FIC: this story has a happy ending
Title : this story has a happy ending
Summary : Victorian era AU. There are a few things that a true no matter what time it is. For instance, Pete loves Patrick, Patrick loves Pete, and William Beckett is loud.
Author :
dracopet
Rating : PG-13 at most
Author's Notes : So, yes, this is meant to read like a romance novel. I was sitting and watching this film called Becoming Jane and I thought to myself, 'This movie is so damn boring. I wonder what would make it better? I know, if all the characters were bandom dudes!' And I came home and started this. Also, yes, Shakespeare is Hemmy. PS) Please comment!
It was mid-September when he showed up.
“Have you heard about the new student?” Ryan asked casually. Casually on Ryan had a tendency, however, to translate to ‘extremely interested’, and he leaned forward conspiratorially when he asked.
“It’s all I’ve heard of all day. Honestly,” Patrick scoffed. “How interesting can he be? What’s his name again?”
“Pete Wentz.”
Patrick grimaced. “The one who--”
“Yes,” Ryan replied, looking rather excited.
“Ryan, don’t get any ideas, alright? He’s a bad influence.”
“You haven’t even met him yet!”
“He’s Pete Wentz,” Patrick said seriously. “I don’t need to.”
*
"He's all sorts of trouble," Patrick said with a frown. He looked up from his parchment for a moment and pushed his glasses up. He cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder at Ryan. "I think you should stay away from him."
"He's a laugh, though," Ryan protested. "He's a damn sight more fun than *you* are," he added sulkily.
"I haven't got time to be fun, Ryan, I'm too busy being sensible. And," he added, turning in his seat to give the younger boy a pointed look. "It's something you might try sometime."
*
“Who *is* that fascinating creature?”
“Fascinating--what, you mean *Patrick*?” Ryan asked incredulously. “You think *Patrick* is fascinating?”
“Well, he’s something quite special, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I suppose so. He’s my tutor, and a complete prude, so you can just forget it.”
“Not a prude, Ryan,” Pete replies with a grin. “A challenge.”
*
“Excuse me, gentleman.” They all tuned to the door, the chatter dying instantly. Patrick stood in the doorway, idly swinging a watch by its chain. “Have you any idea what time it is?”
Pete leaned back on his palms with a smirk. “You have a watch, shouldn’t you know?”
Patrick simply rolled his eyes and came into the room, closing the door behind him. He sat down primly on the edge of the empty seat next to William’s desk. “Go on, then, what are we talking about? I’m imagining it’s not Bach and Anne Radcliffe,” he said sardonically.
Everyone shot nervous side glances around the room for a few moments, the silence growing thicker with each second, until Brendon blurted out,
“We’re talking about sex!”, looking quite excited about the fact. Pete wanted to kick him, certain that Patrick would give them a disapproving look and issue detentions to all of them. To his surprise, Patrick simply scoffed and said,
“Why am I not surprised? Well,” he said, leaning back a bit in his seat. “What have you determined?”
“That no one in this room is a virgin except Brendon and Ryan, and Ryan hardly counts,” William said.
Ryan frowned. “Why don’t I count?”
“Because everyone knows you’re saving yourself for--”
Patrick saw Ryan’s eyes cut to Brendon, and Brendon’s eyes drop to the ground. “There’s nothing wrong with saving yourself for marriage, William,” he cut in smoothly before William could get Spencer’s name out.
“I bet you are,” Pete smirked. “You’re a little country virgin, aren’t you?”
He expected a blush at the very least, and so was very disappointed when Patrick merely brushed a spot of dust off his shoulder and said distractedly,
“Of course I’m a virgin, and the country has nothing to do with it. It’s simply the courteous thing to do for one’s husband.”
“Mr. Flowers must be quite excited about that,” William said with a slow grin. “I bet he can’t wait to deflower his little cream puff,” he snickered.
Pete relished the thought of what Patrick’s reaction would be to that, but he was again surprised when Patrick sent a glare William’s way that was so fierce that it stopped his giggling almost as soon as it had started.
