"I Met Them at the Door in Shorts and an Argyle Sweater", Part Two.
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.
He wiped sweat off his forehead. He felt like he'd drummed for forever and a
day. One and a half drumsticks were stuck into his back pocket as Patrick
grabbed three cans of pop out of the basement fridge. Slamming it shut, he
walked back into the main room to find the equipment abandoned, Joe and Pete
sitting on one of the couches, looking very serious. Oh God. He hadn't got it.
Warily, Patrick took up a spot on the other couch, facing the guys. He placed
two of the cans on the coffee table between them, and cracked the lid on his
own, waiting for the verdict to fall.
Pete watched the him sip the liquid off the top of his Coke can. Patrick was
bunched up on the ratty couch in his basement, toes curled under him where they
touched the floor. This kid was nervous as all hell, Pete could see it.
Patrick's face remained completely motionless save for a shy pair of lips
slurping noisily. The kid was good; he had to give him that. He had just barely
squawked out a rendition of a Leonard Cohen song, but his drumming was solid,
and they needed a drummer more than anything. Pete eyed Patrick's shorts.
Now if only he could lose the damn geek getup.
They all sat, talking about nothing in particular. Joe was going through the
finer details of one of the many embarrassing mishaps of Pete's childhood. He
hit the punch line and Patrick let loose a smile that pushed his thick glasses
so far up on his face that they were hidden by a mess of blond hair. What a
smile. What a dork. Pete hurriedly threw his eyes around the room as Patrick
looked up for the first time and made eye contact. He pretended to be interested
in the wires hanging from the unfinished ceiling, the pattern of the rug on the
concrete floor, anything. Slowly he brought his eyes back up to the kid's face.
He didn't know where that smile came from, but he wanted it to hit him again. He
leant forward on the couch, just watching Patrick as he shyly answered the
barrage of questions Joe was throwing out at him.
How long had he played for?
Had he ever sung for a band before?
How was he at song writing?
What kind of music did he normally listen to?
Who shot first?
"What?" Patrick stumbled over the last question. He looked at Joe like he might
as well have come from Planet X.
Joe smiled, rearranged himself on the cushions, and asked the question again.
"Star Wars. Who shot first?"
"Oh," Patrick said without hesitation. "Han definitely shot first, no question
man. I mean—"
Joe didn’t wait for Patrick to even finish what he was sure would be a long,
play-by-play analysis of the whole scene. He'd gotten that much out of the kid
in the first five minutes he met him.
"You’re in," he told Patrick, giving him the thumbs up. "Get ready to rule the
Chicago area, my friend."
Patrick grinned a little as he looked from Joe to Pete. Pete was still staring,
and for a split second, their eyes met. Neither of them looked away, and
Patrick"s grin widened into that goofy smile again. Pete could feel something
inside of himself twisting, tightening, something that made him shiver just a
little.
Patrick's smile drifted back over to Joe, and Pete snapped out of his daze as
Joe hit him on the shoulder.
"Dude, where’d you go?"
The feeling disappeared just as quickly as it came on.
"Huh? Oh. I'm here. What's the call?"
"Kid's in. Rehearsal at my place on Thursday." Joe started to drag himself off
the couch. He pointed at Patrick's kit at the back of the room. "Think you can
haul that over there? It's not really walkable."
Patrick shrugged like it was no big deal, trying to be cool.
"I’ll see if Mom’ll give me the minivan."
Joe laughed, slipping into a pair of ridiculous lime-green sneakers. He headed
up the basement steps.
"See you on Thursday Pat. I'll let myself out."
Patrick winced slightly at the nickname.
"It's Patrick," he called up.
Eyes on the floor, Patrick turned around and realised that Pete was still
sitting on his couch. Weirder, that Pete was staring at him. Not in a mean way
like people often did. Just… staring. Patrick flashed him a nervous grin and
went to find the other half of his drumstick and a roll of tape.
