Just Enough
( I hope the HTML works! )
Title: Just Enough.
Summary: “So which is it -- the boy who writes the songs, or the boy who’s in them?”
Peter Wentz accidentally writes a concept album and it is the best mistake he has ever made (except for falling in love).
Author: FICTION by
burgerking
Rating: PG-13 or soft R. (Sketchy subject matter, but nothing explicit.)
Dedication:sacrilegends and all my muses at 
northinstitute (join ‘em!)
Author's Notes: In the past most of my fic has centered around Patrick’s mindset. I decided that, for this one, I would try to peer into the delightfully crooked psyche that is Peter Wentz.
Also, it might be interesting to think of this fic in terms of the five stages of death: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. I did not have this in mind when starting the fic, it just sort of wrote itself.
PART I: THE ARTIST
"I can take your problems away
With a nod and a wave of my hand…
Because that's just the kind of boy that I am.
And the only thing I haven't done yet is die.
It's me (and my plus one) in the afterlife.
Crowds are won and lost, and won again,
But our hearts beat for the die-hards.
So: Long live the car-crash hearts.
Cry on the couch. All the poets come to life.
Fix me in forty-five…"
It was another Los Angeles morning; the routine hustle and bustle of America. Cars moving about the streets just as quickly and noisily and carelessly as the people who drove them. And a boy with a beautiful mess on his shoulders -- a boy known commonly by his abbreviated name, 'Pete Wentz,' as it were -- found himself seated on a familiar, comfy chair.
He was an artist…a musician. And although he had yet to pen a single word of his latest musical venture, he found himself describing his so-called grand artistic vision in vast detail to his increasingly apprehensive therapist.
"It's all about perspective," he had insisted on that particular day, with a fervent enthusiasm that was only evident when he spoke of his writing. "I want to take this new album to a totally different place. I want to see it through his eyes, you know?"
And he was talking, of course, about the "eyes" of his best friend. Eyes that were brilliant blue, a mind that was just brilliant in general. This other boy, whom Pete was now alluding to, was one whom the therapist had come to be quite familiar with. His name and identity (as said therapist understood) was Mr. Patrick Martin Stump: vocalist of a little band that Pete had put together, called Fall Out Boy.
So, while Pete sat in his safe little chair and ticked off the reasons why Patrick would love his new lyrics, so too did the ominous clock above the threshold tick away its seconds. These two things happened in oblivious unison for quite some time, until eventually, the session came to an end (as most things often do). And there you have it: forty-five more minutes that Peter would never get back. But at least he'd spent it talking about the one thing that kept him going -- no, no, make that two things.
"Patrick's gonna be blown away," Peter called over his shoulder as he left, by way of a goodbye. "He's going to love this shit just as much as I do. This is going to be the album, and he's gonna see that right from the start."
But it might be wise, at this point, to note that things don't always happen quite the way Pete Wentz predicts them.
*****
CAR CRASH HEARTS, written neatly (or, about as neat as that scrawl could possibly get) across the top.
Words dashed in a hurry across a sadly abused piece of notebook paper, now being waved excitedly in front of a pair of surprised blue eyes. Patrick Martin Stump, vocalist of Fall Out Boy, just trying to get something done on his laptop, being interrupted (as usual) by his oddly endearing best friend. He took the paper, as was their custom. A few moments of excited/contemplative silence passed. And then, an approving nod.
"It's good."
"Just good?"
"As good as anything else, I mean. I like it, Pete. Is 'Car Crash Hearts' just a tentative name?"
But Peter had grown accustomed to avoiding questions by now. "I tried a new perspective," he said, in a voice that sounded weaker than it did in his head. But why did he have to point that out? Didn't Patrick get it?
No, in fact, Patrick didn't get it, but he owed it to the artist to at least try to. So he, the ever-patient Patrick, smiled faintly and glanced back down at the words again. To him, this was still typical Pete. Nothing to see here, folks. A helpless shake of the head. "I don't…"
"It's in there, Patrick. I swear it wasn't me writing those lyrics."
"Well, I -- this is good stuff regardless, Pete. It doesn't matter if I can read into it or not. You're the artist. So let me know when you have a name for it, okay?"
"Yeah… okay." Another nod, this time from the boy with the dark circles around his eyes. Happy, at least, that Patrick had liked the lyrics, but there was something choking in his throat; he ignored it, turned, and walked out of the room.
"It doesn't matter?" Of course it matters. You're the one that's supposed to get me.
*****
"Baby, seasons change, but people don't.
And I'll always be waiting in the back room.
I'm boring, but overcompensate with headlines
And flash photography."
The second song was written almost entirely while Peter sat out on his LA balcony, overlooking the world that he had reluctantly (or not-so reluctantly) become the ruler of. That brave new world of media, rumors, newsprint and shutters and shutters and shutters…
His presence didn't make any sense, not in this world. He was, after all, just a regular boy (though he wondered if maybe he'd outgrow that word-- perhaps not until he outgrew the hoodies and girls' jeans.) Yes, just a boy from Chicago, with a dog and a best friend and a couple of dudes who would tolerate him for the sake of music. That was the world that he used to know, anyway…. But now, for some reason, he was a "celebrity," complete with a C-list love affair and the obligatory nude photos. This, somehow, was the equation that made him a teenage god; a wet dream. He wasn't quite as adverse to this new life as Patrick was, but he couldn't say that he really cared about it either way. So why did everybody else?
Maybe, he thought, that was precisely the reason why he and Patrick had stayed so close through it all. Maybe that was why they thrived off of each other. These days, Pete found himself caught up in that gold-plated world of his, quite certain that he was living a full life (although he always came up empty); Patrick, meanwhile, was content with still being that other boy from Chicago. What did a few more zeroes in the bank account matter to him?
"They say your head can be a prison,
And these are just conjugal visits.
People will dissect us 'til this doesn't mean a thing anymore…"
"You're my only constant factor," Peter had told him once, in privacy. "Some kids… hell, even some of my friends are letting go because they hate who I've become. But some of them are latching on because they love me, and they love this life. You're the only one who understands that Pete Wentz didn't start -- or cease -- in 2005."
At that moment Patrick's eyes had been, as they often were, fixated on his laptop screen. But Pete remembered how they'd sparkled; how the corners of his mouth had turned up just a bit. Just enough. "Save it for the lyrics," he had said.
And Pete did.
But on the night when the email hit Patrick's inbox, there was no recognition of that. No recollection of their late night conversation. No understanding in those big blue eyes, as Pete so glumly observed from his own bunk. Then he heard (and saw, and swore he felt) Patrick's fingers as they typed out their reply. Moments later, a ding on the Sidekick: "Very cool. Now get back to sleep."
There had been a time when Patrick would have climbed into Pete's bunk, demanding that he explain the cynicism behind these new lyrics; a time when Pete would have curled up, his back to Patrick, sulking; a time when maybe they would have gotten in a fistfight, and maybe Patrick would never have gotten an answer anyway. But apparently, that time was gone, and Pete now found himself wishing that he still had someone to be angry at-- someone who would at least try to break open the lock.
*****
PART II: THE FAÇADE
"I am an arms dealer, fitting you with weapons in the form of words.
And don't really care which side wins,
As long as the room keeps singing.
That's just the business I'm in.
I'm a leading man, and the lies I weave are oh-so intricate…"
When the next set of lyrics had been written, there appeared another piece of notebook paper in front of Patrick's face. Peter had comprised this next song-to-be while on the road, and when asked (by a pretentious journalist) to cite what had inspired him, he had fed out a stock answer, intending to raise eyebrows rather than to provide insight:
For as often as Pete Wentz tries to shake things up (much to the dismay of that level-headed vocalist), he finds that the monotony of touring is rarely disrupted. The so-called surprises at each concert are actually well-planned and premeditated, right down to who will tackle who during who's set… and even though the songs make the kids scream and smile, they just don't have that same effect on the band. Not anymore.
And yes, that was all true (painfully true, when it came right down to it) but that's not where the words had really come from. The intimacy Peter had lost with his fans did not -- could not -- compare to the intimacy he'd lost with his best friend.
If he'd been entirely honest with himself, Peter would have admitted that there was no nostalgia in the lyrics, at least not in the way he claimed there was. The only thing that he missed was a single moment in time that he had forever stored in his memory. It was the way Patrick's face had lit up when he had first read through the lyrics for Take This to Your Grave.
But it's not as if that mattered, now.
No, what mattered was this new song, which Pete was affectionately referring to as Arm's Race.
"It's so you," Patrick had said.
And sure, Peter had agreed with that, though he wasn't quite sure who "you" was referring to anymore. An artist seeking new perspective, or an insecure child who needed validation? Whatever the matter, he realized that this new persona of his would keep Patrick happy… so maybe, just maybe, he could keep up the act.
*****
"I only keep myself this sick in the head
'Cause I know how the words get you (off)."
A few months of writing had already passed by the time Pete completed a piece that he had tentatively titled "Me & You, or, I'm Like a Lawyer With the Way I'm Always Trying to Get You Off."
It was a Sunday morning when Patrick readily took the most recent sheet of notebook paper into his hands (smooth hands, Pete noticed, but how was that possible with all the guitar playing?) and he studied it carefully. He was silent, Pete was nervous.
"It's introspective," Peter explained, "I mean… sort of. That's what this whole album is gonna be for me. You know what I mean?"
Patrick nodded; cracked a smile. "Yeah, I get it, and I've noticed that a lot lately. I like that about you, Pete… you're not afraid to write what you're really feeling. They say you're only writing what the kids want to hear, but I know that's bullshit."
Peter smiled at the compliment and suddenly found himself leaning over his friend's shoulder… A bit too close, perhaps? But it's not as though Patrick noticed, and it's not as though Peter pretended that he cared. No, he simply leaned in as close as he could, deeply inhaled the scent of (new?) shampoo in Patrick's hair, and whispered the title into his ear: "Me and you."
Patrick immediately bubbled into laughter. "Yeah, Wentz, me and you."
This wasn't quite the reaction that Peter had hoped for, but it was all he needed before he could turn and leave Patrick to his work. This was his daily fix, feeding the addiction. He was sick (getting sicker by the day) but these little interactions kept him going. An injection of Patrick straight to the veins -- that was all he needed (no, didn't need it, but…)
That was all he wanted. Just wanted to give the boy lyrics and get him to show those pretty little teeth…
Yeah, an "addiction," that's what Pete had jokingly been referring to it as. But it wasn't really like that, no, not at all! It wasn't like a drug addiction by any means. He could certainly go for a while without seeing his best friend… if he really wanted to… right? Right! After all, he was an adult now. Mature, independent. There was LA for him to see, a different kind of cure for that sickness (what had the doctor called it? Love?). No, no, this wasn't really an addiction, because he didn't need Patrick.
"So you're moving back to Chicago?" Joe asked a week later.
"Just until we finish writing the album."
So maybe I fucking need him.
And that was it. Addiction, and Peter was using every filthy ruse up his sleeve to get his drug. Anything that would get Patrick raving, anything that would inspire him, anything that would make him appreciate that mess of a boy named Pete.
*****
"Hum Hallelujah just off the key of reason.
I thought I loved you.
It was just how you looked in the light."
It was summer now, a gorgeous summer. Two best friends were sitting side by side, and there was nothing unusual about this, not even if maybe one of these friends wanted so badly to reach out and hold the hand of the other. Open roads and open hearts; "Do I turn left up here?"
A hilltop. Cliché, perhaps, but neither Patrick or Peter seemed to mind. A hilltop outside of Chicago, quiet and calm and a pleasant escape from fans and photographers. A place to think, to talk, to write…
"We came here that one night, when it was prom at your school… remember?" And yes, Patrick did, so Peter went on: "That was awesome." Two car doors slammed shut, two young men found themselves sitting against the warm grille of a tiny blue car. "When the police came… shit, we had them so confused! I'm surprised they didn't just bring us downtown."
Patrick burst into his usual colorful laughter in response to this memory. "Yeah, no, can you even imagine trying to explain that to my dad? He would've never let me hang out with you again…"
The blond then carefully trailed off (as he sometimes did) and opted to look out at the scenery around them. He smiled faintly, just enough so that Pete's eyes couldn't leave him. As if they ever could.
There weren't many things, these days, that Peter could honestly say that he enjoyed -- but this was one of them, the fact that things would never need to be explicitly stated between these two boys. Even a stupid night so many (or not-so-many) years ago… they could both still feel it, and could both still understand it. And things had been like that forever, Pete noticed. There had always been Patrick to pick up the pieces for him, when he was unable to do so himself. And he wondered if, perhaps, he'd ever accidentally picked up Patrick's pieces, too.
This unspoken bond of theirs was comforting, especially now, but Pete reminded himself that he couldn't keep putting off what he'd come out here to do. And so, there were a few moments of rummaging through the back of Patrick's car, followed by a distinct thud as Peter's laptop landed carelessly on Patrick's lap. A word document without a title… Dutifully, Patrick read.
Hum Hallelujah. Ah, yes.
Admittedly, Patrick had known that it would only be a matter of time before Peter wrote (more) about the Ativan incident. Still, though, he found himself feeling uncomfortable as he looked over the lyrics. And his concern was clearly visible to Pete (who let out a guilty sigh of relief, because for him, this was a victory). Finally, Patrick understood!
Or he understood part of it, at least; he understood enough. These words were telling him, without a shadow of doubt, that something was wrong with Peter. But what? The exact problem escaped Patrick, for the lyrics were ambiguous as always. Helplessly, Patrick turned and looked at Pete. His worried blue eyes met tired brown ones.
Words.
Words were what dictated their working relationship. But out here, there was no need for them, no use for them at all. Patrick rested his head on Peter's shoulder. Pete's skillfully adorned arms wound around Patrick's waist.
And there were no more words.
"Our teenage vow in a parking lot:
'Till tonight do us part.'
I sing the blues, and swallow them too."
*****
"How cruel is the golden rule
When the lives we lived are only golden-plated?
And I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me,
Though I carry karats for everyone to see…"
There had certainly been a lot of writing going on in Pete and Patrick's apartment over the summer… or in Patrick's apartment, anyway, where Pete had been staying just until we finish the album. However, despite the familiarity of late-night choruses of finger tips on keyboards, the album did not find itself any closer to being complete.
So Patrick worried some more.
"Have you got any new songs finished?" He casually asked over breakfast one morning, while watching Peter prod at his Cheerios with his spoon.
"No."
"Anything close?"
"No." Then Peter glanced up at his host with eyes that were sunken and heavy; it almost startled Patrick, because he was still not used to that hurried transition between bright-eyed celebrity Pete and the Peter who only he (and some select exes) had ever seen.
"Oh, um. What have you been writing, then?"
"I don't even know anymore. But I'm trying, Patrick, I promise."
"Oh, no, don't worry about it," Patrick stuttered, "I'm not trying to rush you. I was just --"
"I don't think you would like anything that I've written lately."
Patrick smiled. "Heh. You never worried about that before!"
And then there was a pause.
"I know!" Peter suddenly exclaimed, and this time he did startle Patrick. "I know, I fucking know! Everything's different now, everything's weird! I can't do this shit anymore, okay?" He stood up from the table quickly (made a conscious effort to be as loud as possible) and stormed out of the apartment before any sense could be made of the situation by either of the two boys.
And there was Patrick, left in the aftermath, as he always was.
Prior to this outburst, Patrick had quickly gotten used to filling his daylight hours with non-stop Peter, Peter, Peter. But the days that followed the Breakfast Incident were filled with just about anything but Peter -- that is, there were no sounds of his typing, no Sidekick alerts, no awful renditions of Michael Jackson songs. Patrick stayed awake every night until two, just listening for any sound that might indicate the return of his best friend. There was nothing.
Of course, Patrick and Peter had spent long periods of time apart before (sometimes on not-so-good terms, too). But this time there was a sense of fear, a sense of loneliness and worry, and maybe Patrick was beginning to understand what that last song had been about.
Peter turned up a week later.
Patrick found him around four in the morning, curled up on the couch: He was asleep, looking as though this was the first time he had slept since he'd left (and it probably was). So instead of waking the poor boy, Patrick worriedly paced around Peter's room -- the living room -- until he noticed a new piece of paper with words scrawled across it.
There really wasn't much to read, but from these words Patrick easily gathered that yes, something was indeed beyond wrong here. Something was clearly eating Peter from the inside, and damn if Patrick wasn't going to try to help. He decided, right then and there (with Peter snoring loudly) that he would be there for his best friend no matter what.
But perhaps that would have been easier for him to do that if only the lyrics hadn't been written on the back of a drugstore receipt.
*****
"Been looking forward to the future,
But my eyesight is going bad.
And this crystal ball is always cloudy
Except for when you look into the past."