William cleared his throat and ducked his head quickly. “Sorry, Patrick.”
“I think it’s very romantic,” Brendon said solemnly.
“Not waiting is romantic too if you’re with the right person,” William said, a dreamy smile coming over his face. William, who was lucky enough to be rather incredibly rich, was betrothed to a poor Parisian painter named Travis who, as William would tell anyone who would listen, was terribly romantic and had made love to him (though William put it in slightly less delicate terms) in a boat on the Seine. Patrick thought he would have just gotten sea sick, romance or no.
“William, please, not that story again, it’s far too romantic right before midterms,” Ryan groaned.
Patrick checked his watch. “Well, the sun will be up in an hour’s time, so I’m going to bed. You all can stay up if you’d like, but keep it quiet, please,” he said, getting up.
“No detentions?” William asked. “Thank you, Patrick. I’m sorry I called you a cream puff.”
“You like cream puffs, so I don’t take it as an insult,” he said with a slight smile. “Goodnight,” he said, slipping out the door. Everyone called goodnight except Pete, who scowled a bit.
“What a priss,” he said after the door had shut.
“Patrick? Well, yes,” Ryan shrugged. “But,” he added quickly. “He’s very kind-hearted and a wonderful friend, and if you say anything bad at him, I’ll have no choice but to challenge you to fight.”
He was understandably annoyed when everyone burst out laughing.
*
Pete was on a mission. It involved a lot of being mean, and it wasn’t working.
“You’d really think that, looking like that, he’d blush all the time,” Pete said with a sigh of frustration. He and Ryan were sprawled on the lawn next to the lake, Ryan writing in his journal and Pete engaging in his current favorite hobby: Obsessive Patrick Staring.
“Is that what you’re on about with the little comments? It’s hopeless, Pete, Patrick gets teased all the time, he doesn’t even pay attention anymore. It’s not that hard to make him blush though, all you have to do is compliment him.”
Pete made a considering noise. “Is he actually good at anything though?”
Ryan cut his eyes at him, and if looks could kill, Pete would have been a corpse on the lawn. He said, “*Yes*, Peter, Patrick happens to be good at a lot of things. He’s an excellent student, he’s very talented on the piano, and he has a beautiful singing voice. He sings at Mass every morning, which you would know if you actually went.”
“I need my beauty sleep,” Pete replied. “Don’t reply to that,” he added quickly when Ryan opened his mouth. “Hmm, Mass? I think I may have to attend tomorrow then.”
*
Ryan was not lying. Pete’s breath actually caught in his throat when Patrick started to sing, haloed by the soft golden light coming in from the windows of the chapel.
Pete caught his elbow as they exited the chapel. “Patrick. Good morning.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Good morning, Pete.”
“I just wanted to say that you were beautiful. I mean, your singing was beautiful. And you looked beautiful doing it.”
Patrick looked at him suspiciously. “Thank you,” he said slowly.
“I’m being serious.”
“All right.”
“I know I haven’t been--at my best,” he said, ignoring Patrick’s snort. “But I do hope you’ll give me another chance.”
“I will consider it,” Patrick sniffed.
*
It didn’t come as much of a surprise to Patrick that Pete was failing the majority of his classes. City people. Patrick was surprised, however, when they were both called into the headmaster’s office, and even more surprised when he discovered that the headmaster hated him. That was his only explanation for why he had been assigned as Pete’s tutor.
“Patrick,” Headmaster Mark said delicately. “I know you’re not pleased about it, but you have to remember that the Wentzs are quite notable beneficiaries of the school, and without that money, we wouldn’t be able to offer scholarships, in which case…”
“I wouldn’t be able to attend, I know.”
“You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it, all right?”
“I haven’t got much choice, have I?” Patrick said tightly.
*
“I don’t see why I need to know this if I’m going to be a solicitor. I highly doubt I‘ll ever need to know any of this,” Pete said from where he was sprawled on the couch in the music room.
“Probably not, but unfortunately, you don’t get to pick and choose what you learn for your vocation. If you could, this school would turn out countless doctors and lawyers with a vast knowledge of male anatomy and not much else.”