"I think I saw it roll behind the deep freeze," Pete called over. He was
scratching his head through the hood of a sweatshirt, black and bleached strands
of hair poking out. He sighed as Patrick tried to wedge half of himself down the
side of the freezer and got up to help. The two of them managed to shimmy the
freezer out from the wall, one boy to each side. Pete tried not to notice the
twisting feeling return whenever his hand touched Patrick's. Without a word, the
drumstick was found (and found to be damaged beyond repair), and the freezer was
heaved unceremoniously back against the wall.
"Thanks," Patrick said, holding up the splintered stick.
"No big deal," Pete mumbled. He was trying not to make eye contact again. The
kid gave off a weird vibe, and he wasn't sure if he liked it yet.
Awkward. Very awkward. Patrick just stood there, looking around; his eyes
sweeping the floor then back up at Pete, around the basement for another turn…
"So, I guess you've probably got stuff to do, I've got some stuff…" he thumbed
toward the mess of laundry hanging out of a doorway behind him. He rubbed the
back of his neck, anxiously. "It’s okay. I mean, you don't have to stay or
anything."
Pete tried not to think about who he was supposed to meet that night, what they
were supposed to do, and where it was going to be done. Girls could wait. He
wanted to figure this kid out.
"Naw… I mean, I've got some time if you just wanna… you know. If you wanna
hang out for a bit that'd be cool. Unless you really need to get to, uh…" Pete
glanced at the laundry. "No, I don't have to be anywhere."
The smile on Patrick's face told Pete that this didn't happen often; kids didn't
just hang around him for the sake of hanging around. The twisting feeling that
Pete was starting to connect to that ten-foot smile was beginning to work itself
up again, shivers and all. The picture in his head of that girl he was supposed
to meet was slowly being replaced, piece by piece. Pete tried not to think of
what that meant.
They stood there for two, maybe three minutes, just grinning at each other like
fools. Patrick broke the silence first, suddenly moving around the room like a
wind-up toy set loose.
"So, um, it's kinda too late for dinner," he said, looking at the digital watch
on his wrist. "Wow, yeah. Heh. And I guess then it's too late to jam or
anything… Um, I've got movies…"
"Oh yeah? What kind of movies?"
Pete was hoping for something easy, maybe The Goonies.
"I've got Back to the Future on VHS upstairs in my room, but if that's
not your thing then there's, like—"
"Future’s fine," Pete said, trying to hold back laughter. Man, when
this kid went off, he really went off. It was hard to follow him once he got
excited about something. He liked it.
Upstairs, the two of them had to be careful to tiptoe past Mrs. Stump's room.
They had really lost track of time, and Patrick knew from experience that it
wouldn't be pretty if they woke her up.
The old TV in Patrick's room crackled as it was turned on. Pete didn't ask
before he made himself comfortable on Patrick's bed, which was still embedded
with the imprint of his body from earlier. He commandeered a pillow, which was
in one second tucked snugly under his chin, and made a grab for the Chex while
Patrick fought with the VCR. Finally, the machine co-operated, and Patrick
looked for somewhere to sit. Pete already had command of the only comfy spot, so
he settled himself down at the foot of his bed, craned his neck up, and began to
watch.
The first fifteen minutes of Back to the Future went by in silence. The
volume on the TV was so low that any other noise seemed deafening in comparison.
Pete had only watched the opening credits before giving up the ghost and stuck
to dividing his attention between keeping his thoughts in check, watching
Patrick, sitting silently on his bedroom floor, and making sure he didn't choke
on his Chex. He was nervous, and for no good reason. He was glad it was dark so
that Patrick couldn't see his face, even if he was turned around.
Probably look just like he did earlier, he thought.
Patrick laughed quietly at the TV screen and finally broke the silence.
"Pete." He turned around. "Pete. Stop hogging the Chex! Pass them over!"
Patrick's glasses were illuminated completely blue by the reflection from the
movie. Pete couldn't help but laugh.
