Fic: Paycheck // Red Sox // Start

Sometimes Patrick hates his life so much that it's crazy-funny.

Call it emo punk, call it whatever you want -- but after seventeen years of sleepy Illinois suburbs, folk music from the living damned (aka his father) and the whole 'jocks rule, nerds drool' lifestyle, there's really no way to explain it. That's not to say Patrick hasn't tried to figure out an excuse for the waste of space known as his life, he has -- he just sucks at it and gave up long ago.

That and the whole 'we're running out of business, work here, and maybe your friends will shop here' speech from his father kinda drives him into working in the family music store early summer, and even though Patrick has no idea what he's doing there, he hasn't exactly quit yet. He's bored (because, really, suburbs, nothing ever happens here), he's bored, and he's bored. Any normal dude would be screwing a girl, hanging with the buds, or screwing a girl, but Patrick hasn't been considered normal since the day everyone figured out he was bi, and really, where exactly do you go from there?

He's sure his whole 'work here/draw in the young people' plan from his father is not working all so well, everyone seems to avoid the store like the plague, not that Patrick isn't trying. But usually all business these days seem to be from bored jackasses, who get a kick out of annoying the hell out of Patrick. Usually it's fake banter, then retiring to the back of the store where they make out with whoever the hell they brought in with them, or it's shoplifting. Or, if they're feeling particularly nasty, masturbating in the one bathroom the store has, loud enough to where Patrick can hear it (Joe always says this, the folk music, and one deftly placed Dora the Explorer episode turned him bisexual, but there's no way in fucking hell that Joe can prove that.)

Patrick doesn't usually mind. His dad stays out of the way, his mom's (mostly) supportive, and he gets a discount whenever he wants it, so whatever, whatever. He just kinda wishes that it wasn't boring as all hell.

That, he tells himself, is why his heart kinda races when the small ding! alerts him to a new customer. Or, supposedly, another jackass, if the upturned hoodie is any indication. And Patrick's been here for about three weeks since graduation, and he still hasn't seen anyone wearing fucking winter clothing in ninety degree weather and soccer shorts at the same time. But this is business, so Patrick tries not to sound too snarky as he clears his throat, "Can I help you?"

The figure, half way to the back of the store, stops, turns around, approaches him. "I dunno -- can you?"

Patrick pauses, for benefit. "Just tell me what you're looking for."

"Bass. Doesn't matter what kind." The hoodie says and Patrick is not curious, no he's not. No one ever comes in here for instruments, usually it's a CD or whatever, if even that. "Instruments in the back, CDs and merchandise in the front."

The hoodie shrugs and disappears to the far right. A few minutes of waiting and Patrick's bored again, and isn't going to wait any longer. Popping a can of soda and hunting for the nearest CD, Patrick sighs extra loud to remind the figure that he's still in the room, and plugs his headphones in, leaving them half off. Indie music. Great.

He's sorta half-listening and not, and isn't aware that thirty minutes have gone by until a loud shriek comes from the back of the store and makes him splutter Coke down his front. The shriek immediately turns into a rhythm, and somethings beating against the floor and Patrick has to investigate, and shuts off his CD player to do so.

The figure doesn't look up when Patrick approaches him, so Patrick doesn't interrupt, just watches him play the bass offhandedly as he beats against the floor with his foot. It's a good beat actually, and tune sounds sorta familiar, and it's not too screechy or obnoxious, just nice. When he's done, Patrick doesn't feel like puking up laughter, or anything rude. It's great actually, really great.

It doesn't stop Patrick from being a bit mad, though. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Um, playing?" It asks him and tunes the bass a little bit, then starts strumming. It's loud enough to carry a conversation in. "Can you pay for that?"

"I'm wearing soccer shorts and a hoodie. If I could afford anything, I'd buy me a sense of fashion, don't you think?"

Fair enough. "Look, you're good and everything, but if you can't pay, hands off."

"What, no test drive?" It stops long enough the tune the bass again, then keeps going. Patrick's sure his face is pretty close to matching his hair, "Does this look like a car dealership to you? Hand over money or hands off the fucking bass."

"Fine, damn." He drops the bass like that, lets it crash a little. Patrick's seeing red. "What the hell got your tighties whites in a nuclear wedgie?"

Patrick doesn't answer. The hoodie stands, dusting himself off, "Oh, wait, no tightie whities. You're probably one of those dudes who wears boxers with smiley faces down the front."

"And you look more prone to walking around with your dick in a box," Patrick retorts, and it takes all hell not to sound pissed. A voice in the back of his head, the one that sounds like his father, is strangely aware that the hoodie has not been drawn yet, which sorta shows that Patrick's not getting respect here. And though he's a far cry from Aretha Franklin, seriously: R-E-S-P-E-C-T. "You afraid to take off the hood, you've got a Micheal Jackson related skin disease, you're a vampire with a mean right hook, what?"

The hoodie chuckles -- what the fuck? -- gets the drift, and pulls back the hood. And then Patrick sorta loses coherence at the face he sees, and wants to turn around to make sure he won't get tackled by Ashton Kutcher or something. "Pete? Wentz?"

It's really him, red bangs and all, in soccer shorts. And a hoodie. In Patrick's dad's store. The irony is not all that amazing. "I take it we go to the same school?"

Same school? Fuck that. Patrick has known Pete like he's known everyone else in the school, since freshman year, Pete's become somewhat of a legend. Soccer jock(ass), flirts with everyone he stands next to, notorious dog lover (which gets him into even more pants than humanly possible), the kid who won the champion ship last year, the kid who OD'd in his car three blocks over from a Burger King, the kid who, the kid who, the kid who.

The kid who -- apparently -- can play bass really well, and has told no one about it. "You could say that," Patrick ends up saying dryly. "Can I guess why you're in my store now?"

"Not much of a 'Twenty Questions' round, but you can." Pete shrugs, "But I'd appreciate it if you don't."

Again, fair enough. Patrick's sure Pete wouldn't tell him anyway, and for what it's worth, he really doesn't want to know. He just wants to forget that he told Pete Wentz that he's prone to walking around with his dick in a box. "Like I said, can you afford the bass?"

"No."

"Then thank you for shopping here, have a nice day." Patrick turns on his heel and marches back up front, aware that Pete has not left yet and is following him the entire way. Patrick rounds the counter, picks up his headphones, slings them around his neck, takes a sip a Coke, and looks up. "Can I help you?"

"No, I'm not a Red Sox dude, thanks," Pete says, eyes Patrick's latest cap. He pauses then, then goes on, seriously. "You won't tell will you?"

Patrick has to be taken aback at this. "What?"

"You won't tell. About me and bass, right?" Pete eyes him nervously, "Because no one really knows, and I kinda told the guys that I was picking up a CD, not. Doing that." He grins a bit. "Really, you should feel honored, you're kinda the first to witness it. It's like being the first to realize that Paris Hilton is impervious to AIDS or something, right?"

Patrick blinks slowly. "No. And if you worried about your rep, don't worry -- musicians get as much chicks as jocks do."

Pete chuckles again. "I can do without either rep, I'm sure. I just. Want to keep it a secret, right now, kay?"

"Is this the part where we link fingers and promise to keep it our little secret, exclamation point, exclamation point?" Patrick deadpans.

This time Pete laughs, and it's raspy and amused and everything Patrick's joke really isn't. "Judging by your sense of humor, I'd probably make us be blood brothers or something, just so I could make sure you bleed."

"How about we settle for spit palms?" Patrick drones, and fakes spitting on his palm. He holds it out, palm up. "It was nice to meet you, Pete Wentz, and the rumors are completely true. You are a complete jackass."

The smiles slides off of Pete's face like *that.*

*

By the end of the day Patrick's pretty damn proud of himself. It's not like he's some underdeveloped nerd who's never had a chance to stand up to the bully -- despite circumstances, Pete isn't exactly a bully as so much as he is a jackass -- but he does feel better in a way. He doesn't even feel guilty when he tells his dad about the lack of sales he made today. Dinner goes by smoothly than expected, and he won't even begin to fight the grin that battles him for the rest of the night.

....Okay, yeah, he can't the bass thing out of his head, so what? Pete Wentz can play bass really well, yay. That didn't exactly change him in Patrick's eyes, no matter how many times he played the scene in his head again. And he didn't feel all that special to know that Pete could play, sure he was the first, but really. Not going to win him any points anywhere.

Still, Patrick can't sleep, so he bums around on the Internets all night and wakes up head slung over keyboard, drool sticking his face to his desk, and very worse for wear. Worse case scenario being that he has work *again*, the best has to be that he's sure Pete Wentz won't be coming in today, not with the damn flyers sporting a charity soccer game from Goodwill or whatever. Patrick's sure to be one of the few who won't be attending -- oh darn.

On the way out, Patrick plants the mandatory cheek-kiss on his mother, ignores his dad's worried look and takes a single slice of toast even though he's starving like hell. But big breakfasts -- hell, anything big, period -- wasn't made for guys like him, not unless there was some way he could stop himself from gaining weight. It's a bullshitty way to think of it, but he is kinda fat. It's been like that for as long as Patrick can remember, he doesn't expect his body to listen to him, so he doesn't fight it. He could eat an apple and gain weight, he might as well go along with it.

The lack of sleep and breakfast don't go over well, and Patrick finds himself asleep again, and flails and sorta screams when he gets shoved in the head and he's praying to God that it isn't his dad because he could fired *big time.*

His dad doesn't have messy hair and veiled eyes, thank God. Joe knocks Patrick over the head once more for good measure, then smiles, "Hi, I'd like to buy a life! But it's not for me, it's for a friend -- short, sorta pudgy--"

"Fuck you," Patrick says and he knows he hasn't been asleep long enough for his voice to sound so thick. Joe goes on, unfazed, "Sorry, dude, one of us has to be straight. Also, I bashed some heads on the way, so I'm hiding out here, 'kay?"

Patrick shrugs indifferently, then manages to spill Coke on himself (again) when a hoodie comes storming in. It's the same hoodie, same person, same Pete, but he doesn't go for Patrick or the counter, he goes straight for Joe and release one hell of a roundhouse. The crash that follows is about two-thousand dollars worth of merchandise (mostly amps, but a guitar stand) and Patrick can feel all of it coming out of his paycheck, one check at a time. Pete's winding up again and Joe's screaming something and Patrick has to do something now or he'll really be knee deep in it, so he jumps the counter, and grabs Pete's hand, "The fuck are you doing?!"

Pete's yanking, trying to get his fist back, "This little shit messed up our game! Sonofa-"

"Next time you little bastards better think twice over before running your preppy mouths up the wall!" Joe screams, "The fuck you get off talking like that, gonna rob Pat straight out of his mind, weren't you?"

"I wasn't going to--you don't know what the fuck you're talking about!" Pete breathes hard, like a bull, wanting to charge, "I was trying to--I said I wasn't gonna do it, I wasn't gonna rob him, and you come in, knocked out five of us and we lost the fucking game!"

"Serves your asses right!" Joe screams right back, not believing him and Patrick's just about pissed right now, so he grabs Pete by the shoulder, turns him around, and drives a fist right through his face. He can even hear the crack, and it sounds so good that Patrick would've given him more if his hand didn't hurt like hell. Pete goes sailing over another guitar stand and even that sounds good, even if that means more money out of his paycheck. Hell, Patrick's not even sure if he has a paycheck by now.

When he finally manages to check on Pete, he's not at all sorry to find that his nose is bleeding, really wet, all down his shirt. Pete's holding it and cursing and hunched over, so far that Patrick has to squat just to look at him, "You were going to do what to my store?"

"Son of a bitch," Pete aims at him, but he's so out that it doesn't hurt -- much. "Fucking broke my nose. You broke my nose." He does something to it that makes him groan loudly, "God, what the hell was that for? Did you even listen to me?"

Feeling good or not, that sounds like it hurts, and the blood still hasn't stopped. This is no time to lose his balls, but Pete's really starting to whimper now and shit, what the hell? He could get sued for this kind of shit, or worse, and Pete totally has the motive to pull it now. Crap, crap, crap.

"Joe," Patrick croaks, "Help me get him home."

*

There's no way Pete's going to a hospital, they ask questions, Patrick has no answers. Instead, he and Joe haul Pete (who's a lot a damn heavier than figured) five blocks over to his house, where his mom is home and only asks two questions. ("What did you do?" and "Oh my God, what blood type is he?") In the end, even she suggests the hospital and drives them the entire way, dragging Pete in, and trying not to smack the doctor ("No, I'm not pregnant, you ass! Do you not see this kid?") Patrick and Joe sit meekly on the sidelines, until Joe goes for a soda, mumbling an apology and an even quieter "Want one?"

His mom gives out necessary information, takes one look at Patrick, "Have to get dinner started. Call me and I'll pick you up -- tell his mom, because I'm not going to do it, Patrick." and she's gone.

Two hours later Patrick is sorta dosey and Joe is not coming back with his soda. A nurse calls out for a Stump, Patrick answers.

"He's down there," she says pointing, "Try not to touch him, he's a bit drowsy."

An IV drip is not drowsy, Patrick thinks, but doesn't say anything when he notices. Pete's sorta sitting halfway up, on top of the covers and immediately giggles when he sees Patrick, "Why couldn't you have just socked me in the balls?"

Patrick doesn't know whether to joke or to apologize, so everything sorta falls out, "--wouldn'twanttodisappointtheprettygirlsi'msosorry."

Pete waves it off, then giggles again. "I can not begin to tell you how many a girl has gone for this face. You just made it stick." He winces, stops, giggles. "You made it stick a lot."

Patrick doesn't say anything, just sits in the chair opposite the bed. "Please tell me you're not going to sue."

"Let me have the bass and I swear I won't."

"Not gonna fucking happen."

"Come on Trick, you broke two thirds of my cartilage!" Pete whines, "The least you could do is give a guy some slack. At least enough to hang himself so he could stop the fucking pain!" Not so cheery anymore, Pete lets out a whining moan, "Oh my God you bastard it fucking hurts. I sound like I'm in labor or something."

"Or something," Patrick agrees, then stops. "Trick?"

"That's what your name tag says," Pete slurs, and Patrick looks down, his coke stain blotting out the first two letters of his name, "It's Patrick, actually."

"I know, Trick just sounds cooler, Trick," Pete giggles. "I wanna go home now, please."

"I don't know if I'm supposed to. Let you out of here," Patrick shifts, "But my mom says I have to tell your mom that I slugged you. Anyway I could do that so she doesn't completely kill me?"

"Yeah, don't tell her during dinner, she gets fucking pissed when people tell her bad news." Pete grins, "That's the only reason why she made me take the nipple rings out." He pauses again. "I wanna go home now, please."

"I can't--" Patrick starts, then scrubs his eyes. "Okay. Just let me talk to someone first."

*

It takes a hell of a lot of pleading -- a hell of a lot a lot of pleading -- but Patrick is considered responsible enough to drag a fucked-up Pete Wentz home, who has realized that giggling is only as half as fun as screaming at the top of your lungs. Patrick has given up on restraining him, and has reduced himself to merely hanging on while Pete flails and laughs and screams.

"'m thinking of dropping out of school," he says too loudly and whips a hand to the west. "There's so much out there you know? I'm not getting a life here, I'm getting rainchecks and IOUs." He brightens, "Dude, fuck, I have to write that down. Give me your arm."

Patrick sighs, and pulls back the sleeve of his right arm, where Pete has scribbled many a phrase, having been too out of it to write on himself, "You know this will come out with water, right?"

"Screw you, I'm Shakespearing," Pete bites his lip with concentration, then caps the pen he's holding. "I'm gonna write that all down when I get home, make a song out of it."

"You got a band?" Patrick asks, not of interest, but because the doctor said it was better if Pete talked, cleared his head. Obviously, shrugging isn't something Pete should do, since he wobbles a bit when he does it. "No, but I'm looking. Kinda of the reason why I walked into your store, your ass of a friend told me you could play."

"Joe?" Since when was Joe his agent? Since when did Joe even talk about his playing? "I can play, yeah, but I'm not--"

"Dude, keep it in, I'm not offering," Pete grins tiredly when Patrick looks offended, "No offense. I'm just...I haven't heard you or anything, and if you're going to be a pussy about it, I'd rather not, you know?"

Patrick doesn't say anything for a moment. "How long to your house?"

"I dunno, but kid, you have got to get a fucking car."

*

Patrick has five minutes to explain to Mrs. Wentz the extent of Pete's injuries. He does it in two. The rest of his timespan is left on Pete's porch, waiting for the drug to wear off. Pete mumbles for a bit, then comes out with, "Are you going to be a pussy about it?"

"What?" Patrick's so wrapped up in getting home and dinner and bed that he doesn't even mind the almost-insult.

"My band." Pete speaks like Patrick's slow. "If I offer. Will you be a pussy about it?"

"Dude, no." Patrick shifts. "I don't want to be in a band."

"You don't even have to be in it. Just try out."

"No."

Pete half-smiles. "You gonna keep reducing yourself to this wasteland of a life? To the high-school where, forgive me, you can't get into anyone's pants, much less a date? And don't even tell me sex isn't something on your list, because you're seventeen, and if you're not screwing at seventeen, you're masturbating. Everyone does it."