“You’re funny,” Pete stated after a brief pause. “That, I was not expecting.”
“And you’re a loquacious, lazy fool, but that I was expecting,” Patrick replied over his shoulder from where he was seated at the piano.
Pete frowned. “You know, you’re really not very nice,” he said, getting off the sofa and sitting down next to Patrick at the piano. “Will you play something for me?”
“Will you finish your lesson?”
“I need inspiration.”
“For arithmetic?”
“Just play.”
Patrick rolled his eyes and laid his fingers on the keys, pausing for a second before he started to play. Pete closed his eyes at the slow melody for a moment before he picked up a piece of paper from the pile on top of the piano and started to write.
“What are you writing?”
“Poem.”
Patrick hesitated for a moment and then leaned over, reading Pete’s scrawled words over his shoulder, his breath hitting Pete’s neck, soft and quiet. “That’s…cheerful,” he said, sitting back. “It’s beautiful though. Ryan told me you liked to write, but I didn’t expect you to be so good.”
“He told me you could sing, but I didn’t imagine for a moment you could sing like *that*,” Pete retorted, smiling a bit when Patrick’s cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink.
Patrick licked his lips. “Why not?”
“You’re so proper. You don’t look like you’d sing like that.”
“Well, there’s no point in singing if you’re not going to sing from the heart,” Patrick replied, as if it were obvious.
Pete couldn’t help but grin. He bit his lip, for he was certain that anything he said now would be ridiculous with Patrick’s eyes on him. “I’m going to do my lesson now,” he said seriously.
“Ah, so you *can* be trained,” Patrick said lightly. He turned back to the keys, but to Pete’s disappointment, he picked up his grammar book instead of playing another song.
*
"Honestly, Ryan, I don't know why you can't just be satisfied. Brendon is nice."
"He's insufferable, and besides that, I don't love him. I love--"
"Spencer, yes, I know.” Patrick couldn’t bring himself to say too much about Spencer. Although he was the son of the school’s caretaker, and therefore dirt poor, Patrick hadn’t been able to warn Ryan away from him too vigorously since the night he had caught Spencer sneaking into the school to read the textbooks. “That's well and good, Ryan, but Spencer has even less money than you do. What good is to come of your marriage?"
"A lifetime of love and intimacy, Patrick! Honestly."
Patrick shook his head. "You know, sometimes I almost envy your naiveté."
"Well, I certainly don't envy your lack of romantic imagination. Oh," he exclaimed suddenly, taking Patrick's arm. "Do you know what I think you should do?"
"Please do tell me," Patrick said with a long-suffering sigh.
"I think you should run away with Pete."
"Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third?” Patrick exclaimed incredulously. “I hope that's not the Pete you mean. I'd be better off marrying a--a circus performer! He has a *reputation*, Ryan."
"It's all talk," Ryan said seriously. "He really cares for you, Patrick. He fancies himself quite in love with you, and I know he’s not very serious sometimes, but I don’t think he jokes about love.”
“Well, that’s charming and wonderful for him.”
“I know you like him.”
“That’s beside the point, Ryan, and you know it.”
“Patrick, just--just try, all right? I think you might actually have found the right person. He makes you laugh, and you don’t laugh very much, you know. It’s terribly romantic, really,” he said thoughtfully, stretching out on Patrick’s bed. “Like Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed and all.”
“Romeo and Juliet both died at the end of the story, Ryan.”
Ryan made a face. “Pedantic.”
*
"My parents are very disappointed, as you can imagine,” Pete said matter-of-factly as he and Patrick meandered down the path from the stables to the dormitories. “Their only wish in life is that I might settle down with someone nice who has some money and become a lawyer, but I haven't met anyone yet."
"What do you mean, you haven't met anyone? Surely there are plenty in your county who might like nothing more than to suffer your advances?" Patrick asked lightly.
"Surely--I simply have no wish to provide them."
"You're leaving school soon. You're expected to marry."