"No way, man. He who owns the sack owns the snacks."
Just to prove his point, he stuffed another handful of Chex into his mouth.
"Dude. Come on. I didn’t even get to have dinner. You owe me."
Pleading over snack mix? Was this guy for real?
"Hey. You want some, you can come up here and get some."
Pete tossed Patrick a pillow, and Patrick scrambled up onto the other side of
the double bed. They sat close together, snacks separating them. Patrick was
reaching for a handful when Pete stuck his hand in. Patrick looked up first,
annoyed. Pete met his eyes a second later. He was trying not to. That twisting
feeling was coming back, and now his arm, his shoulder, hell, his whole
body was pins and needles. He shivered once as he looked up, straight
into Patrick’s face. The annoyance turned, yes, into a smile. Not quite as big
as the last ones, but with the same intensity. It was a toss-up between slapping
him and kissing him. Pete's hands shook with nervousness, as he started to lean
in, almost imperceptibly. Nothing broke their gaze.
"If my calculations are correct, when this baby hits eighty-eight miles per
hour... you're gonna see some serious shit," Patrick said along with the tape.
He twisted his face into a mutated impression of Doc Brown.
Pete was scared shitless. He backed away so fast his head hit the wall behind
the bed.
"Shit!" he hissed, trying to be quiet.
Patrick was stifling giggles. He took that opportunity to steal the Chex, which
won him a well-placed punch to the arm from Pete.
The boys moved closer together, watching the movie all the way through, quoting
lines and making faces. After that, they watched another. And another. By the
time the sun came up, Patrick and Pete were fast asleep, sleeping sitting up
from leaning against each other. When Mrs. Stump came in to check on her son as
she headed out for work, she turned off what was left of Reservoir Dogs,
carefully gathered up what Chex hadn't been spilled or slept on, closed the
curtains, and quietly left the room.
There you go, part two. Hope you liked it. I wouldn't expect part three up until
later into the week though, exams and all. So much fun. 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.
He wiped sweat off his forehead. He felt like he'd drummed for forever and a
day. One and a half drumsticks were stuck into his back pocket as Patrick
grabbed three cans of pop out of the basement fridge. Slamming it shut, he
walked back into the main room to find the equipment abandoned, Joe and Pete
sitting on one of the couches, looking very serious. Oh God. He hadn't got it.
Warily, Patrick took up a spot on the other couch, facing the guys. He placed
two of the cans on the coffee table between them, and cracked the lid on his
own, waiting for the verdict to fall.
Pete watched the him sip the liquid off the top of his Coke can. Patrick was
bunched up on the ratty couch in his basement, toes curled under him where they
touched the floor. This kid was nervous as all hell, Pete could see it.
Patrick's face remained completely motionless save for a shy pair of lips
slurping noisily. The kid was good; he had to give him that. He had just barely
squawked out a rendition of a Leonard Cohen song, but his drumming was solid,
and they needed a drummer more than anything. Pete eyed Patrick's shorts.
Now if only he could lose the damn geek getup.
They all sat, talking about nothing in particular. Joe was going through the
finer details of one of the many embarrassing mishaps of Pete's childhood. He
hit the punch line and Patrick let loose a smile that pushed his thick glasses
so far up on his face that they were hidden by a mess of blond hair. What a
smile. What a dork. Pete hurriedly threw his eyes around the room as Patrick
looked up for the first time and made eye contact. He pretended to be interested
in the wires hanging from the unfinished ceiling, the pattern of the rug on the
concrete floor, anything. Slowly he brought his eyes back up to the kid's face.
He didn't know where that smile came from, but he wanted it to hit him again. He
leant forward on the couch, just watching Patrick as he shyly answered the
barrage of questions Joe was throwing out at him.
How long had he played for?
Had he ever sung for a band before?
How was he at song writing?
What kind of music did he normally listen to?
Who shot first?