The morning after Peter had stumbled back into their shared apartment, he had awoken to find that Patrick was sitting beside him. Patrick was asleep at the time, but Peter knew that he'd been watching him (protecting him?) all night. And yeah, sure, Peter could appreciate that. Luckily, it hadn't been a night when he had dreamt of Patrick. That could have been awkward.
But no, in fact, on this particular night, Peter had dreamt of terrors that he couldn't bring himself to recall, not even if he wanted to (which he didn't). These monsters had been swirling around his mind so often lately -- and he knew why.
Self-medication. (No one else is going to fix me.)
The façade had grown stale to Peter. He wasn't supposed to be this attached to anybody, so why the hell did he find himself here, now, facing this desperate need to capture Patrick's attention, of all people? Hadn't he already done that enough, and without even trying? And what were these dreams trying to tell him -- the frightening ones? The filthy ones?
Self-medication…
It was afternoon now, and Patrick was awake. "For the five-hundredth time, are you okay?"
"Depends who's asking."
"Look, Pete, I'm really trying, here. I'm trying to understand what the fuck you're doing and why the fuck you're doing it. So are you going to talk to me about it or not? Are you going to give me anything to work with at all?"
And maybe a tiny little part of Peter laughed inside at that; at the fact that everything out of Patrick's mouth would perpetually sound like a conversation about lyrics. But an even louder voice in Pete's mind told him to take offense to what Patrick was doing (though he wasn't sure if this voice was the artist, the façade, or the drug-addled drama queen.)
"Fuck off, will you? So I went out for a few days. I'm a big boy now Patrick, I don't need you to take care of me." (Patrick held his tongue -- Then why the hell are you living in my apartment?) Peter went on, "Look, I've just got some shit to sort out."
"Clearly."
"And it's something that I need to think through on my own. So just stay out of it, Patrick."
"Okay, fine. You win." Patrick threw up his hands in defeat and stood to leave. Then he hesitated. "But if you ever need to talk --"
"I don't need to talk. Not to you."
(Lie.)
Peter wasn't sure why, exactly, he was pushing away, after so much time had been spent trying to reel Patrick in. Nothing was making much sense to him anymore… or at least, something that made sense to one part of him rarely made sense to the rest. For example, he didn't know why he had stormed out of Patrick's apartment -- that certainly hadn't made any sense. And it had made even less sense the very next night, when he had made love to a girl that he'd just met.
"He tastes like you, only sweeter..."
But the trap of self-doubt and self-destruction (and self-medication?) continued on for weeks after Pete returned. He didn't know why he kept staying out until 4 AM every night, dancing with girls (and guys) at clubs, and he didn't know why he suddenly found himself stuck in a number of uncomfortable morning-afters with close friends.
He also didn't know why he felt the need to write a song about it all.
"Drug, sex, and rock 'n' roll," he explained bitterly to Patrick one day while he was tremendously hung over. Patrick sighed. Peter scowled.
So that's how it's gonna be? Fine. Let him disapprove, let him scoff, let him watch me suffer. What the fuck ever.
Of course, in all of his contempt, Peter had failed to notice was that there was a pillow under his head, a blanket over his body, and that the lights were turned off, even though Patrick hated the dark.
*****
"We only want to sing you to sleep
On your bedroom speakers, oh…
We need umbrellas on the inside.
Get me just right."
Pete, always one for elaborate metaphors, found himself thinking far too deeply about the volleyball game that was showing on Patrick's TV one afternoon. It was about a month and a half since he'd returned to the apartment, and his spike of bad behavior was beginning to die down. Perhaps, he hoped (and so did Patrick), things were going to be okay.
"Y'know, they call it volleyball because the ball is constantly going back and forth," Peter solemnly stated. "It's kind of like watching an argument."
Patrick cocked his head to the side and considered this for a moment. "Yeah, I guess so. But isn't that how most sports work?"
"Shut up, Patrick. I was trying to be philosophical."
And perhaps Peter wasn't so unsuccessful in that endeavor. He, like the ball on the screen, had indeed found himself going back and forth lately: I'm okay… No I'm not. It will all work out... No it won't.
Volley.
That word had been written in Pete's notebook, but by now it was scratched out, lost in a mess of crumpled paper in the corner of Patrick's living room. Patrick knew better than to protest Pete's growing pile of discarded ideas -- a messy Pete was always better than a violently self-destructive Pete. (But were either of those really worth having a depressed Pete around?)
"I want things to be the way they used to be," Pete said suddenly, resting his head in Patrick's lap, the volleyball game long forgotten.
"Was there ever a time that was particularly good for you, Pete?"
"Maybe not. But I just want things to be normal."
There was a pause, and then: "Yeah. I do, too."
"Are you going to help me?"
"I don't really have a choice. I'm the only one who can help you."
Peter laughed a bittersweet sort of laugh at this. "Yeah. Look, man, I'm sorry. For all of this. For doing all this shit that even I don't understand, and then expecting you to make some sense of it. People always say that you should seek first to understand, and then to be understood, but…"
"…but that rule is for them," Patrick finished, with a vague (and unintentionally profound) gesture toward the window. "You and I are something separate from all of that, aren't we, Pete?"
"Well…"
Yes and no.
You are everything, Patrick. And I am everything. Together, we are the universe. But we are nothing inside of that universe. Not yet.
*****
"Put love on hold:
Young Hollywood is on the other line.
Her nose runs ruby red,
Death's in a double bed.
Singing songs that could only catch the ears of the desperate."
Only a few more weeks passed before Peter's life began to level out, his streak of rebellion having run its course completely. This change in his behavior was most likely a result of the fact that the band had gone on a quick tour; short and sweet, because Patrick had suspected that it would keep Peter busy without overwhelming him.
Peter was acutely aware of Patrick's reasoning behind the tour, and this brought him some comfort when nothing else could. Patrick, Patrick, Patrick; The only person who had ever caused him this much mental distress, and yet, the only one who would ever be able to fix it.
And this -- the fact that Patrick had fixed Peter -- was their topic of discussion one evening, backstage on the last day of tour. Of course, at the time, Peter didn't really know what was being said… He had heard Patrick say "Hey," and "Great show," but beyond that he had been preoccupied with what Patrick's lips were doing, and not what they were saying.
Patrick sat down beside Pete, who was sprawled out on the venue's shitty couch, his legs dangling over the armrest and his head on the middle cushion. Patrick went on and on about -- whatever it was that he was discussing, and Peter just looked up at him and nodded and licked his lips.
Suddenly, from somewhere deep in his stomach (or his heart? Or his groin?) Peter felt the familiar urge to just get closer. And then, all at once, he understood what had been wrong with him these past months. He sat up and pressed himself up against Patrick's side -- not a subtle move by any means, but Patrick didn't really notice. He also didn't seem to notice (or care) that Pete's chin was now resting on his shoulder.
So Peter watched those lips some more, and now they were so close to him that he could almost feel them… could almost taste them. Whatever part of his mind was still capable of coherent thought at that point told Peter that Patrick's cute little mouth was looking absolutely perfect right about then. Oh, with those lips that were red and soft and just barely damp… just damp enough, and even if they weren't, Peter was certain he could fix that…
Those lips. They had always been his and yet, they never had been at all.
He leaned in closer, cheek brushing against cheek, and Patrick mentally attributed it to Pete's obnoxious nature. Nothing to scold him for, really, what harm was he doing? So Patrick went right on talking and fuck, Pete was going to shut him up the only way he knew how…
Of course, just then, Patrick managed to say the only thing that could possibly have stopped Pete in his tracks; the only thing that his mind would even recognize as English.
"… your girlfriend."
Pete pulled back upon hearing these words. He had almost forgotten, in his sea of so-called loneliness and despair, that there was a woman who had claimed his devotion. "What… what about her?" Pete stammered.
"I'm just, I'm proud of you, Pete. At first I wasn't sure how much I could do to help you… I mean, you have a tendency to dig yourself deeper into things, you know? But this time you managed to hold onto something that makes you happy for once, and that makes me happy, too."
"I… Oh. Thanks." He nodded. And Patrick nodded, too.
Peter wrote that night, and there were no voices pulling the strings this time. It was just emotion, the same muse he had used in the past. He was guided by an idea… or rather, by an epiphany that had taken him quite a while (far too long) to piece together.
"…Kiss away young kills and thrills
On the mouths of all my friends..."
This is what I've wanted all along.
*****
PART III: THE RENAISSANCE
"Oh, we're so miserable and stunning.
Love songs for the genuinely cunning…"
Supply and demand. Supply and demand. Patrick demands, Peter supplies. Such is the clockwork of composing a Fall Out Boy song -- that constant, familiar rhythm that established itself the very moment the two boys first met. So when Patrick demanded more lyrics like the ones Peter had written for "Carpal Tunnel," it was Pete's duty to supply him with them.
At first, he was unsure of what to write about. An untamed jumble of subject matter spilled out onto the pages of his notebook. Love, hate, friendship (or lack thereof), life, death… And it occurred to him, vaguely, that it didn't matter what he wrote about, because Patrick wouldn't be able to decipher it, anyway.
See, Patrick was losing his grip on Peter (or maybe it was the other way around) and this naivety had been causing great distress for Pete through the entire length of the writing process. However, on this particular night, the ever-intuitive Pete Wentz soon found himself using that very same sense of obliviousness to his advantage. Ah, yes -- inspiration!
His ingenious idea to exploit Patrick's lack of understanding was largely accredited to the dreams he had had earlier that day. Pete had taken a nap, and it had been cursed with dreams of his dear, sweet best friend (dreams which had been increasing in their frequency lately). They were riddled with visions of pale skin that was coated in sweat, but not because of stage lights -- red lips murmuring passionate words, but not into a microphone -- fingers moving expertly up and down, but not along a fret board.
Pete's remedy for these visions was relatively simple. He found liberation and comfort in making love to his girlfriend (it was worth it to keep her around) and even while his mouth was unable form coherent sentences, Pete's mind was formulating devious plans to get that pudgy blonde boy to sing about himself without even knowing it. (God, inspiration is a beautiful thing.)
"I'd cast a spell over the West
To make you think of me the same way I think of you.
This is a love song in my own way:
'Happily ever after below the waist…' "
Patrick liked the words (Peter had known that he would) despite the fact that something seemed to be missing… Something that had evaded the two of them since they'd begun writing. Something that neither of them could vocalize.
In spite of everything, Patrick actually had fun composing the song. This was a luxury that Peter had admittedly missed, although couldn't help but feel that his friend had chosen the worst possible song to toy around with. It was supposed to be filthy! It was supposed to be suggestive! Provocative! Aggressive! (Homoerotic?)
So it was with much frustration that Peter looked on (in horror, mostly) while Patrick brainstormed on his guitar. This time, it was incredulous brown eyes that met laughing blue ones as a tentative riff floated through the air and swirled sensually around them.
"Well, what do you think?" Patrick inquired once he was done, sounding happy and accomplished, unaware of the nature of the words he'd just sung.
The older boy sank deeper into his seat and grumbled out his truthful answer: "I fucking love it."
*****
"I'm addicted to the way I feel when I think of you…"
"No, Pete. Just… no. I can't."
It was a simple enough objection, but it reminded Peter that what was "normal" for the two of them would not always be "easy." There would always be complications, like the kind that were pervasive in whatever Peter considered to be uncomplicated. The complexity of simplicity. The fights that were not uncommon between the two of them. The anger that was underlined with peacefulness. The hate that was underlined with friendship.
"What? Why the fuck not?" Pete snarled across the room at his blonde-haired antagonist. (Like every movie where the good guy turns out to be the bad guy. Fuck.)
But the strange thing about Patrick's protest was the fact that he could not quite place what was wrong with the lyrics that he'd just read. He shifted uncomfortably under Peter's gaze (though he didn't believe for a second that this glare really belonged to his friend) and offered his best explanation. "I don't know," he said simply, "it feels wrong, somehow."
Pete felt an unusual twinge of insecurity at this. What he hadn't told Patrick was that the lyrics in question had not been written with the intention of becoming lyrics at all. They'd been scratched into a different notebook, one full of letters that would never be mailed and sins that would never be confessed.
But he was confessing this (and while wasn't entirely sure why, he knew that he had to).
Peter moved forward. Patrick took an unconscious step back. And again, and again, until the shorter boy's back bumped up against the wall. Pink branched out into Patrick's cheeks and Pete stepped even closer. "This album was supposed to be an autobiography. And up until now, it hasn't been." (This couldn't be further from the truth, of course, but Peter didn't know that at the time.) "You have to do this. You have to!"
Peter was trying -- oh God, was he trying -- to stay calm. Patrick hadn't rejected a song in ages. He had to understand, though, he just had to change his mind…
But he didn't (naturally). He simply scowled up into those dark eyes (that couldn't possibly have been Peter's) and gave the taller boy a look that encompassed all of the tension that had been building between the two of them. Pete Wentz's most solid friend -- his strongest enemy. Patrick wasn't ready to give in.
His silence was torturous.
"Goddamn it, Patrick," cursed the other, running an impatient hand through his hair. "You don't get it, do you? This entire album has been about you!"
And Peter realized a second too late that the words hadn't come out quite the way that he'd meant them to.
"About me? About me?"
On an impulse, Patrick slapped Peter hard across the face -- and the latter stumbled backwards. Finally, it seemed, the volatile blond had gained some leverage in their argument. (Never ever back a wild animal into a corner!)
"Well, this is fucking news to me, Pete, considering that the entire writing and touring process has revolved around you, and your vices, and your dumbass stunts."
And that's when Patrick began to falter. Pete recognized the unconditional empathy shining from beyond those thick-rimmed glasses, and he was suddenly plagued with guilt (but not remorse).
"Look, I'm sorry," Patrick went on, "but I'm not comfortable with these lyrics. And if you tell me to write the song one more time, I won't hesitate to hit you again."
It was a lie, and Pete knew it, but lord, how he loved to instigate. He licked his lips and calmly replied, "Write the song, Patrick."
And Patrick stared down at the other boy (who was hunched over a little now, cheek clutched in his hand and a certain flare in his eye that was, in fact, one-hundred percent Pete) and Patrick wondered if maybe he should hit him again.
"Fine," Patrick choked out abruptly, "I'll start writing it tonight. But only because this is the first time you've actually taken a stand for something on the record. The first time in a while you've been a total dick about a song." He paused, feeling a little awkward. "I guess I'm just glad that Pete Wentz is back," he muttered.
And Pete concurred, with bitter irony in his mental smirk: So am I.
*****
"New York eyes, Chicago thighs,
I pushed up the window to kiss you off.
Do you remember the way I held your hand under the lamp post,
And ran home this way so many times I can close my eyes…"
After a handful of songs had been written and rewritten, rejected and reconsidered, the band had found the final note for their album at last.
Songs about love lost and found and lost again. Trials (and errors) and infamous fuck-ups. A so-called autobiography that wasn't really at all, which was now nearly ready for mass consumption. Four boys filed into the recording studio, but only two left in the evening.
Patrick had opted to stay behind for "artistic" reasons -- Pete didn't understand, but he knew better than to ask. So as one boy looked lovingly though his primitive versions of the words that had finally come to form a record, the other boy seated himself on the tragically worn-out studio couch and watched.
"Come here," Pete said after a while, and at first he wasn't sure that Patrick had heard him… but of course he must have, because the only sounds in the room were two mouths breathing and two hearts beating.
So after a brief pause, Patrick closed his laptop and stood, making his way over to the couch and squeezing himself beside his counterpart. Peter sat up; "You look happy," he observed.
"Of course I'm happy. I think we just finished our best album ever. And this… music… it's what I live for." There was tiredness in Patrick's voice, but it was the sort of exhaustion that prevailed after a long day at a theme park, a glorious victory over the rival team. (The afterglow of love making).
"Yeah, yeah," mumbled Pete, inarticulate but sincere. "It's what I live for too. Seriously. This band keeps me alive, 'Trick. It puts oxygen in my lungs. Andy, Joe… and you. It's more than just making music for me. You dudes are my family." And Patrick looked at him inquisitively, so Peter went on: "Don't you get it? You guys were there through all of my shitty everyday problems. You were there for all the shitty celebrity problems. You were there for every bout with depression I ever dragged myself through --"
"Not every one," Patrick interjected, quiet and guilty. Pete just shook his head.
"It's enough," he said. "You're enough."
Then he did something that he'd known all along that he would do, although the exact time and place had eluded him until this point. He leaned in (sans explanation and sans dignity) and kissed that darling little mouth that had opened just slightly in surprise. The kiss was not gentle or tentative -- rather, it was forceful and desperate and oh-so-needy. Peter counted down the seconds until Patrick shoved him away.
But he didn't.
In fact, the younger boy was receptive, kissing back (although much more conservatively, much more cautiously). Eventually, he placed a hand on Peter's cheek and retreated slowly, but he was smiling, much to Pete's surprise. Perfect lips curved upwards, round cheeks slightly flushed. Peter matched his grin.
In truth, for all of his flaws, Pete Wentz was never quite as fake as the tabloids wanted him to be. He meant what he wrote and (often) meant what he said -- he had certainly meant it when he had said "it's enough." Because this moment, in all its heart wrenching complexity, was enough for him. Two best friends in a recording studio, basking in the temporary thrill of having just completed their album. Two best friends who might someday be something more, but for right now were just a mixed up artist and his muse, with eyes as deep and beautiful and dangerous as New York, and thighs as perfectly imperfect as the city that had born them.
the end.
Title: Just Enough.
Summary: “So which is it -- the boy who writes the songs, or the boy who’s in them?”
Peter Wentz accidentally writes a concept album and it is the best mistake he has ever made (except for falling in love).
Author: FICTION by
burgerkingRating: PG-13 or soft R. (Sketchy subject matter, but nothing explicit.)
Dedication:
sacrilegends and all my muses at northinstitute (join ‘em!)Author's Notes: In the past most of my fic has centered around Patrick’s mindset. I decided that, for this one, I would try to peer into the delightfully crooked psyche that is Peter Wentz.
Also, it might be interesting to think of this fic in terms of the five stages of death: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. I did not have this in mind when starting the fic, it just sort of wrote itself.
"I can take your problems away
With a nod and a wave of my hand…
Because that's just the kind of boy that I am.
And the only thing I haven't done yet is die.
It's me (and my plus one) in the afterlife.
Crowds are won and lost, and won again,
But our hearts beat for the die-hards.
So: Long live the car-crash hearts.
Cry on the couch. All the poets come to life.
Fix me in forty-five…"
It was another Los Angeles morning; the routine hustle and bustle of America. Cars moving about the streets just as quickly and noisily and carelessly as the people who drove them. And a boy with a beautiful mess on his shoulders -- a boy known commonly by his abbreviated name, 'Pete Wentz,' as it were -- found himself seated on a familiar, comfy chair.
He was an artist…a musician. And although he had yet to pen a single word of his latest musical venture, he found himself describing his so-called grand artistic vision in vast detail to his increasingly apprehensive therapist.
"It's all about perspective," he had insisted on that particular day, with a fervent enthusiasm that was only evident when he spoke of his writing. "I want to take this new album to a totally different place. I want to see it through his eyes, you know?"
And he was talking, of course, about the "eyes" of his best friend. Eyes that were brilliant blue, a mind that was just brilliant in general. This other boy, whom Pete was now alluding to, was one whom the therapist had come to be quite familiar with. His name and identity (as said therapist understood) was Mr. Patrick Martin Stump: vocalist of a little band that Pete had put together, called Fall Out Boy.
So, while Pete sat in his safe little chair and ticked off the reasons why Patrick would love his new lyrics, so too did the ominous clock above the threshold tick away its seconds. These two things happened in oblivious unison for quite some time, until eventually, the session came to an end (as most things often do). And there you have it: forty-five more minutes that Peter would never get back. But at least he'd spent it talking about the one thing that kept him going -- no, no, make that two things.
"Patrick's gonna be blown away," Peter called over his shoulder as he left, by way of a goodbye. "He's going to love this shit just as much as I do. This is going to be the album, and he's gonna see that right from the start."
But it might be wise, at this point, to note that things don't always happen quite the way Pete Wentz predicts them.
CAR CRASH HEARTS, written neatly (or, about as neat as that scrawl could possibly get) across the top.
Words dashed in a hurry across a sadly abused piece of notebook paper, now being waved excitedly in front of a pair of surprised blue eyes. Patrick Martin Stump, vocalist of Fall Out Boy, just trying to get something done on his laptop, being interrupted (as usual) by his oddly endearing best friend. He took the paper, as was their custom. A few moments of excited/contemplative silence passed. And then, an approving nod.
"It's good."
"Just good?"
"As good as anything else, I mean. I like it, Pete. Is 'Car Crash Hearts' just a tentative name?"
But Peter had grown accustomed to avoiding questions by now. "I tried a new perspective," he said, in a voice that sounded weaker than it did in his head. But why did he have to point that out? Didn't Patrick get it?
No, in fact, Patrick didn't get it, but he owed it to the artist to at least try to. So he, the ever-patient Patrick, smiled faintly and glanced back down at the words again. To him, this was still typical Pete. Nothing to see here, folks. A helpless shake of the head. "I don't…"
"It's in there, Patrick. I swear it wasn't me writing those lyrics."
"Well, I -- this is good stuff regardless, Pete. It doesn't matter if I can read into it or not. You're the artist. So let me know when you have a name for it, okay?"
"Yeah… okay." Another nod, this time from the boy with the dark circles around his eyes. Happy, at least, that Patrick had liked the lyrics, but there was something choking in his throat; he ignored it, turned, and walked out of the room.
"It doesn't matter?" Of course it matters. You're the one that's supposed to get me.
"Baby, seasons change, but people don't.
And I'll always be waiting in the back room.
I'm boring, but overcompensate with headlines
And flash photography."
The second song was written almost entirely while Peter sat out on his LA balcony, overlooking the world that he had reluctantly (or not-so reluctantly) become the ruler of. That brave new world of media, rumors, newsprint and shutters and shutters and shutters…
His presence didn't make any sense, not in this world. He was, after all, just a regular boy (though he wondered if maybe he'd outgrow that word-- perhaps not until he outgrew the hoodies and girls' jeans.) Yes, just a boy from Chicago, with a dog and a best friend and a couple of dudes who would tolerate him for the sake of music. That was the world that he used to know, anyway…. But now, for some reason, he was a "celebrity," complete with a C-list love affair and the obligatory nude photos. This, somehow, was the equation that made him a teenage god; a wet dream. He wasn't quite as adverse to this new life as Patrick was, but he couldn't say that he really cared about it either way. So why did everybody else?
Maybe, he thought, that was precisely the reason why he and Patrick had stayed so close through it all. Maybe that was why they thrived off of each other. These days, Pete found himself caught up in that gold-plated world of his, quite certain that he was living a full life (although he always came up empty); Patrick, meanwhile, was content with still being that other boy from Chicago. What did a few more zeroes in the bank account matter to him?
"They say your head can be a prison,
And these are just conjugal visits.
People will dissect us 'til this doesn't mean a thing anymore…"
"You're my only constant factor," Peter had told him once, in privacy. "Some kids… hell, even some of my friends are letting go because they hate who I've become. But some of them are latching on because they love me, and they love this life. You're the only one who understands that Pete Wentz didn't start -- or cease -- in 2005."
At that moment Patrick's eyes had been, as they often were, fixated on his laptop screen. But Pete remembered how they'd sparkled; how the corners of his mouth had turned up just a bit. Just enough. "Save it for the lyrics," he had said.
And Pete did.
But on the night when the email hit Patrick's inbox, there was no recognition of that. No recollection of their late night conversation. No understanding in those big blue eyes, as Pete so glumly observed from his own bunk. Then he heard (and saw, and swore he felt) Patrick's fingers as they typed out their reply. Moments later, a ding on the Sidekick: "Very cool. Now get back to sleep."
There had been a time when Patrick would have climbed into Pete's bunk, demanding that he explain the cynicism behind these new lyrics; a time when Pete would have curled up, his back to Patrick, sulking; a time when maybe they would have gotten in a fistfight, and maybe Patrick would never have gotten an answer anyway. But apparently, that time was gone, and Pete now found himself wishing that he still had someone to be angry at-- someone who would at least try to break open the lock.
PART II: THE FAÇADE
"I am an arms dealer, fitting you with weapons in the form of words.
And don't really care which side wins,
As long as the room keeps singing.
That's just the business I'm in.
I'm a leading man, and the lies I weave are oh-so intricate…"
When the next set of lyrics had been written, there appeared another piece of notebook paper in front of Patrick's face. Peter had comprised this next song-to-be while on the road, and when asked (by a pretentious journalist) to cite what had inspired him, he had fed out a stock answer, intending to raise eyebrows rather than to provide insight:
For as often as Pete Wentz tries to shake things up (much to the dismay of that level-headed vocalist), he finds that the monotony of touring is rarely disrupted. The so-called surprises at each concert are actually well-planned and premeditated, right down to who will tackle who during who's set… and even though the songs make the kids scream and smile, they just don't have that same effect on the band. Not anymore.
And yes, that was all true (painfully true, when it came right down to it) but that's not where the words had really come from. The intimacy Peter had lost with his fans did not -- could not -- compare to the intimacy he'd lost with his best friend.
