist and hugged him tightly, the kind of tight where you want to pour super-glue into the cracks of your hips and arms and right in between your collarbone so that you never have to move ever again, and if you needed to eat, you could feed off the second-hand sweet breath of each other. The kind of tight that signified this was love.
"Come on," Patrick said, taking three of Pete's fingers and hooking their pinkies together. They abandoned the front stoop and walked back inside, where Patrick's mother was handing out saucers of red velvet cake. "Excuse me," and he squeezed Pete's fingers again, "I made a mistake. This is Pete Wentz. My boyfriend."
And Pete cried.
iv.
Soon after Pete and Patrick had sex, Patrick began to notice that Pete took a record amount of a dosage afterwards, within five minutes after their breathing regulated and Pete handed back Patrick's hat.
"Why do you do that?" Patrick whispered, rolling onto his stomach and gripping the corners of his pillow, tracing the sweat on Pete's spine with his eyes.
Pete turned his head ever so slightly to the right. "Just a little helps." His voice cracked so he swallowed and added, "It gets me straight again."
So Patrick took on the role of the scientist. He let Pete fuck him again, that weekend, hugging Pete's star wars sheets to his chest and trying to keep his mind straight, as nails marked down his back and across his hips, the other one preparing him. Pretending that he was having a particularly hard time finding a condom (Patrick thanked God that this kind of acting didn't require Pete seeing the dishonesty in his eyes, or Patrick would be fucked--in the bad way), he pushed the bag under the bed, far away enough that Pete couldn't see them, but close enough to pull out fast if things went wrong.
He resurfaced with the package, shuddering at the sudden emptiness as Pete removed his fingers. Th blood rushed to Patrick's head, beating in his ears as loud as a techno song, in fear and slight anticipation of what was about to happen.
The standard and quickly-becoming mandatory five minutes passed, and Pete's long fingers curled in the air that hovered above the floorboards, the air that probably tasted like the melted chocolate on Pete's dresser and the dust of years of having never cleaned. And the color drained from his face.
Patrick bit his lip, holding his breath and letting it go so very slowly, so very afraid of Pete...he maneuvered himself to the opposite side of the bed, putting as much distance between their bodies as possible.
"Fuck...fuck..." Pete had now sat up, and he progressed to crouching, and then, almost touching and taunting the point of degrading, he was on his hands and knees, his random cursing spiraling into hysterical.
"Patrick, Patrick, have you seen my pills?!" Pete threw his torso onto the bed, shaking the other hard, tears streaming down his face. Patrick, holding onto the mattress as to not fall off, looked fearfully into Pete's eyes. He was in need, a rabid need that he was dependant on, and Patrick had taken that away from him.
"I did it for you, you...you're always..." Patrick started crying too, just as soon as Pete started shaking him furiously, holding his upper arm with a grip vice-like. "I wish you could see the stranger next to me, Pete! I can't tell-ell where you end and the d-drugs begin!"
"Where, Patrick?! I need them!" His experiment had gone all wrong...Patrick didn't think that the structure of Pete's "baby blues" was so important...and that he himself wasn't at all...
v.
His name was Joe. He was Jewish, he was funny and nice. Patrick had met him at Border's Book Store...his name was Joe, and Pete couldn't care less.
For the first month, Pete had been in such great shock that he didn't even leave his house. He picked up the phone every morning at five-thirty and asked if Patrick needed a ride; he progressed to asking what kind of car this Joe had, and after three weeks, he only called to hear that heaving breathing of Patrick's that mean he was trying not to yawn, to have Patrick ask "hello?" even though he knew it was Pete.
The second month brought Pete leaving notes (mostly written on Starbucks napkins) for Patrick in the windshield wipers of Joe Trohman's car. Sometimes, if it was raining, then he should wrap them in plastic, or slip them into the car (right in the spot where Patrick would see before he sat down) after he unlocked the door. He always made sure to let rain water in on Joe's side, or dump a small pile of snow on the cushion.
The third month. February. Patrick was so afraid of receiving flowers at school from Pete that he skipped school with Joe--they had sex in the back of Joe's car (Patrick almost cried, remembering a parade of sessions in Pete's car like this), and Pete waited outside of Patrick's high school until six pm, waiting for him. The next morning, Joe crushed pieces of rose petals into the ground as he sped to school. It was official; they were smitten.
March seventeenth brought Pete leaving a clever note about how Patrick was a saint of breaking hearts, and Patrick added it to a Converse shoe box with "Pete" written on the top in sharpie, a box that he would always have, filled with napkins and ripped bill envelopes.
April twenty-seventh found Pete at Starbucks, planning out something extravagant and very Pete-like for Patrick's birthday.
"Please, leave him alone." Without looking up from his coffee cup, Pete knew it was Joe; the same Joe that made him vehemently hate Borders (he also vowed never to shop there, and instead settled for working there), the Joe that would have Pete celebrating Easter so wildly that you'd think the Bears (finally) won.
Uninterested, Pete looked away like Joe was just a raindrop that had landed on his wrist. Joe pulled out a black-metal, intricately-designed veranda chair and sat down across from Pete, folding his hands together. "I love him, okay? But he loves you. He...he'll never...Look, you'll appreciate this, Mr. Poet." He fully had Pete's attention now. "I love this boy, and I try. I try my hardest to hold his hand and hug him and kiss him and...love him. But I know that no matter how hard I try, everytime he looks me straight in the eye, he'll always wish he was looking in someone else's. But I want to try."
Joe stood up and left. The notes stopped.
a/n;
MODS ;
Sorry, mods, about the disaster that was my spelling and un-betaness, haha. Word wasn't working, it kept closing out so we had to rely on typing it in the update box. But finally it opened and got checked; should all be good now. (:
READERS ;
I've tried a new style here, it's kinda of dificult for me, but I enjoyed the outcome of it. Tell me what you think, I'd love to hear comments! Concrit is welcome and enjoyed, and flames will be used to light the fire that Pete and Patrick are curently sexing by! (: