homesick at plane crashes [standalone, au]

  Pete is quiet. He never really used to be, he used to be loud—and even when he was running on mere hours, mere moments, of sleep he was loud and fast. But now he was quiet. Now, there were no fans. It had all fallen apart, all of it.

            Pete felt bad, really bad. It wasn’t Joe’s or Andy’s or . . . even Patrick’s fault, it was his fault. But it had fallen apart anyways, and even their friends had suffered. Without the support of the complete Fall Out Boy, Panic!’s third album had suffered, and The Academy Is . . . had never broken the borders into mainstream (and they were so close) and didn’t have anyone who had (broken the borders) to pimp out their music.

            And it was all his fault . . .

            Pete doesn’t do much nowadays, he still messes around with Clandestine—and takes control of Decaydance and all. But it’s behind the scenes, it isn’t the same, it hasn’t been since Fall Out Boy became . . . nothing. Pete lived in the limelight.

            There was no one. Just no one. He lived off of the money they had made, didn’t have a job, rarely went out. Whenever Ryan, Jon, or Bill were near LA for whatever reason, they dropped by and talked with him and Hemmingway for a few hours. But his house wasn’t the all-night-party hot spot it had once been. Pete was worse for the wear. He was in his mid-thirties, and it showed.

            It might not have, had his sanity come back. But . . . it didn’t and it wouldn’t, because he had fucked up. It was his fault, his fault, his fault. But he was so selfish, so selfish. He didn’t care that his friends had suffered, that Fall Out Boy was gone. He was selfish (after all of this, he thought he would’ve learned better), he missed his relationship. The one that had fallen through, that had ruined it all.

            Pete could close his eyes, and still see him. He could still smell everything from shampoo, to deodorant, to the after-show sweat. It was all engraved into him, it was an automatic mechanism his body had developed over the years, over the long years. Maybe that was why he still didn’t sleep.

            Because he could look at his bed, and think that the lump of pillows was him. That he could throw an arm around them, and it was just a bad dream. And he washed the sheets four times a week, but they never stopped smelling like him. And maybe, just maybe, some of the tattoos on his wrists had been sliced through (but never too deep).

            He didn’t feel like he was alive sometimes, so he had to know. He would laugh whenever Iris came on, and through his hollow, bitter, laughter someone who knew him well would’ve been able to hear the raw regret, sorrow, and tears.

            It was winter, and it was winter in LA, and it didn’t get that cold—but his house came with a working fireplace, and he was laying in front of it in the living room, Hemingway on his chest.

            “We’re getting pitiful and lazy, in our old age.”

            Hemingway just looked at him, pitiful doggy eyes staring back into his. Pete just let his head fall, back—eyes staring up at the ceiling and he was tired of this, of this nothingness. But that’s all there was now, wasn’t it?

            And he clenched his eyes shut, tight, because this wasn’t right but it was real and that hurt more than anything. He had lost everything, he had lost everything. He had lost the band, Jeanae, he had lost Patrick. He had lost Patrick and of all the people in the world he could’ve lost—why him, his best friend? Why him?

            And it had probably been years but everyday felt like it had just happened the day before. His heart hadn’t even been operated on, stitched up, he was still just in the emergency room—watching himself like a ghost as he bled out onto checkered tiles that made him nauseas anyways.

            He remembered when it had happened, like it was just a few minutes ago. And he had sworn to GOD up and down, up and down, as if every life he had ever come in contact with relied on it—that he wouldn’t miss him, that he wouldn’t let it affect anything else. But it did, because he missed him so, so, so bad.

            He was a ghost, he was just a ghost. He was too damned for heaven—but apparently an angel somewhere thought he was too good for hell. He was stuck in between, and he was beginning to think it might always be that way. Even when he was actually dead, he was petrified he was going to be chained to this house (or even worse him) until he heard the words ‘I forgive you.’ And Pete knew he would never hear those, and he didn’t blame him.

            The doorbell rang, Pete groaned and cursed. Dammit, some kid wanted to see him again. They came along, every now and then. But only the ones like him, the ones with nightmares and insomnia and troubles beyond troubles—the ones who had a bottle of something in their back pocket and if this talk didn’t go over well, just like all of the other ones, they were ready to go hide under the bridge a few blocks away and just take the whole bottle dry. Pete talked to those, because he could recognize the dark circles around frightened and lost eyes, and the drag in the step, and the headphones draped over shoulders. Because, dammit, if someone didn’t learn from his mistakes . . . even if it wasn’t him, what was the use of ever having made them?

            They looked for him, he knew they did. They probably spent weeks, or maybe there was some LiveJournal community for the poor souls to find him. He didn’t care, he liked to think he still helped someone. It made lying here worth it, just a little.