If he'd been entirely honest with himself, Peter would have admitted that there was no nostalgia in the lyrics, at least not in the way he claimed there was. The only thing that he missed was a single moment in time that he had forever stored in his memory. It was the way Patrick's face had lit up when he had first read through the lyrics for Take This to Your Grave.
But it's not as if that mattered, now.
No, what mattered was this new song, which Pete was affectionately referring to as Arm's Race.
"It's so you," Patrick had said.
And sure, Peter had agreed with that, though he wasn't quite sure who "you" was referring to anymore. An artist seeking new perspective, or an insecure child who needed validation? Whatever the matter, he realized that this new persona of his would keep Patrick happy… so maybe, just maybe, he could keep up the act.
"I only keep myself this sick in the head
'Cause I know how the words get you (off)."
A few months of writing had already passed by the time Pete completed a piece that he had tentatively titled "Me & You, or, I'm Like a Lawyer With the Way I'm Always Trying to Get You Off."
It was a Sunday morning when Patrick readily took the most recent sheet of notebook paper into his hands (smooth hands, Pete noticed, but how was that possible with all the guitar playing?) and he studied it carefully. He was silent, Pete was nervous.
"It's introspective," Peter explained, "I mean… sort of. That's what this whole album is gonna be for me. You know what I mean?"
Patrick nodded; cracked a smile. "Yeah, I get it, and I've noticed that a lot lately. I like that about you, Pete… you're not afraid to write what you're really feeling. They say you're only writing what the kids want to hear, but I know that's bullshit."
Peter smiled at the compliment and suddenly found himself leaning over his friend's shoulder… A bit too close, perhaps? But it's not as though Patrick noticed, and it's not as though Peter pretended that he cared. No, he simply leaned in as close as he could, deeply inhaled the scent of (new?) shampoo in Patrick's hair, and whispered the title into his ear: "Me and you."
Patrick immediately bubbled into laughter. "Yeah, Wentz, me and you."
This wasn't quite the reaction that Peter had hoped for, but it was all he needed before he could turn and leave Patrick to his work. This was his daily fix, feeding the addiction. He was sick (getting sicker by the day) but these little interactions kept him going. An injection of Patrick straight to the veins -- that was all he needed (no, didn't need it, but…)
That was all he wanted. Just wanted to give the boy lyrics and get him to show those pretty little teeth…
Yeah, an "addiction," that's what Pete had jokingly been referring to it as. But it wasn't really like that, no, not at all! It wasn't like a drug addiction by any means. He could certainly go for a while without seeing his best friend… if he really wanted to… right? Right! After all, he was an adult now. Mature, independent. There was LA for him to see, a different kind of cure for that sickness (what had the doctor called it? Love?). No, no, this wasn't really an addiction, because he didn't need Patrick.
"So you're moving back to Chicago?" Joe asked a week later.
"Just until we finish writing the album."
So maybe I fucking need him.
And that was it. Addiction, and Peter was using every filthy ruse up his sleeve to get his drug. Anything that would get Patrick raving, anything that would inspire him, anything that would make him appreciate that mess of a boy named Pete.
"Hum Hallelujah just off the key of reason.
I thought I loved you.
It was just how you looked in the light."
It was summer now, a gorgeous summer. Two best friends were sitting side by side, and there was nothing unusual about this, not even if maybe one of these friends wanted so badly to reach out and hold the hand of the other. Open roads and open hearts; "Do I turn left up here?"
A hilltop. Cliché, perhaps, but neither Patrick or Peter seemed to mind. A hilltop outside of Chicago, quiet and calm and a pleasant escape from fans and photographers. A place to think, to talk, to write…
"We came here that one night, when it was prom at your school… remember?" And yes, Patrick did, so Peter went on: "That was awesome." Two car doors slammed shut, two young men found themselves sitting against the warm grille of a tiny blue car. "When the police came… shit, we had them so confused! I'm surprised they didn't just bring us downtown."
Patrick burst into his usual colorful laughter in response to this memory. "Yeah, no, can you even imagine trying to explain that to my dad? He would've never let me hang out with you again…"
The blond then carefully trailed off (as he sometimes did) and opted to look out at the scenery around them. He smiled faintly, just enough so that Pete's eyes couldn't leave him. As if they ever could.
There weren't many things, these days, that Peter could honestly say that he enjoyed -- but this was one of them, the fact that things would never need to be explicitly stated between these two boys. Even a stupid night so many (or not-so-many) years ago… they could both still feel it, and could both still understand it. And things had been like that forever, Pete noticed. There had always been Patrick to pick up the pieces for him, when he was unable to do so himself. And he wondered if, perhaps, he'd ever accidentally picked up Patrick's pieces, too.
This unspoken bond of theirs was comforting, especially now, but Pete reminded himself that he couldn't keep putting off what he'd come out here to do. And so, there were a few moments of rummaging through the back of Patrick's car, followed by a distinct thud as Peter's laptop landed carelessly on Patrick's lap. A word document without a title… Dutifully, Patrick read.
Hum Hallelujah. Ah, yes.
Admittedly, Patrick had known that it would only be a matter of time before Peter wrote (more) about the Ativan incident. Still, though, he found himself feeling uncomfortable as he looked over the lyrics. And his concern was clearly visible to Pete (who let out a guilty sigh of relief, because for him, this was a victory). Finally, Patrick understood!
Or he understood part of it, at least; he understood enough. These words were telling him, without a shadow of doubt, that something was wrong with Peter. But what? The exact problem escaped Patrick, for the lyrics were ambiguous as always. Helplessly, Patrick turned and looked at Pete. His worried blue eyes met tired brown ones.
Words.
Words were what dictated their working relationship. But out here, there was no need for them, no use for them at all. Patrick rested his head on Peter's shoulder. Pete's skillfully adorned arms wound around Patrick's waist.
And there were no more words.
"Our teenage vow in a parking lot:
'Till tonight do us part.'
I sing the blues, and swallow them too."
"How cruel is the golden rule
When the lives we lived are only golden-plated?
And I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me,
Though I carry karats for everyone to see…"
There had certainly been a lot of writing going on in Pete and Patrick's apartment over the summer… or in Patrick's apartment, anyway, where Pete had been staying just until we finish the album. However, despite the familiarity of late-night choruses of finger tips on keyboards, the album did not find itself any closer to being complete.
So Patrick worried some more.
"Have you got any new songs finished?" He casually asked over breakfast one morning, while watching Peter prod at his Cheerios with his spoon.
"No."
"Anything close?"
"No." Then Peter glanced up at his host with eyes that were sunken and heavy; it almost startled Patrick, because he was still not used to that hurried transition between bright-eyed celebrity Pete and the Peter who only he (and some select exes) had ever seen.
"Oh, um. What have you been writing, then?"
"I don't even know anymore. But I'm trying, Patrick, I promise."
"Oh, no, don't worry about it," Patrick stuttered, "I'm not trying to rush you. I was just --"
"I don't think you would like anything that I've written lately."
Patrick smiled. "Heh. You never worried about that before!"
And then there was a pause.
"I know!" Peter suddenly exclaimed, and this time he did startle Patrick. "I know, I fucking know! Everything's different now, everything's weird! I can't do this shit anymore, okay?" He stood up from the table quickly (made a conscious effort to be as loud as possible) and stormed out of the apartment before any sense could be made of the situation by either of the two boys.
And there was Patrick, left in the aftermath, as he always was.
Prior to this outburst, Patrick had quickly gotten used to filling his daylight hours with non-stop Peter, Peter, Peter. But the days that followed the Breakfast Incident were filled with just about anything but Peter -- that is, there were no sounds of his typing, no Sidekick alerts, no awful renditions of Michael Jackson songs. Patrick stayed awake every night until two, just listening for any sound that might indicate the return of his best friend. There was nothing.
Of course, Patrick and Peter had spent long periods of time apart before (sometimes on not-so-good terms, too). But this time there was a sense of fear, a sense of loneliness and worry, and maybe Patrick was beginning to understand what that last song had been about.
Peter turned up a week later.
Patrick found him around four in the morning, curled up on the couch: He was asleep, looking as though this was the first time he had slept since he'd left (and it probably was). So instead of waking the poor boy, Patrick worriedly paced around Peter's room -- the living room -- until he noticed a new piece of paper with words scrawled across it.
There really wasn't much to read, but from these words Patrick easily gathered that yes, something was indeed beyond wrong here. Something was clearly eating Peter from the inside, and damn if Patrick wasn't going to try to help. He decided, right then and there (with Peter snoring loudly) that he would be there for his best friend no matter what.
But perhaps that would have been easier for him to do that if only the lyrics hadn't been written on the back of a drugstore receipt.
