"I Met Them at the Door in Shorts and an Argyle Sweater"
Title: I Met Them at the Door in Shorts and an Argyle Sweater
Author:
redheaded_itch
Pairing: Patrick/Pete (3rd Person POV)
Summary: Patrick gets his chance to be in a band with "that dude from Racetraitor" when Joe and Pete arrive at his house to practice. Patrick's audition, however, catches Pete's attention for more reasons than musical talents.
Rating: PG for swearing, may be bumped up to PG-13 later on.
Disclaimer: I don't know the guys. I've never met them. Hopefully you know that already. My only sources are a bunch of pre-FUCT interviews they did and a web page of Marvin Gaye lyrics.
Patrick thought he heard someone calling him. He took off his headphones, sat up, and listened for a minute. Nothing. Lying back down on his pillow, he pulled the headphones back on, turning off the sound-canceller just in case, and picked up his drumsticks from where they were sitting beside him. Absentmindedly he played along with the beat of the Michael Jackson song on his stomach, following each beat that hit his eardrums, adding rolls where he wanted them.
There it was again! Patrick bolted up, yanking off the headphones again. If someone was playing games with him he would be royally pissed. He launched himself off the side of his bed, his corduroys getting snagged on the bed frame. Patrick rolled over and sprung up, taking a pose like some top detective in a cop movie. His hands were still pointed in a pistol-like "Freeze!" position when his mother knocked. Mrs. Stump walked in without waiting for an answer. Crossing her arms, she laughed at her son, amused.
"Are you supposed to be the good cop or the bad cop?"
Patrick lowered his arms. Mom was quick. He hadn't thought out the answer to that one.
"I guess that depends on if you're the good guy or the bad guy."
Mrs. Stump shook her head.
"I guess I'm the bad guy. I only came up here to remind you to get your laundry done. The good guys are downstairs."
She turned to leave.
"The good guys?"
Mrs. Stump hesitated in the doorway.
"Your new friends. You know, you met one of them – that fuzzy-haired one – at the bookshop. What's his name? Joe? He seems like a nice boy. He brought his friend with him. They said you invited them over for a practice."
Patrick looked at his watch. 4:15. He hadn't realised how late it was. He would have gotten something ready, had he kept track of the time.
"Yeah. I'm trying to get in to this band they're doing—"
"A band?" Mrs. Stump said incredulously.
"Yeah, another one, I know. They're just looking for someone to drum or sing or something. I thought I could help them out."
"Sing, huh? And I thought by the look of Joe's friend down there you were joining a band of clowns."
Mrs. Stump winked at Patrick. Patrick tried to shush her a little. He didn't want the guys to hear.
"Mom, that guy's like, a local legend. All the important bands in Chicago in the last few years, he's been in 'em."
"Yeah? Nothing I've ever heard."
"I don't think Barbara Streisand does duets with hardcore kids, Mom. Anyway, if you need me I'll be down in the basement with these guys."
Patrick reached for his drumsticks on his bed.
"Patrick Martin Stump! You are not meeting anyone, friend or not, with holes in your clothes!"
He followed his mother's gaze, and sure enough, his pants had been ripped clean from one back pocket to the other.
"Shit," Patrick muttered, feeling across the rip. His favourite pants! "Stupid bed frame." He wondered if a few safety pins would hold them together until he could get some new ones.
"Hand them over," said Mrs. Stump, holding out her hands. "No, don't argue with me, Patrick. Put something else on. I'm not having you walk around scruffy. I'll sew them for you later on."
His mother left the room, and downstairs she could be heard talking away. Patrick sighed. She was probably telling them all about his pants and what lay beneath them. Honestly, what is it with Moms and bums?
Patrick was rifling through his dresser. Nothing clean, unless he wanted to walk around in long underwear all day. The only other thing left was a pair of khaki shorts. Shorts was right. Patrick measured them against himself and pulled a face. His Dad had gotten him some summer clothes a few years before, and thought that these shorts would be "cool" enough for him. Patrick glanced up into the mirror at the argyle sweater he had on.
At least that'd been a good pick, he thought.
Wondering why the world seemed to hate Patrick Stump today, he reluctantly tugged on the shorts. He wasn't impressed.
"The pants with the gaping hole in the ass showed less," he said to himself.
Slowly but surely, Patrick resigned himself to looking like a lunatic, and headed downstairs, drumsticks in hand.