"I--" Pete has a point. Damn it. "--don't even know what you want."

"I need a drummer. Guitarist. Lead. Vocals. I need everything in a hand basket, basically."

"I'm not making promises." Patrick says it all stern, like his father does when he wants attention. "Because I'd have to be a damn fool to actually do this with you."

Pete's head lolls, and he's still grinning. "Time to wake up, 'Trick. World's full of fools."

"Sounds like one hell of a pick-up line."

Pete laughs, hard. "Okay, you've passed auditions. I want to take you to a show."

At this point Patrick's so far into whatever this conversation is that all he can do is not stare. "I...don't want to go to a show."

"Just please? You have to come, I need to check out a drummer-- you can be my vice-jackass." Pete gives a pout. "Hands on God, I won't be pissy at you."

"I--don't. You can't--if you're going to be sick or something, I--"

"Just say yes, Trick, and save yourself."

*

Patrick leaves. Patrick leaves the Wentz home, walks a few blocks down to the store, cleans up what he can, closes up, walks home, report to Mother, tells Father about the damage, declines dinner, goes to his room, grabs his pillow, and tries to suffocate himself.

When that doesn't work, he goes for a shower. Five minutes front and back, and reality is still in, starting with his date with Pete Wentz next Saturday.

"Honestly, where has my life gone?" Patrick murmurs over changing, and gives up staying rational in the end. He calls Joe, screams for a few minute, demands that Joe join them, then goes to sleep.

Patrick has a date with Pete Wentz on Saturday--

"Shut up," Patrick tells himself.

*

And isn't it wonderful how the week just speeds by?

By Friday, reality has stopped being a bitch and Patrick gets a normal day in before conking out over something. By Saturday he gets an email telling him to wait, someone will pick him up shortly. It's like being in day care, except it's a little more sophisticated, if anything else.

Patrick closes the shop early and waits around in the dark for three hours before Jay-Z's Blueprint comes blaring down the street. And it's fucking loud, too, enough to shatter some ear canals if it hasn't already. It's weird and not common and attention grabbing which means it has to be Pete, and if Pete owns the ratty, rusty truck that comes with the music, Patrick will die.

Pete is no longer loopy, but his smile is not any less dangerous. "This is the part where I make some joke about me being home early and then you'll pretend to be the wife or something."

"Fuck off," Patrick says -- the wife? -- but he's smiling when he does it. "Yours?"

"No, dude named Andy. He's so desperate for fans that he's letting me borrow the truck to pick 'em up. He'll be pissed when he finds out it's just you and the asshole. Speaking of---?"

"Not coming." And Patrick will be talking to Joe about that.

"Whatever, you're the only one I love anyway." Pete taps the passenger side. "Get in, love, we're gonna paint the town rainbow."

*

They actually get to green before it's late enough to drive the one hour to the band, which is actually on the outskirts of town, which makes it more fun to explain tomorrow. It's sorta full, just milling bodies, and Pete parks half a block away, so they walk in silence.

The music is off, and Patrick realizes is not rock but something indie -- again -- so he stands by awkwardly while Pete looks around for someone, then yells out, "Condoms! Half off!" Six heads perk up immediately.

Reacting is not an option. It just isn't. Patrick grabs Pete's hand anyway. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Finding Andy. He always comes to kick my ass when I do this." Pete grins and waves at someone. "See?"

Andy is long, thin, and needing a fucking shave. He squints, and flips Pete off before half-tackling him. "What the hell, Wentz, want to make me a fucking dealer or something? I'm not having that shit at my show." Andy's voice is rough and lacking something; Patrick's heard that a couple of times from Joe.

Andy stops and looks over at Patrick for a few seconds. "This it? I told you to get a crowd, ass."

"Yeah, well, the crowd hated your music, said go fuck yourself." Pete shrugs. "I brought him. So sue me."

Andy arches an eyebrow. "Cute. Funny. I'd tell you to enjoy the show, but I know you won't." He lets go of Pete and rubs his eyes. "Just wait till I'm done playing before going man-hunting, okay?"

*

They do listen to the music, the entire show. Halfway through, Pete leans over and squeezes Patrick's hand and says, "I like him, we should pounce."

"On Andy or the music?" Patrick says, because he's not really listening. Pete laughs. "Both. Neither. Whatever."

But, seriously, the music is. Whoa-ish.

