I Met Them at the Door in Shorts and an Argyle Sweater, Part 3.

Part Three is finally here!

Now, before any of you run off to read what I'm sure has been long anticipated (oh, the sarcasm!), I will unfortunately have to ask you to suspend belief over certain facts of the band's early years. I myself didn't hear the band until about 15 months ago, when the "Sixteen Candles" single was released. I've read up as much as I can on the band's history in that timespan, but I can't find facts about original guitarists, and, as much as I try, can not make the years from 2001 to 2003 (when Patrick was made a guitarist after NOWYG) disappear into thin air. I also didn't know that Patrick was already a decent guitar player pre-FOB. As it is, I was already committed to the idea I wrote out, so I just followed through with it instead of coming up with something half-assed. So I'm asking you to please allow this one breach of canon under the circumstances. As far as I know, everything else is correctish.

As per the rules of the mods, here are parts One and Two in case you missed it. I think this is the last part, at least for this fic, so thanks for the feedback I've gotten so far.

Oh, and there's a subtle movie reference in there. Internet cookies to the one who figures it out first!



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-13 for the brief touchy-feely.
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 groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. Someone was yelling. No. Someone was... ringing? Resigned, he pulled himself out of a very good dream (lunch with Nat King Cole? Yes please!) and threw his arm out from under the covers in the general direction of the phone. It caught the cord on the sixth ring and Patrick pulled the set toward him, knocking the whole thing off his night table.

"Hrm?" Patrick forced out, as means of greeting.

"Hey man," came Pete's voice -- wide awake and loud -- on the other end. "You up?"

Had Patrick even been able to open his eyes, he would have rolled them. Only Pete would think of calling up the town at, what was the time? Opening one eye tentatively, Patrick glanced at the clock. Past three in the morning. Great. He sighed and cleared his throat.

"Yeah. Sure. What's up? Jeanae again?"

Pete paused on the end of the line for a moment. Jeanae was a subject they didn't like to discuss, unless it was in the form of lyrics. When he spoke again, his voice came out sharp and cold.

"No. It's not about that."

"Look, Pete, I didn't mean to bring her up, I--"

"Can I come over?"

Patrick sat up to clear the sleep from his head. He really needed a good night's sleep. The last few weeks had been gigs, gigs, gigs and the late nights afterwards in diners, at Pete's, and trying (and failing) to catch up on the mountains of stuff he'd neglected. Like, oh, homework. The band was gaining speed fast and keeping up was tough. Patrick wanted to shut out his band mate's words and just get back to Nat. It was never that easy though, and Pete sounded kind of upset. He tried the only tactic he had.

"Umm, well, there's, umm... there's a girl here..."

Lies. All lies! And Pete saw right through them.

"Great! Hope she doesn't mind a third party. See you in fifteen."

"Does it have to be now? Pete--"

Patrick's protests went unheard as Pete hung up the phone. Whimpering a little for the sleep he was about to lose, Patrick didn't bother hanging up the phone, just threw it over the side of the bed. He pulled the covers over his head. Feeling himself drifting back into sleep, he figured he could get at least five more minutes of rest.


"Trick."

Weird. Patrick was still sitting with Nat King Cole on green lawns, but the voice coming out of his mouth was Pete's, not Nat's.

"Patrick. Wake up."

Wait a minute... Patrick shot up in bed, arms flailing wildly. His bedroom window hung open from where someone had climbed up and through. Pete was standing at the side of his bed.

"Wha--"

Eyes focusing, Patrick could just barely pick out his band mate in the darkness. He had gotten to know Pete enough over the last few months to pick out the slump of his shoulders, the way that he shifted from one foot to another. Something was wrong.

"Pete? Man, what's going on? Are you alright?"

"Just come on, Trick. We've got stuff to talk about." Pete turned, hoisted something over his shoulder, and quietly opened Patrick's bedroom door.

"What's that? Is that... Pete, where the hell did you get a guitar at this time of night?"

The light coming in from the hall illuminated part of Pete's face. He looked deflated, finished, like an army left fighting a battle after their allies had all surrendered. A one-man army.

"It's Joe's," he said, like that would explain everything. Putting a finger to his lips, he made his way silently out into the hall and started down the stairs. Patrick really had no choice but to follow him. He wrapped his comforter around himself, all decked out in Wile E. Coyote shorts and an old Willie Nelson shirt that had belonged to one of his uncles, and snuck down the stairs after his friend.

Pete was already on the couch by the time Patrick reached the basement. It was freezing. The guitar -- a beat-up old acoustic -- was sitting on the couch next to him. Their eyes met, and for once, Patrick couldn't read what was in them, what was going through Pete's head. Forcing the truth out of the boy was like pulling teeth, but with more sarcasm. Patrick just sat down next to him. It would come out eventually. It always did.

Patrick shivered, but whether it was from the cold or not was anybody's guess. He thought of pulling the blanket closer, but instead spread it out over the two of them. Pete tucked his knees up and pulled the comforter up to his chin.