"What?" Patrick stumbled over the last question. He looked at Joe like he might
as well have come from Planet X.
Joe smiled, rearranged himself on the cushions, and asked the question again.
"Star Wars. Who shot first?"
"Oh," Patrick said without hesitation. "Han definitely shot first, no question
man. I mean—"
Joe didn’t wait for Patrick to even finish what he was sure would be a long,
play-by-play analysis of the whole scene. He'd gotten that much out of the kid
in the first five minutes he met him.
"You’re in," he told Patrick, giving him the thumbs up. "Get ready to rule the
Chicago area, my friend."
Patrick grinned a little as he looked from Joe to Pete. Pete was still staring,
and for a split second, their eyes met. Neither of them looked away, and
Patrick"s grin widened into that goofy smile again. Pete could feel something
inside of himself twisting, tightening, something that made him shiver just a
little.
Patrick's smile drifted back over to Joe, and Pete snapped out of his daze as
Joe hit him on the shoulder.
"Dude, where’d you go?"
The feeling disappeared just as quickly as it came on.
"Huh? Oh. I'm here. What's the call?"
"Kid's in. Rehearsal at my place on Thursday." Joe started to drag himself off
the couch. He pointed at Patrick's kit at the back of the room. "Think you can
haul that over there? It's not really walkable."
Patrick shrugged like it was no big deal, trying to be cool.
"I’ll see if Mom’ll give me the minivan."
Joe laughed, slipping into a pair of ridiculous lime-green sneakers. He headed
up the basement steps.
"See you on Thursday Pat. I'll let myself out."
Patrick winced slightly at the nickname.
"It's Patrick," he called up.
Eyes on the floor, Patrick turned around and realised that Pete was still
sitting on his couch. Weirder, that Pete was staring at him. Not in a mean way
like people often did. Just… staring. Patrick flashed him a nervous grin and
went to find the other half of his drumstick and a roll of tape.
"I think I saw it roll behind the deep freeze," Pete called over. He was
scratching his head through the hood of a sweatshirt, black and bleached strands
of hair poking out. He sighed as Patrick tried to wedge half of himself down the
side of the freezer and got up to help. The two of them managed to shimmy the
freezer out from the wall, one boy to each side. Pete tried not to notice the
twisting feeling return whenever his hand touched Patrick's. Without a word, the
drumstick was found (and found to be damaged beyond repair), and the freezer was
heaved unceremoniously back against the wall.
"Thanks," Patrick said, holding up the splintered stick.
"No big deal," Pete mumbled. He was trying not to make eye contact again. The
kid gave off a weird vibe, and he wasn't sure if he liked it yet.
Awkward. Very awkward. Patrick just stood there, looking around; his eyes
sweeping the floor then back up at Pete, around the basement for another turn…
"So, I guess you've probably got stuff to do, I've got some stuff…" he thumbed
toward the mess of laundry hanging out of a doorway behind him. He rubbed the
back of his neck, anxiously. "It’s okay. I mean, you don't have to stay or
anything."
Pete tried not to think about who he was supposed to meet that night, what they
were supposed to do, and where it was going to be done. Girls could wait. He
wanted to figure this kid out.
"Naw… I mean, I've got some time if you just wanna… you know. If you wanna
hang out for a bit that'd be cool. Unless you really need to get to, uh…" Pete
glanced at the laundry. "No, I don't have to be anywhere."
The smile on Patrick's face told Pete that this didn't happen often; kids didn't
just hang around him for the sake of hanging around. The twisting feeling that
Pete was starting to connect to that ten-foot smile was beginning to work itself
up again, shivers and all. The picture in his head of that girl he was supposed
to meet was slowly being replaced, piece by piece. Pete tried not to think of
what that meant.
They stood there for two, maybe three minutes, just grinning at each other like
fools. Patrick broke the silence first, suddenly moving around the room like a
wind-up toy set loose.