            Hemingway got up, slowly making his way to the door, as Pete managed to sit up and to rub at his eyes and look at the white ceiling again. His feet touched the ground, and he pushed himself up off the floor, stretching a little as he followed his dog into the other room. A hand running through (only slightly) dirty hair, hoping his face didn’t look to rugged with the scruff that had been accumulating for a few days.

            Pete barely even lifted his feet as he dragged himself across the hall way. Something in his brain was telling him to turn around, to venture back into his room where it was safe, to bury himself under his comforters with Hemingway. To take some sleep aids and just sleep the rest of the week away. But Pete had more common sense than that, fingers undid the locks in slow, fumbling movements, and he pulled the door open.

            There was a sudden intake of breath on both sides, sudden and soft. Tears welled up in brown eyes, and he hated himself for it. And there was a choking sound on the door step, and Pete looked down—eyes glued on the carpet, now. And Hemingway was most obviously excited, practically jumping into the strangers arms, recognition from years ago.

            He must’ve remembered how he smelled, too.

            “What do you want?” Pete asked, still not looking up, jamming his hands in his pockets in order to keep them to himself. He was confused, after . . . why now?

            “I- . . . I was in the neighborhood, and thought I’d drop by. You . . . don’t update your blog anymore, and no one’s heard from you lately, and . . . and Ryan asked me to check up . . . up on you, to make sure you were taking your meds—but not too much.” It was improvisation, he hadn’t planned on getting this far, on ringing the door bell and actually having Pete answer it. Pete could still read him like a book.

            Then there it was, just raw and Patrick, “Oh God Pete . . . what have you done to yourself?”

            The old Wentz would’ve snapped back, moody and just a little agitated from the lack of sleep, something along the lines of ‘What have you done to me?’ but this Pete just stayed silent, kicking at a fuzz ball, as if he expected the still over-excited Hemingway to answer for him.

            “Hemm-Hemingway, down boy! Down! Yes I remember you.” A reach down, to scratch at his ears, in an effort to appease the dog.

            There was a hand on Pete’s shoulder, and he jerked away, shaking almost. No, no, no. Don’t rip his heart deeper, he’s bleeding enough. He’s bled enough, for crying out loud, hasn’t he? All these years of bleeding, bleeding, bleeding . . . all of it for him, who never even called not once. They hadn’t talked in years, fucking years.

            “Peter Wentz, don’t ignore me, what the hell has happened to you?” Words sad, choking, mournful, regretful, angry. Pete shook his head, and risked to look up at his once-best-friend-turned-something-more. He had lost some weight, still wore the hat though. He looked just a little more confident in himself. How old was he now? Maybe Pete’s age when it all went down, not that old. He still had time.

            “No. I’m not.” His voice was hoarse, and nervous, and soft, and scared, “I just didn’t think it was actually you. Thought maybe it was just . . . my mind again. Would’ve been the fifth time this week.” It was only Wednesday, and for the record-Pete started weeks on Monday’s nowadays.

            Patrick looked sad, and Pete didn’t mean that. He just wanted to convey the message.

            “Pete, don’t pretend this is all my fault!”

            “I never said it was.”

            “You’re sure as hell acting like it!”

            “Am not!”

            “Listen to you, you sound like a little kid!”

            “Haven’t I always?”

            “No! You haven’t. You used to be someone a kid could look up to.” And Patrick spat those, and Pete knew he didn’t mean just any kid. That made Pete recoil, a little, physically.

            “Listen, what did you come to get? Miss one of your hats over all the years? I’ve got a box in the spare room, some of your notebooks of lyrics too. Lemme go get them.”

            Patrick stopped, “Dammit, Pete! Let me talk. I didn’t come for hats, or lyrics, or to berate you! I came here to talk to you! It’s been at least three years since I’ve even heard from you indirectly . . .” this time it was Patrick who was getting teary-eyed and bleary-eyed and shakey-voiced, “I’ve missed, you dammit, there it is! And don’t for one motherfucking second lie to me and tell me you haven’t missed me!”

            Pete stopped, and turned to Patrick. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Patrick was supposed to forget him, like he said he would. Like the lyrics that were distant memories, and when you go I will forget everything about you.

            And Pete didn’t realize he had whispered them under his breath until Patrick had arms wrapped around him, tight and squeezing hard, and both of them were shaking.

            “Dammit, Pete. Don’t say that, because I almost tried, I almost did. And I was such an idiot for even thinking I could. My smile’s an open wound without you.” And Patrick was holding him tighter than he had been held in so long, he felt boneless in the grip and he broke.

            He could feel his heart bleeding on Patrick’s shirt, the thick, sticky, guilty blood soaking into the designer fabric and patterns. Only the blood was coming from his eyes, and it wasn’t red like it was in the dreams, it was just salty, salty water and Pete wanted to do nothing more than stay there and let all the pain leave his body through the not-blood.