"And so what of it? I don't think I could ever marry--spend the rest of my life with one person--if I didn't love them, especially the people my parents like. They're only ever after the family fortune."
"It must be a luxury to have such views."
"You don't share them?"
Patrick cleared his throat and looked away for a moment before he looked back. "I find that the only people who disdain of marrying for money are those who don't need to," he said carefully.
"Is that what *you're* going to do, then?" Pete asked with a frown.
"Yes, of course," Patrick replied, as if it were obvious, and to him, it was. "I'm not officially engaged, but I've been promised to someone since I was 14."
"Is he nice, at least?"
"He's perfectly agreeable."
"Perfectly agreeable?" he asked incredulously. "Well, how could you pass that up?"
"He's very rich, of course. I'm quite lucky for the offer.”
"You're quite a fool if that's all you expect. What will you do?"
"As a profession? I'll become a lawyer, of course."
"A *lawyer*?" Pete asked dubiously. "But you love music. I know you do."
"I do," Patrick admitted after a brief hesitation. "But music is hardly a suitable--"
"Dammit, Patrick," Pete interrupted, letting out a harsh sigh of frustration. "Don't you ever tire of being so very proper?"
"Don't you ever tire of being so very the opposite?" Patrick retorted.
"Patrick, don't be a fool. That's no life for you. You could have--you could have *everything*, if you wanted."
"If *I* wanted. I'm sure that's what you occupy your time musing on, what *you* want, but I don't have the luxury of considering what *I* want. My family is in very dire straits and it would be selfish of me to doom them to a lifetime of poverty simply because I don't fancy the life I've no choice but to lead."
"*I* have a lot of money, you know."
Patrick gave him a quelling look. "I hope that's not your idea of a proposal."
"Would you say yes if it was?"
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Patrick said decisively, and looked away toward the wood.
"Patrick--"
"Peter," Patrick said sharply. He sped up, but Pete slowed, frowning. "We're not having this discussion," he added over his shoulder.
*
“Don’t you long for it, though?” Pete whispered softly to Patrick during mass the next morning.
“Long for what?”
“Real love.”
Patrick sighed a bit and looked away. “Of course. Everybody does. Everyone wants to be loved…to be dreamt of...”
“You already are.”
Patrick turned to him and licked his lips, but before he could reply, a shadow fell over them and they both looked up.
“I’m sorry, do you gentlemen have something more interesting to discuss than our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?”
“Of course not, sir.” Patrick said quickly. “Sorry.”
*
“I’ve been tutoring you for three months, almost every day, and your marks are still as awful as day one. How is that possible?”
“It may have something to do with the fact that I spend most of our lessons staring at you.”
“Pete--”
“If you were less distracting, I’d be doing fine. It’s not very considerate, you know, Patrick, as my tutor.”
“It’s hardly my fault you find my neck so fascinating.”
Pete tilted his head with a sigh. “Play something for me.”
By this point, a simple request was all that was needed and Patrick turned with a sigh and started to play.
“Did you write this one?”
“Yes.”
“It’s pretty.”
“Thank you. What I did was--” and with that, Patrick was off on a long explanation of how he had written it, most of which was lost on Pete, who simply played whatever sounded nice and never wrote things down. Pete was, however, content to listen, and he leaned on the piano with a sigh. His eyes traced the soft, pale curve of Patrick’s jaw as he spoke quietly, almost smiling around the corners of his mouth.
“I can feel you staring at me, you know,” Patrick said after a few minutes. He ducked his head, but Pete thought he could see his smile getting wider.
“You’re gorgeous.”
“I’m not,” Patrick replied immediately, and they had had this discussion so many times that he didn’t even blush anymore at the compliment.
“I’m in love with you, you know.”
“No, you’re not.”
“How long do you plan on denying it?”
“Until one of us believes it,” Patrick answered, his voice quiet over the music he was still playing.
Pete gave a short sigh and moved closer, sliding tentatively across the bench. He hooked his fingers under the edge of Patrick’s shirt, the top two buttons undone, showing what seemed to Pete to be a massive amount of soft, unmarked skin. He leaned in and pressed his lips to the spot under Patrick’s ear. Patrick’s fingers faltered on the keys, but the melody continued.