So whoa-ish that they do hang around afterwards, and Pete does go man-hunting eventually. It's all smiles and pictures from what Patrick can see, no one worth looking at.  An hour of this, and Patrick's sleepy, so he only half-waves when Pete pulls Andy over, "Did you think about it?"

Andy shrugs, "You know I would, Pete, but I gotta see progress first."

"I do have progress, dolt," Pete says, and wraps an arm around Patrick, "I have our lead."

"What?" Patrick asks/yells, and drowns out Andy's "Seriously?" in the process. Pete ignores him, "We just need a secondary, and if it makes you happy, primadonna, you can try out for drummer."

"Vocals or guitar?" Andy nods in Patrick's direction, and Pete shrugs again. "We'll think of something."

"'Think of something?'" Being this incredulous is making Patrick incapable of thought. "You asshole!" Pete's grip tightens on his shoulder and he's leading Patrick away like some business man with a drunken wife, "Dude, just think about it."

*

When they're far away enough, Pete steers them over to a booth, "Okay, listen, Trick--"

"No, screw you!" Patrick whips off Pete's arm, "I never said I was trying out! Fuck, I never even said yes!"

"Just call me psychic, then. I can see it, Trick, you're gonna go somewhere, do something, and I'm just helping you along." Pete grins. "Like a fairy godmother or whatever, 'cept I'm hotter. Totally screwable."

"Shut up, this isn't funny." Patrick whacks him on the arm for emphasis. "You can't do that, make up my mind for me. And I am not singing."

"Never said you had to. We can get vocals." Pete whips out a pen and starts making notes on himself. "A chick or something, and tryouts. You can be lead guitarist or something. But, Trick, you are going to be in this band. You have to."

"There's a difference between 'want' and 'have,' ass. And there's no way I can help you out, not now, and when we go back, I'm gonna be swamped. It's shitty enough I have to work--"

"--we can have tryouts and practice there," Pete points out.

"--and my parents are not going to be that understanding--"

"--moms love me--"

"--and I haven't played in years!"

"Just stop making excuses, okay!" Pete stops writing on himself long to glare at Patrick, "I've been pretty cool so far, but the Patitude has to stop. I want this, I want you in this band, with me because we're gonna rock, but I can't see ourselves rocking without you. Now shut up and drink something, you're sweating." He tosses a can of soda at Patrick. "I'm gonna find Andy so I can throttle a yes out of him."

He leaves -- stomps away -- without even looking back and Patrick spends two seconds contemplating burying the can in Pete's head. Instead, he cracks it open, and walks the length of the stadium for a while, visiting booths and trying very hard to not be mad. The situation's a little weird, though -- except for his mom, no one's ever made decisions for him. Then there's Pete, as much of a jackass as he is headstrong -- Jesus. Patrick's not sure why, but it's not making that much sense to fight with Pete, and that. That scares him.

He finishes the can and drops it into a nearest trash bin. Two minutes later, he vomits dinner back up -- Spaghetti O's and all.

*

Three minutes in the men's room isn't going to do it -- Patrick has to find Pete.

Walking is not easy, and the pounding in his head is worse, and his legs feel weird and not there and God -- what the hell did he take in? Patrick's sure he's saying or doing something weird; heads turn and people avoid him and his vision fades a little when he stops to lean. God, God, God, this is why he never goes anywhere, anywhere at all. Not the drugs, but the vulnerability -- Jesus Christ, his head hurts. He doesn't know the dose, or the effects, or how long it'll last -- they might have to pump him. If they don't get it all out, they might have to call his mom, and that outrules the hospital very much.

Somewhere in the minutes passing, Patrick's legs give out, and yeah, he's not going anywhere. His vision is beyond blurry now, but he knows a crowd when he sees one and someone's cursing in the background and pushing. "'Trick?"

OhmigodyesPete. "--Get me out of here," Patrick tries to say, but it sounds weird. He's crying, at least, there are tears.

"What happened--okay?" Pete asks, and Patrick shakes his head. "Find the fucker who--get my car, Andy."

Patrick closes his eyes.

*

There's space-themed wallpaper all over the ceiling. This is not Patrick's room.

JesusmotherfuckingChristwhythefreakinghelldoesthisallwayshappentohim?

There's two ways Patrick can alert his presence: sarcasm or asking for water. He does neither, and sits himself up slowly instead.