            “God, Patrick, oh God-please tell me this isn’t some fucked up dream, and that it’s really you—“ Pete was practically whimpering, as he clutched Patrick back—wrapping his arms as tight as he could, as tight as days without sleep would let him.

            “It’s me, Pete, it’s me, it’s me.” Patrick whispered, comfortingly. Some little ghost of the old Pete was reminding him that it should be the other way—Pete comforting Patrick, because it was him who had lied, him who had ruined it, and done the wrong. But the Patrick in him, the Patrick that he knew was saying that he had suffered enough, more than enough, and he was killing himself like this.

            “Patrick.” There was more holding, just one clutching at the other. They couldn’t be close enough, after years apart. And Pete wouldn’t have let go for anything in the world.

            “I missed you so, so much Patrick. I kept on telling myself to just put a cork in it, move on, and never look back. I kept telling myself that it wasn’t all my fault. But it was, and I couldn’t forget, and I’ve been living in this same old, blood-stained skin and I can’t stand it anymore.”

            “It’s okay, Pete. I’m here now, I’m here. I won’t let you go again, but don’t you take advantage of that. I forgive you, but I don’t know if I could again.”

            “Oh God, Patrick. Never, never, never. I swear on my own beating heart I would never do another damn thing to hurt you like that. I was such a fucking idiot.” Pete hissed, into Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick just squeezed him again, whispering something soft into his hear.

            Pete took a deep breath, and Patrick still smelled just the same, and it brought more tears to his eyes and they stood in the door way like that for forever before finally breaking apart, before retreating to the living room and sitting on the sofa. It was awkward, like both of them expected, but they were both there and that was all that mattered.

            “You can do better than me, Patrick.” Pete muttered, staring at the floor absentmindedly, “Why did you come back? Why did you never forget about me?  I have to know.”

            Patrick didn’t respond at first, only stayed silent. “I was in a wreck, a few months ago. It was covered up, I managed to keep it hush-hush, even amongst all of the guys. I thought I was going to die. I realized how much I missed you, how much I love you—and that I had forgiven you a long time ago, I just . . . forgot I did. I’ve been in town a week and a half, it took me this long to work up the guts to come and see you. I was afraid of what I would find.”

            “Pete . . . you’re okay, right?” Patrick looked to him, leaning over to stare at the older man’s profile, “nothing’s wrong is it, health wise? You looked so . . .”

            “—dead? Yeah, that’s what Bill said a few weeks ago. I haven’t gone outside in a while, I get the kid across the street to get my groceries. There’s no point in causing a stir up. I thought it was better that the world just forgot me. I’m fine, though. I’m just . . . tired, and a little worn out.”

            The next thing he knew, soft lips were pressed against his (it was like a lock and key, the way they fit together). Pete kissed back, desperately (some part of him was still telling him that this was some kind of joke, that someone was going to scream ‘April Fool’s’ any second, even though it was months away).

            “We can fix this.” Patrick whispered, “Andy’s open, and so is Joe. They’ve been waiting, I know it. We can make this work, we can get back together—and fix everything, make the past go away. We can sew it back together, and shock it back to life.”

            Pete chuckled, if only he knew the irony of that metaphor. “Anything, ‘Trick, anything for you.” He said, seriously, as he sighed into the kiss and pulled Patrick closer to him, on top of him practically.

            Patrick was elated, and relieved, and Pete was too. His life was piecing back together, slowly but surely—even though the puzzle pieces were still a little bent and out of place, and a few were missing. But this worked, this could work, this was working. Pete couldn’t help but smile, adrenaline racing through his veins for the first time in a while.

            “I love you, ‘Trick. If I ever hurt you again, I’ll kill myself.”

            “Don’t.” It was breathless, and Patrick’s hands were running down his sides, and no this wasn’t going too fast—it was going just right, just right, “Because then I’d do the exact same thing, and what good would that do us?”

            Pete grinned, again, contentedly, before closing his eyes, and whispering in Patrick’s ear, “Thank you, Doctor.” And Patrick couldn’t even pretend that he understood, but he was happy with that. Not understanding Pete was familiar, and that was all he had wanted the past few years.

            “Anytime, Peter Pan. Anytime.” He whispered back.

            That night, Pete woke up around one in the morning—he looked over at the ‘stack of pillows’ and threw his arm around them, smiling when there was a restless shift of a person, and he buried his head into the crook of his neck and took a deep breath, trailing his finger down invisible patterns on skin.

            He was muttering things, from that moment until he went back to sleep. Unbeknownst to the older man, Patrick had awoken—but he stayed still, relishing the feeling of arms around him and the tickle of warm breath against his neck.