"So, does Joe know you've stolen his guitar?"

Pete shrugged.

"He'll find out when I bring it back tomorrow."

"Look, Pete, if this is really about Jeanae, I want you to come straight out and tell me, alright? No more of this bullshit."

Pete said nothing, just kept looking at Patrick.

"Is it the band?"

Pete nodded, barely moving his head at all. They sat in silence for what seemed like hours.

"We're losing a guitar."

Ahh, the truth revealed. Patrick finally had a line and kept on biting.

"Joe?"

Pete shook his head. So it was Dan, then. Dan had been added to the band a few days after Patrick as a second guitar. The dude could play, but he had an attitude that rivalled Pete's, and they hadn't been getting on well.

"Pete, look, it's okay. We'll find someone else."

Pete’s head was drooping in defeat. Patrick scooted closer. He needed to fix this.

"Pete. Look at me. It's no big deal. We can cope."

A sullen black head was raised, and Patrick saw tears in his friend's eyes.

"I was just ready for this one to work, you know? Arma went to shit; all the other bands went to shit. It was all just a fucking joke, but this one... I don't know, Trick. I kinda felt like we had something here, you know?"

Patrick knew. It wasn't just a play together then split arrangement. These guys were close to him, especially Pete. He hadn't remembered having a friend like Pete around, ever. Trying to keep up friendly appearances when your band had been put through the shredder was tough. At least Arma had had one last hurrah. If this band went up in flames now, no one would be sticking around to watch it burn. And he needed Pete, crazy as he was. Together they were mad scientists, and this band was their Frankenstein. Yep. Patrick knew.

He didn't say any of this to Pete. He didn't have to, but didn't really know how, anyway. Pete was the guy with the words.

"We've gotta save it. I need you to do something for me. I need a favour."

"Sure, man. Anything you need." He meant it.

Pete reached over, picked up the guitar and handed it to Patrick.

"I need you to play, Trick."

Patrick gave Pete one of those you-must-be-joking looks, but no. He was dead serious.

"I meant anything within the realm of possibility. You know that, right?"

Pete just waited expectantly.

"There's no way. If I had a few months to pick it up, maybe, but this..." Patrick shook his head.

Pete shifted in his spot. He reached out and tucked the body of the guitar under Patrick's arm.

"Just play," he said. "I know your Dad taught you at least one song."


Patrick thought back, way back, to when he was about six years old. His Dad hadn't moved out yet. There was always a weathered acoustic sitting behind the door to the dining room. When he knew his Dad wasn't looking, Patrick would squeeze into the little space between the door and the wall of the dining room, where he knew no one could find him, and he would play. Well, in the sense that he would put a finger on a fret and pluck at the strings.

On one such day he was discovered by his father, calling him to dinner. Mr. Stump towered over his son, blocking out the light. He remembered thinking he was going to be in big trouble for touching his Dad's things. He ate quietly at supper, not making eye contact with anyone. His Mum talked about the goings on of the neighbourhood while he played with his carrots. When supper was over, Patrick asked to be excused and made for the stairs. His father stopped him.

"Patrick? I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

Every muscle in Patrick's body froze in place. This was it. How many weeks of grounding? Two? Three? A lifetime? When you're six, everything is inversed. Little things become big, the important things are laughable.

Patrick followed his father up the stairs to the spare room, opposite his parents'. This was where his Dad kept his instruments. He'd heard it called "the Arsenal" once, when all his Dad's friends were over. Patrick took a seat on a ripped up leather chair, while his Dad dug in the closet. Finally Mr. Stump straightened, backing out of the closet with another guitar, half the size of the one Patrick had been caught with earlier. Mr. Stump handed it to his son, and took up a chair across from him.

No punishment? He looked up at his Dad, puzzled.

"Now you go ahead and put that third finger on that fret." Patrick did as he was told. "Down, down... The string on the bottom. There you go."

Patrick followed his father for a few more minutes, learning where to put his first and second fingers, before he spoke up.

"What are you doing?"

Mr. Stump sat up a little from where he was slouched over in his chair.

"I'm teaching you to play a real song. Do you like playing with my guitars, Patrick?"

Patrick nodded, smiling a little. He really did.

"Then you'll need a song to practice. Here, you've just made a D chord. Let's hear it."

Patrick let his thumb run over all six strings, clumsily. He grinned.

After another half an hour, he was sent to his room with solid D, G, and A chords, and an awkward-sounding F sharp.

"It's a good song," his Dad had said to him, winking. "Soulful music by a great man. If nothing else, it'll get you the girl." Patrick was too young to understand what he meant.

That night, when everyone else was asleep, Patrick snuck down to the basement to practise the progression. He was getting the hang of it, when he heard a creak from the steps. Mr. Stump stepped into the dim light, wide awake.

"I think my son might just be a musician," he said to the open room. He smiled and settled himself down on the same couch that Patrick and Pete would occupy more than ten years later.