Pete is conked out on the floor to the right of the room, hand covering his eyes. If he's been crying, Patrick can't tell and he doesn't want to know. A cell phone vibrates next to him-- it's not his own, which means it's not Patrick's mom. Thank God. Patrick watches it bounce around for a few moments, then hunts for one of his shoes. He throws it at Pete.

Pete doesn't open his eyes, but he does grab the cell phone. "'lo?"

Patrick listens to Pete nod and mumble and yawn and talk and stares at the ceiling while doing so. The cell phone snaps a few minutes later, and Patrick is mad enough to snap with it but instead counts in eighths, like he used to do when he was taking lessons and his instructor got really mad at him when he couldn't tune right. He hasn't thought about that in years.

"You missed a count," Pete says, and it sounds so small that Patrick has to look over to make sure it hadn't come from someone -- God forbid -- reluctant or sorry or sheepish or something.

Pete blinks. "Hi."

"Hey." Patrick's voice is raspy. "You done?"

Blank stare.

"With assaulting me."

Blank stare.

"I never asked for you, you know. Just wanted you stop playing the bass, you could've broken it. That's it. But I get Pete Wentz." Patrick groans, and rests his head on the headboard. "Why does this happen to me?"

Silence.

"I used to really fucking hate my life, you know? I thought a lonely four years of high school was it for me, and then I'd go to college or just drop out and work for my dad for the rest of my life or something. And I was getting used to it and now, it's really messed up. And I don't know whether to hit you or thank you. So I'm going not going to do either, and just go." He tries to move, and gets no movement, just a really sharp pain in his legs. "Or not go, whatever."

"Your mom said you could stay here." Pete says quietly and Patrick sighs and waves a hand and doesn't really care anymore.

Patrick looks around for a clock, and finds one on what seems to be Pete's dresser. It's noon.

Pete turns out the lights and offers good dreams anyway.

*

If there's one good thing about being drugged, it's the lack of work.

Patrick's dad is furious, but stops ranting long enough to ground Patrick (for going) and ban him from work for at least a week. There really is a silver lining to everything, then.

Patrick's mom becomes his own personal slave maid helper, and fusses and plumps his pillow and feeds him soup and yells at the doctor and brings him his CDs when he wants them and reminds him not to play them too loud. It's like being little again. If he's not listening to music, he's reading, sleeping or being superbly bored. Joe stops long enough to call Pete every name in the book and leaves with a batch of cookies for the family.

Pete doesn't call for the entire week.

*

Sunday night, Patrick gets a response.

He can't help that he's a heavy sleeper, and pebbles against his window don't do it. That's no reason for Pete to blare Shakespeare through a megaphone. It's Romeo and Juliet, no less.

Patrick wakes up before anyone can hear the extent of Juliet's beauty and manages to stumble over a few wires and his sheets before reaching his window. "You are so fucking demented!" he hisses, and the irony is so overwhelming right now. Patrick prays that old Mrs. White two houses over doesn't decide to look out the window.

Pete shuts off the megaphone. "How're you holding?"

"I stopped puking days ago." Patrick deadpans. "And if you drag out one of those sappy apologies I'm going to throw something bigger than a shoe at your egotistical pretty-boy head, fucker."

"I just--" Pause. "Wanted to ask you out, actually. There's a diner, few blocks down from here."

Patrick knows the one. "No."

"But--"

"It's two a.m in the morning, Pete. Normal people are sleeping right now."

Pause. "We don't even have to go to the diner or anything. We could walk. Just hear me out, okay?"

"Are you crazy?"

"I'll wait until morning, if I have to."

Patrick will not explain why Pete Wentz is sleeping on his front porch to anyone tomorrow.

*

It takes three minutes to pull on a pair of jeans and some shoes, hide his shirt under a (clean) jacket, and jump a flight of stairs (nearly), fly out of his doorway and tackle Pete with one of those flying leap things he's seen before.

And it feels good to hit Pete, really, not at all like the incident in the store, but something close. They're not really really fighting, just more grunting and pulling and socking. Patrick's sure that Pete's giggling at one point, but he isn't that bad of a fighter for that to be true.

They stop eventually, but Patrick has enough anger to go on for at least two more hours. He rests on Pete's legs instead, "I really don't know what to do with you anymore."

"You could just love me for my disposition and charm and call it a night," Pete suggests. His voice is small again and sleepy, the tint to it unreadable at first. Remorse. "...The drug you took was illegal, by the way. They don't know what it's called, but it's fast and heavy. It was supposed to be some kind of morphine, but the soda or something, I don't know." Pete shifts slightly. "I swear, hospitals are already shit to me, but they never actually scared me until you were in one."