"Been looking forward to the future,
But my eyesight is going bad.
And this crystal ball is always cloudy
Except for when you look into the past."
The morning after Peter had stumbled back into their shared apartment, he had awoken to find that Patrick was sitting beside him. Patrick was asleep at the time, but Peter knew that he'd been watching him (protecting him?) all night. And yeah, sure, Peter could appreciate that. Luckily, it hadn't been a night when he had dreamt of Patrick. That could have been awkward.
But no, in fact, on this particular night, Peter had dreamt of terrors that he couldn't bring himself to recall, not even if he wanted to (which he didn't). These monsters had been swirling around his mind so often lately -- and he knew why.
Self-medication. (No one else is going to fix me.)
The façade had grown stale to Peter. He wasn't supposed to be this attached to anybody, so why the hell did he find himself here, now, facing this desperate need to capture Patrick's attention, of all people? Hadn't he already done that enough, and without even trying? And what were these dreams trying to tell him -- the frightening ones? The filthy ones?
Self-medication…
It was afternoon now, and Patrick was awake. "For the five-hundredth time, are you okay?"
"Depends who's asking."
"Look, Pete, I'm really trying, here. I'm trying to understand what the fuck you're doing and why the fuck you're doing it. So are you going to talk to me about it or not? Are you going to give me anything to work with at all?"
And maybe a tiny little part of Peter laughed inside at that; at the fact that everything out of Patrick's mouth would perpetually sound like a conversation about lyrics. But an even louder voice in Pete's mind told him to take offense to what Patrick was doing (though he wasn't sure if this voice was the artist, the façade, or the drug-addled drama queen.)
"Fuck off, will you? So I went out for a few days. I'm a big boy now Patrick, I don't need you to take care of me." (Patrick held his tongue -- Then why the hell are you living in my apartment?) Peter went on, "Look, I've just got some shit to sort out."
"Clearly."
"And it's something that I need to think through on my own. So just stay out of it, Patrick."
"Okay, fine. You win." Patrick threw up his hands in defeat and stood to leave. Then he hesitated. "But if you ever need to talk --"
"I don't need to talk. Not to you."
(Lie.)
Peter wasn't sure why, exactly, he was pushing away, after so much time had been spent trying to reel Patrick in. Nothing was making much sense to him anymore… or at least, something that made sense to one part of him rarely made sense to the rest. For example, he didn't know why he had stormed out of Patrick's apartment -- that certainly hadn't made any sense. And it had made even less sense the very next night, when he had made love to a girl that he'd just met.
"He tastes like you, only sweeter..."
But the trap of self-doubt and self-destruction (and self-medication?) continued on for weeks after Pete returned. He didn't know why he kept staying out until 4 AM every night, dancing with girls (and guys) at clubs, and he didn't know why he suddenly found himself stuck in a number of uncomfortable morning-afters with close friends.
He also didn't know why he felt the need to write a song about it all.
"Drug, sex, and rock 'n' roll," he explained bitterly to Patrick one day while he was tremendously hung over. Patrick sighed. Peter scowled.
So that's how it's gonna be? Fine. Let him disapprove, let him scoff, let him watch me suffer. What the fuck ever.
Of course, in all of his contempt, Peter had failed to notice was that there was a pillow under his head, a blanket over his body, and that the lights were turned off, even though Patrick hated the dark.
"We only want to sing you to sleep
On your bedroom speakers, oh…
We need umbrellas on the inside.
Get me just right."
"Y'know, they call it volleyball because the ball is constantly going back and forth," Peter solemnly stated. "It's kind of like watching an argument."
Patrick cocked his head to the side and considered this for a moment. "Yeah, I guess so. But isn't that how most sports work?"
"Shut up, Patrick. I was trying to be philosophical."
And perhaps Peter wasn't so unsuccessful in that endeavor. He, like the ball on the screen, had indeed found himself going back and forth lately: I'm okay… No I'm not. It will all work out... No it won't.
Volley.
That word had been written in Pete's notebook, but by now it was scratched out, lost in a mess of crumpled paper in the corner of Patrick's living room. Patrick knew better than to protest Pete's growing pile of discarded ideas -- a messy Pete was always better than a violently self-destructive Pete. (But were either of those really worth having a depressed Pete around?)
"I want things to be the way they used to be," Pete said suddenly, resting his head in Patrick's lap, the volleyball game long forgotten.
"Was there ever a time that was particularly good for you, Pete?"
"Maybe not. But I just want things to be normal."
There was a pause, and then: "Yeah. I do, too."
"Are you going to help me?"
"I don't really have a choice. I'm the only one who can help you."
Peter laughed a bittersweet sort of laugh at this. "Yeah. Look, man, I'm sorry. For all of this. For doing all this shit that even I don't understand, and then expecting you to make some sense of it. People always say that you should seek first to understand, and then to be understood, but…"
"…but that rule is for them," Patrick finished, with a vague (and unintentionally profound) gesture toward the window. "You and I are something separate from all of that, aren't we, Pete?"
"Well…"
Yes and no.
You are everything, Patrick. And I am everything. Together, we are the universe. But we are nothing inside of that universe. Not yet.
"Put love on hold:
Young Hollywood is on the other line.
Her nose runs ruby red,
Death's in a double bed.
Singing songs that could only catch the ears of the desperate."
Only a few more weeks passed before Peter's life began to level out, his streak of rebellion having run its course completely. This change in his behavior was most likely a result of the fact that the band had gone on a quick tour; short and sweet, because Patrick had suspected that it would keep Peter busy without overwhelming him.
Peter was acutely aware of Patrick's reasoning behind the tour, and this brought him some comfort when nothing else could. Patrick, Patrick, Patrick; The only person who had ever caused him this much mental distress, and yet, the only one who would ever be able to fix it.
And this -- the fact that Patrick had fixed Peter -- was their topic of discussion one evening, backstage on the last day of tour. Of course, at the time, Peter didn't really know what was being said… He had heard Patrick say "Hey," and "Great show," but beyond that he had been preoccupied with what Patrick's lips were doing, and not what they were saying.
Patrick sat down beside Pete, who was sprawled out on the venue's shitty couch, his legs dangling over the armrest and his head on the middle cushion. Patrick went on and on about -- whatever it was that he was discussing, and Peter just looked up at him and nodded and licked his lips.
Suddenly, from somewhere deep in his stomach (or his heart? Or his groin?) Peter felt the familiar urge to just get closer. And then, all at once, he understood what had been wrong with him these past months. He sat up and pressed himself up against Patrick's side -- not a subtle move by any means, but Patrick didn't really notice. He also didn't seem to notice (or care) that Pete's chin was now resting on his shoulder.
So Peter watched those lips some more, and now they were so close to him that he could almost feel them… could almost taste them. Whatever part of his mind was still capable of coherent thought at that point told Peter that Patrick's cute little mouth was looking absolutely perfect right about then. Oh, with those lips that were red and soft and just barely damp… just damp enough, and even if they weren't, Peter was certain he could fix that…
Those lips. They had always been his and yet, they never had been at all.
He leaned in closer, cheek brushing against cheek, and Patrick mentally attributed it to Pete's obnoxious nature. Nothing to scold him for, really, what harm was he doing? So Patrick went right on talking and fuck, Pete was going to shut him up the only way he knew how…
Of course, just then, Patrick managed to say the only thing that could possibly have stopped Pete in his tracks; the only thing that his mind would even recognize as English.
"… your girlfriend."
Pete pulled back upon hearing these words. He had almost forgotten, in his sea of so-called loneliness and despair, that there was a woman who had claimed his devotion. "What… what about her?" Pete stammered.
"I'm just, I'm proud of you, Pete. At first I wasn't sure how much I could do to help you… I mean, you have a tendency to dig yourself deeper into things, you know? But this time you managed to hold onto something that makes you happy for once, and that makes me happy, too."
"I… Oh. Thanks." He nodded. And Patrick nodded, too.
Peter wrote that night, and there were no voices pulling the strings this time. It was just emotion, the same muse he had used in the past. He was guided by an idea… or rather, by an epiphany that had taken him quite a while (far too long) to piece together.
"…Kiss away young kills and thrills
On the mouths of all my friends..."
This is what I've wanted all along.
PART III: THE RENAISSANCE
"Oh, we're so miserable and stunning.
Love songs for the genuinely cunning…"
Supply and demand. Supply and demand. Patrick demands, Peter supplies. Such is the clockwork of composing a Fall Out Boy song -- that constant, familiar rhythm that established itself the very moment the two boys first met. So when Patrick demanded more lyrics like the ones Peter had written for "Carpal Tunnel," it was Pete's duty to supply him with them.