"Let's hear it."

Patrick blushed and started to put the guitar down.

"It's not good enough yet. I'm stuck on F."

Mr. Stump shook his head and nodded toward the guitar.

"Just play."

Patrick picked up the guitar in his faltering fingers and started to strum.


Pete stared at Patrick as he began to play, the music coming from him almost subconsciously. It was intense. Patrick kept his eyes screwed shut, even as he finished the introduction and launched full force into the first verse.

"Well I've been really tryin', baby..."

He knew that song. Pete cringed a little as Patrick's face contorted to hit the note on "tryin'", watching his lips move. The sound coming from them wasn't perfect, but it was earnest.

"Tryin' to hold back this feeling for so long..."

Pete relaxed a little and sat back, just watching Patrick work the song. The atmosphere in the room changed. The cold air became warmer and static with every bar he played; Pete could feel a shift as the Patrick he knew came to the surface, replacing the one who dropped his drinks when he got nervous, the one who claimed to lose his drumsticks two minutes to showtime so he could put off confronting his stage fright while he went to find them. That Patrick was gone.

"And if you feel like I feel, baby, then come on, let's get it on."

By the time he got to the chorus, Patrick Stump was electric. Pete wanted to give him a little shake to bring him out of it, tell him that that was proof enough, but, secretly afraid he might actually get a shock, watched his friend finish the song. That warm shiver that he had come to associate with Patrick took hold again as he sat there. It spread up his arms, to the back of his neck, then trickled down his spine into his stomach. Pete thought back to the night after the audition, how he had stayed awake longer than his band mate, holding his own breath to hear Patrick's.

The echoes of the last chorus died, and Patrick was sitting stock still. He opened his eyes to find that Pete's were fixed on him. He laughed nervously and put the guitar down, scratching at his head where a hat would usually sit. He was used to Pete staring, but this felt stranger.

"So stupid..." he mumbled, blushing. "Marvin Gaye as a first song."

Pete didn't laugh. He didn't blink. He didn't move at all. It made Patrick nervous. He was probably worse than Pete had realised.

"Dad said it would help me get girls. Pretty dumb."

He cast his eyes to the floor, watching a dust bunny make its way across the carpet in the draft.

"Patrick..." Pete began, finally moving something, even if it was only his lips. He hadn't taken his eyes off him.

"Yeah. I know. Umm... Look, Pete, it shouldn't be that hard to find another guy to play, right? It’s Chicago! I'm sure one of my friends knows someone--"

"Patrick." Pete stopped him short. "That was amazing."

"Oh." Patrick felt his face go hot again.

"I mean, technically you could use some work, sure, but... the energy that comes out... wow."

Patrick ducked his head and grinned widely. He'd rendered Peter Wentz speechless. This moment was one for the books.

"Hey, if you want technical proficiency, you should hear me do 'Twinkle Twinkle'," he said, his grin breaking loose.

It was enough to make Pete smile on the other side of the couch. Wait, on his side of the couch?

Pete scooted over closer until he was shoulder to shoulder with Patrick, drawing the blanket up as he moved. He tucked the blanket underneath them both and folded himself up underneath, mumbling sleepily.

"You saved the day, Trick. I knew you would. You always make it better."

Pete yawned, leaning into Patrick. But instead of just curling up and going to sleep like usual, he turned and kissed him on the cheek, his nose brushing along Patrick's cheekbone. He heard a quiet -- but distinct -- intake of breath as Patrick's nerves registered the touch, and his head turned. Pete hadn't moved yet, and their lips touched lightly. The shivering feeling that Pete still hid inside his stomach burst into his chest, onto his face and burned itself onto Patrick's lips as he turned simple contact into deliberate thought.

"This is it," he thought. "I've lost my best friend, and I'm gonna have one hell of a shiner in the morning."

But Patrick didn't pull away. He didn't yell, he didn't ask Pete what the hell he was thinking, and he didn't stop. Patrick just kissed his friend back, letting the warmth of his mouth settle in his chest like a knot. All the energy he had felt when he was playing the song for Pete rose up inside of him again in a way it had never done before. He let his arms go loose from where they were folded around his stomach, let them wander up the front of Pete's shirt, over his shoulders.

Pete broke the kiss first, falling back onto the couch off his heels.

"Ugh," he sputtered, feigning disgust. "Patrick Stump, you've got a serious case of morning breath."

Smiling, Patrick nestled himself under the covers and took his turn leaning into Pete. He tried to smile and yawn at the same time, and failed.

"Yeah, well we can't all stay fresh waiting for strange boys to come through our windows."

Pete chuckled, and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep.

"Trick?"

"Mmph?" croaked Patrick as he drifted off.

"You're my best friend, you know that?" Pete glanced sideways at the mussed up mop of blonde hair that was starting to tickle his neck.

"Mmm."

"Patrick?"

"Mm."

"If you ever even think of serenading me with that faulty F sharp I swear I'll kick your ass."

Patrick was already asleep.