Even now, Pete still has that way of rendering Patrick speechless. "You promised me a diner."

*

It's called Joe's Diner, scarily enough. They don't comment.

His father used to bring him when he was stupid enough to love it. He was small, and the booths were big, and everything was easier to jump off of, or swing across, or roll around in. His father had never stopped him, just smiled and reminded him of his mother when Patrick got home. That was enough to get him off of anything quick.

Patrick was way too old now to swing off of anything half his size, so he doesn't. He does feel even more like a child everytime he comes here, though.

They get a counter booth, Pete tapping a beat on the bell as they wait for their waitress. Patrick spins his chair quietly, "So, the puking was just a side-effect?"

"It would've happened either way, but I think the soda deactivated something in it, so it wasn't as strong as it could've been." Pete spins three times before his chair stops on him. "They would've had to pump you, God forbid."

"And you stayed?"

"Yeah." Pete looks surprised, if that's possible. "Where the hell was I going to go? No one pumps my Pat without my permission."

"Well, that should get you on my mom's side, no less."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" Patrick isn't spinning anymore. "You cost me, like, three paychecks, drag me to a show outside of town, fucking get me drugged, and turned me into some psudeo-Juliet for your mad Shakespeare-related ravings. And trust me, it's worse than it sounds." He glares, and hopes it looks authoritative. "What do you want from me, Pete?"

"Nothing," Pete says, and changes his mind instantly. "Look, when I saw you, I saw 'bored kid waiting for life to happen.' And I'm like that. I want life to catch up with me, and then I realize it never will, so I'm gonna wait for it, and I want to wait with you."

"This a soap opera now?"

"No, you asshole," Pete grins and fakes throwing the salt shaker at him. "This is me trying to apologize by not apologizing."

"It's not working."

"I didn't think so." Pete taps the bell again. "I'm feeling pancake-y. You?"

"I'll eat anything that doesn't make me bloat." Patrick says, and despite Pete's laughter, he's pretty damn serious.

"Chocolate pancakes with butter, please." Pete calls out to no one.

*

Patrick doesn't last his ban, and goes back to work three days after the "incident."

It feels good to work again, funnily enough, and if Patrick closes his eyes and not think for a moment, it's almost like Pete never walked into his store weeks ago. Like nothing's changed. Patrick doesn't know if that's good or bad, but it's something. He doesn't do the erasing thing much though, just when Pete leaves.

If there is a band, it's forming. Pete brings in potentials all the time, and Patrick plays vice jackass, like always. They decide not to get a lead vocalist just yet. Andy visits sometimes too, and he and Joe get along, mostly. Joe still won't mention the guitar stand or Pete or the game.

It's about a week later when Patrick realizes this is routine, and decides to close the store early so he won't be predictable. Pete gets in anyway.

"So, I'm thinking it'll just be us, you know?" Pete's voice is sleepy and comes out of the blue, he pushes Patrick a bit. "Move over, I'm gonna fall off."

They're sorta lying on the counter, opposite, so Patrick's looking at Pete's scuffed shoes and vice versa. He shifts, his right arm slinging off the side, "Us?"

"Me, you, Andy, the asshole." Pete shrugs. "We still need vocals."

"I still say we should get a girl--"

"No girls. Girls distract you."

"No, they don't." Patrick lies and hides his grin. "And you have nerve talking, we don't even need tits to distract you. Hemmy's collar distracts you."

Pete's foot comes out of nowhere, and Patrick goes tumbling to the ground. Painfully. "Fuck!"

"I know you're not dead, so I'll just continue." Pete flips over onto his stomach and looks down. "We need a dude. And a name."

"I bet you've been thinking."

"Well, yeah, but "Pete and the Hemmies" don't cut it."

"So forget the name." Patrick looks up. "We need vocals."

"We need a miracle."

"We need time."

"We need practice."

"We need to stop."

"We need to start." Pete snaps his fingers. "Write that down!"

Patrick sighs, and pulls up the sleeve of his right arm. The Sharpie burns a hole in his pocket. "Got it."

Pete slides down moments later, and reads Patrick's arm, shoulder to wrist, before kissing "Start" until it becomes a mess.

*

Patrick shows up to their first practice with the word "start" on his lips. Pete ignores it the entire time, then kisses that until it turns into a mess too.

end.