At first, he was unsure of what to write about. An untamed jumble of subject matter spilled out onto the pages of his notebook. Love, hate, friendship (or lack thereof), life, death… And it occurred to him, vaguely, that it didn't matter what he wrote about, because Patrick wouldn't be able to decipher it, anyway.
See, Patrick was losing his grip on Peter (or maybe it was the other way around) and this naivety had been causing great distress for Pete through the entire length of the writing process. However, on this particular night, the ever-intuitive Pete Wentz soon found himself using that very same sense of obliviousness to his advantage. Ah, yes -- inspiration!
His ingenious idea to exploit Patrick's lack of understanding was largely accredited to the dreams he had had earlier that day. Pete had taken a nap, and it had been cursed with dreams of his dear, sweet best friend (dreams which had been increasing in their frequency lately). They were riddled with visions of pale skin that was coated in sweat, but not because of stage lights -- red lips murmuring passionate words, but not into a microphone -- fingers moving expertly up and down, but not along a fret board.
Pete's remedy for these visions was relatively simple. He found liberation and comfort in making love to his girlfriend (it was worth it to keep her around) and even while his mouth was unable form coherent sentences, Pete's mind was formulating devious plans to get that pudgy blonde boy to sing about himself without even knowing it. (God, inspiration is a beautiful thing.)
"I'd cast a spell over the West
To make you think of me the same way I think of you.
This is a love song in my own way:
'Happily ever after below the waist…' "
Patrick liked the words (Peter had known that he would) despite the fact that something seemed to be missing… Something that had evaded the two of them since they'd begun writing. Something that neither of them could vocalize.
In spite of everything, Patrick actually had fun composing the song. This was a luxury that Peter had admittedly missed, although couldn't help but feel that his friend had chosen the worst possible song to toy around with. It was supposed to be filthy! It was supposed to be suggestive! Provocative! Aggressive! (Homoerotic?)
So it was with much frustration that Peter looked on (in horror, mostly) while Patrick brainstormed on his guitar. This time, it was incredulous brown eyes that met laughing blue ones as a tentative riff floated through the air and swirled sensually around them.
"Well, what do you think?" Patrick inquired once he was done, sounding happy and accomplished, unaware of the nature of the words he'd just sung.
The older boy sank deeper into his seat and grumbled out his truthful answer: "I fucking love it."
"I'm addicted to the way I feel when I think of you…"
"No, Pete. Just… no. I can't."
It was a simple enough objection, but it reminded Peter that what was "normal" for the two of them would not always be "easy." There would always be complications, like the kind that were pervasive in whatever Peter considered to be uncomplicated. The complexity of simplicity. The fights that were not uncommon between the two of them. The anger that was underlined with peacefulness. The hate that was underlined with friendship.
"What? Why the fuck not?" Pete snarled across the room at his blonde-haired antagonist. (Like every movie where the good guy turns out to be the bad guy. Fuck.)
But the strange thing about Patrick's protest was the fact that he could not quite place what was wrong with the lyrics that he'd just read. He shifted uncomfortably under Peter's gaze (though he didn't believe for a second that this glare really belonged to his friend) and offered his best explanation. "I don't know," he said simply, "it feels wrong, somehow."
Pete felt an unusual twinge of insecurity at this. What he hadn't told Patrick was that the lyrics in question had not been written with the intention of becoming lyrics at all. They'd been scratched into a different notebook, one full of letters that would never be mailed and sins that would never be confessed.
But he was confessing this (and while wasn't entirely sure why, he knew that he had to).
Peter moved forward. Patrick took an unconscious step back. And again, and again, until the shorter boy's back bumped up against the wall. Pink branched out into Patrick's cheeks and Pete stepped even closer. "This album was supposed to be an autobiography. And up until now, it hasn't been." (This couldn't be further from the truth, of course, but Peter didn't know that at the time.) "You have to do this. You have to!"
Peter was trying -- oh God, was he trying -- to stay calm. Patrick hadn't rejected a song in ages. He had to understand, though, he just had to change his mind…
But he didn't (naturally). He simply scowled up into those dark eyes (that couldn't possibly have been Peter's) and gave the taller boy a look that encompassed all of the tension that had been building between the two of them. Pete Wentz's most solid friend -- his strongest enemy. Patrick wasn't ready to give in.
His silence was torturous.
"Goddamn it, Patrick," cursed the other, running an impatient hand through his hair. "You don't get it, do you? This entire album has been about you!"
And Peter realized a second too late that the words hadn't come out quite the way that he'd meant them to.
"About me? About me?"
On an impulse, Patrick slapped Peter hard across the face -- and the latter stumbled backwards. Finally, it seemed, the volatile blond had gained some leverage in their argument. (Never ever back a wild animal into a corner!)
"Well, this is fucking news to me, Pete, considering that the entire writing and touring process has revolved around you, and your vices, and your dumbass stunts."
And that's when Patrick began to falter. Pete recognized the unconditional empathy shining from beyond those thick-rimmed glasses, and he was suddenly plagued with guilt (but not remorse).
"Look, I'm sorry," Patrick went on, "but I'm not comfortable with these lyrics. And if you tell me to write the song one more time, I won't hesitate to hit you again."
It was a lie, and Pete knew it, but lord, how he loved to instigate. He licked his lips and calmly replied, "Write the song, Patrick."
And Patrick stared down at the other boy (who was hunched over a little now, cheek clutched in his hand and a certain flare in his eye that was, in fact, one-hundred percent Pete) and Patrick wondered if maybe he should hit him again.
"Fine," Patrick choked out abruptly, "I'll start writing it tonight. But only because this is the first time you've actually taken a stand for something on the record. The first time in a while you've been a total dick about a song." He paused, feeling a little awkward. "I guess I'm just glad that Pete Wentz is back," he muttered.
And Pete concurred, with bitter irony in his mental smirk: So am I.
"New York eyes, Chicago thighs,
I pushed up the window to kiss you off.
Do you remember the way I held your hand under the lamp post,
And ran home this way so many times I can close my eyes…"
After a handful of songs had been written and rewritten, rejected and reconsidered, the band had found the final note for their album at last.
Songs about love lost and found and lost again. Trials (and errors) and infamous fuck-ups. A so-called autobiography that wasn't really at all, which was now nearly ready for mass consumption. Four boys filed into the recording studio, but only two left in the evening.
Patrick had opted to stay behind for "artistic" reasons -- Pete didn't understand, but he knew better than to ask. So as one boy looked lovingly though his primitive versions of the words that had finally come to form a record, the other boy seated himself on the tragically worn-out studio couch and watched.
"Come here," Pete said after a while, and at first he wasn't sure that Patrick had heard him… but of course he must have, because the only sounds in the room were two mouths breathing and two hearts beating.
So after a brief pause, Patrick closed his laptop and stood, making his way over to the couch and squeezing himself beside his counterpart. Peter sat up; "You look happy," he observed.
"Of course I'm happy. I think we just finished our best album ever. And this… music… it's what I live for." There was tiredness in Patrick's voice, but it was the sort of exhaustion that prevailed after a long day at a theme park, a glorious victory over the rival team. (The afterglow of love making).
"Not every one," Patrick interjected, quiet and guilty. Pete just shook his head.
"It's enough," he said. "You're enough."
Then he did something that he'd known all along that he would do, although the exact time and place had eluded him until this point. He leaned in (sans explanation and sans dignity) and kissed that darling little mouth that had opened just slightly in surprise. The kiss was not gentle or tentative -- rather, it was forceful and desperate and oh-so-needy. Peter counted down the seconds until Patrick shoved him away.
But he didn't.
In fact, the younger boy was receptive, kissing back (although much more conservatively, much more cautiously). Eventually, he placed a hand on Peter's cheek and retreated slowly, but he was smiling, much to Pete's surprise. Perfect lips curved upwards, round cheeks slightly flushed. Peter matched his grin.
In truth, for all of his flaws, Pete Wentz was never quite as fake as the tabloids wanted him to be. He meant what he wrote and (often) meant what he said -- he had certainly meant it when he had said "it's enough." Because this moment, in all its heart wrenching complexity, was enough for him. Two best friends in a recording studio, basking in the temporary thrill of having just completed their album. Two best friends who might someday be something more, but for right now were just a mixed up artist and his muse, with eyes as deep and beautiful and dangerous as New York, and thighs as perfectly imperfect as the city that had born them.
the end.