"So, um, it's kinda too late for dinner," he said, looking at the digital watch
on his wrist. "Wow, yeah. Heh. And I guess then it's too late to jam or
anything… Um, I've got movies…"
"Oh yeah? What kind of movies?"
Pete was hoping for something easy, maybe The Goonies.
"I've got Back to the Future on VHS upstairs in my room, but if that's
not your thing then there's, like—"
"Future’s fine," Pete said, trying to hold back laughter. Man, when
this kid went off, he really went off. It was hard to follow him once he got
excited about something. He liked it.
Upstairs, the two of them had to be careful to tiptoe past Mrs. Stump's room.
They had really lost track of time, and Patrick knew from experience that it
wouldn't be pretty if they woke her up.
The old TV in Patrick's room crackled as it was turned on. Pete didn't ask
before he made himself comfortable on Patrick's bed, which was still embedded
with the imprint of his body from earlier. He commandeered a pillow, which was
in one second tucked snugly under his chin, and made a grab for the Chex while
Patrick fought with the VCR. Finally, the machine co-operated, and Patrick
looked for somewhere to sit. Pete already had command of the only comfy spot, so
he settled himself down at the foot of his bed, craned his neck up, and began to
watch.
The first fifteen minutes of Back to the Future went by in silence. The
volume on the TV was so low that any other noise seemed deafening in comparison.
Pete had only watched the opening credits before giving up the ghost and stuck
to dividing his attention between keeping his thoughts in check, watching
Patrick, sitting silently on his bedroom floor, and making sure he didn't choke
on his Chex. He was nervous, and for no good reason. He was glad it was dark so
that Patrick couldn't see his face, even if he was turned around.
Probably look just like he did earlier, he thought.
Patrick laughed quietly at the TV screen and finally broke the silence.
"Pete." He turned around. "Pete. Stop hogging the Chex! Pass them over!"
Patrick's glasses were illuminated completely blue by the reflection from the
movie. Pete couldn't help but laugh.
"No way, man. He who owns the sack owns the snacks."
Just to prove his point, he stuffed another handful of Chex into his mouth.
"Dude. Come on. I didn’t even get to have dinner. You owe me."
Pleading over snack mix? Was this guy for real?
"Hey. You want some, you can come up here and get some."
Pete tossed Patrick a pillow, and Patrick scrambled up onto the other side of
the double bed. They sat close together, snacks separating them. Patrick was
reaching for a handful when Pete stuck his hand in. Patrick looked up first,
annoyed. Pete met his eyes a second later. He was trying not to. That twisting
feeling was coming back, and now his arm, his shoulder, hell, his whole
body was pins and needles. He shivered once as he looked up, straight
into Patrick’s face. The annoyance turned, yes, into a smile. Not quite as big
as the last ones, but with the same intensity. It was a toss-up between slapping
him and kissing him. Pete's hands shook with nervousness, as he started to lean
in, almost imperceptibly. Nothing broke their gaze.
"If my calculations are correct, when this baby hits eighty-eight miles per
hour... you're gonna see some serious shit," Patrick said along with the tape.
He twisted his face into a mutated impression of Doc Brown.
Pete was scared shitless. He backed away so fast his head hit the wall behind
the bed.
"Shit!" he hissed, trying to be quiet.
Patrick was stifling giggles. He took that opportunity to steal the Chex, which
won him a well-placed punch to the arm from Pete.
The boys moved closer together, watching the movie all the way through, quoting
lines and making faces. After that, they watched another. And another. By the
time the sun came up, Patrick and Pete were fast asleep, sleeping sitting up
from leaning against each other. When Mrs. Stump came in to check on her son as
she headed out for work, she turned off what was left of Reservoir Dogs,
carefully gathered up what Chex hadn't been spilled or slept on, closed the
curtains, and quietly left the room.
There you go, part two. Hope you liked it. I wouldn't expect part three up until
later into the week though, exams and all. So much fun. Thanks for reading!