Hopefully I'll be able to get part two written today. Thanks for reading!
Author:
redheaded_itchPairing: Patrick/Pete (3rd Person POV)
Summary: Patrick gets his chance to be in a band with "that dude from Racetraitor" when Joe and Pete arrive at his house to practice. Patrick's audition, however, catches Pete's attention for more reasons than musical talents.
Rating: PG for swearing, may be bumped up to PG-13 later on.
Disclaimer: I don't know the guys. I've never met them. Hopefully you know that already. My only sources are a bunch of pre-FUCT interviews they did and a web page of Marvin Gaye lyrics.
Patrick thought he heard someone calling him. He took off his headphones, sat up, and listened for a minute. Nothing. Lying back down on his pillow, he pulled the headphones back on, turning off the sound-canceller just in case, and picked up his drumsticks from where they were sitting beside him. Absentmindedly he played along with the beat of the Michael Jackson song on his stomach, following each beat that hit his eardrums, adding rolls where he wanted them.
There it was again! Patrick bolted up, yanking off the headphones again. If someone was playing games with him he would be royally pissed. He launched himself off the side of his bed, his corduroys getting snagged on the bed frame. Patrick rolled over and sprung up, taking a pose like some top detective in a cop movie. His hands were still pointed in a pistol-like "Freeze!" position when his mother knocked. Mrs. Stump walked in without waiting for an answer. Crossing her arms, she laughed at her son, amused.
"Are you supposed to be the good cop or the bad cop?"
Patrick lowered his arms. Mom was quick. He hadn't thought out the answer to that one.
"I guess that depends on if you're the good guy or the bad guy."
Mrs. Stump shook her head.
"I guess I'm the bad guy. I only came up here to remind you to get your laundry done. The good guys are downstairs."
She turned to leave.
"The good guys?"
Mrs. Stump hesitated in the doorway.
"Your new friends. You know, you met one of them – that fuzzy-haired one – at the bookshop. What's his name? Joe? He seems like a nice boy. He brought his friend with him. They said you invited them over for a practice."
Patrick looked at his watch. 4:15. He hadn't realised how late it was. He would have gotten something ready, had he kept track of the time.
"Yeah. I'm trying to get in to this band they're doing—"
"A band?" Mrs. Stump said incredulously.
"Yeah, another one, I know. They're just looking for someone to drum or sing or something. I thought I could help them out."
"Sing, huh? And I thought by the look of Joe's friend down there you were joining a band of clowns."
Mrs. Stump winked at Patrick. Patrick tried to shush her a little. He didn't want the guys to hear.
"Mom, that guy's like, a local legend. All the important bands in Chicago in the last few years, he's been in 'em."
"Yeah? Nothing I've ever heard."
"I don't think Barbara Streisand does duets with hardcore kids, Mom. Anyway, if you need me I'll be down in the basement with these guys."
Patrick reached for his drumsticks on his bed.
"Patrick Martin Stump! You are not meeting anyone, friend or not, with holes in your clothes!"
He followed his mother's gaze, and sure enough, his pants had been ripped clean from one back pocket to the other.
"Shit," Patrick muttered, feeling across the rip. His favourite pants! "Stupid bed frame." He wondered if a few safety pins would hold them together until he could get some new ones.
"Hand them over," said Mrs. Stump, holding out her hands. "No, don't argue with me, Patrick. Put something else on. I'm not having you walk around scruffy. I'll sew them for you later on."
His mother left the room, and downstairs she could be heard talking away. Patrick sighed. She was probably telling them all about his pants and what lay beneath them. Honestly, what is it with Moms and bums?
Patrick was rifling through his dresser. Nothing clean, unless he wanted to walk around in long underwear all day. The only other thing left was a pair of khaki shorts. Shorts was right. Patrick measured them against himself and pulled a face. His Dad had gotten him some summer clothes a few years before, and thought that these shorts would be "cool" enough for him. Patrick glanced up into the mirror at the argyle sweater he had on.
At least that'd been a good pick, he thought.
Wondering why the world seemed to hate Patrick Stump today, he reluctantly tugged on the shorts. He wasn't impressed.
"The pants with the gaping hole in the ass showed less," he said to himself.
Slowly but surely, Patrick resigned himself to looking like a lunatic, and headed downstairs, drumsticks in hand.
Hopefully I'll be able to get part two written today. Thanks for reading!