“What are you doing?” Patrick whispered.
“Nothing, just keep playing,” he answered, kissing him again, further down now, making his way to the sharper curve of his collarbone. He moved down and was very much gratified to hear Patrick gasp, breath halting, even tilting his head a bit and giving more and more and more of that pale skin. Pete bit down, hard, because he knew there had to be a way to get his feelings across to him, and Patrick hit a discordant note that seemed to freeze in the air in perfect harmony with the moan that slipped out of Patrick’s mouth as he turned to Pete. Pete leaned in and met him in a hard kiss, thinking that there was no possible thing that could feel better than this moment, until, of course, Patrick’s mouth opened under his.
It was on kiss number four (or possibly thirty-four--Pete was having an awfully hard time keeping his concentration), with Patrick’s fingers curled tightly in his shirt and Pete’s own testing the texture of Patrick’s hair (feather soft, just as he’d suspected) when the door crashed open, and that was the most accurate word for it, because it was William, and William never did anything quietly.
Patrick jumped up from the piano bench so fast that it tipped over backwards, taking Pete to the floor with it, and for a long moment, Patrick simply stared between him and William, who was leaning against the door frame with the air of someone who had just seen a ghost.
Finally, he cleared his throat and said, in what Pete guessed was supposed to be an authoritative voice, “What are you doing in here, William?”
“I’m supposed to practice.”
“Right, well, okay,” Patrick said vaguely, tugging at his collar. Pete could see the marks forming all up the line of his neck already. God bless pale skin. “Go. Um, go ahead,” he said
quickly. He glanced at Pete for a brief moment and then made an almost literal run for the door.
*
“I need to talk to you.”
Patrick jumped and turned the slightest bit, just enough to confirm what he already knew, that Pete was standing alarmingly close to him in this dark corner of the ball room while everyone else enjoyed the Christmas party. They hadn’t spoken in the two weeks since what Patrick mentally referred to as the Piano Room Debacle. Patrick had no idea how he had managed to avoid him for so long, but it had worked up until now.
“About?”
“I think you know.”
“Well, I don’t think--”
Pete’s fingers closed on his arm and pulled him around to face him. “I didn’t say you had a choice,” he said, pulling him towards the door. Patrick glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to them as Pete dragged him out of the room.
It was crisply cold outside, the air completely still save for the light fluttering of snow.
“Patrick,” Pete said, his voice heavy. “There’s something I have to say to you.”
“I--”
“Don’t. Just listen to me for a moment.” He took a deep breath. "There's nothing I want in life but to love you, Patrick. Just--" Pete faltered and gave him an almost wounded look, his eyes bright in the moonlight, and shining. "Just tell me one thing honestly, and say nothing of propriety. Do you love me?"
"Pete, you know that it--"
"Do you love me?" Pete asked heatedly, taking his shoulders and shaking him a little. "Do you love me?" he asked again, softer now, and despairing. Patrick found that when he looked into his eyes, he could form no other words but,
"Yes."
For a long moment, Pete simply looked at him wonderingly. Then he leapt into the air, throwing his arms up and shouting yes. Not very discrete, but Patrick found himself laughing nevertheless.
"I'm glad to have made you happy."
"You have, Patrick Martin Stump. You've made me the happiest man in the county. No, the happiest man in England."
Patrick cleared his throat, ducking his head, and said, "I imagine my parents won't be very pleased, but," he took a quick breath and said what he had been longing to say for so long. "I don't care. I love you and I want to be with you. For as long as I can be, however long that may be."
"Forever," Pete said with hesitation. "I'll hear of nothing else."
"Is that your idea of a proposal?" Patrick asked with a slight smile, biting into his lip nervously.
"If it is, are you saying yes?"
Patrick couldn't stop the smile from blooming across his face. "No other words could pass my lips."
*
“I love you.”
Whispered words in the dim light of the candle as Patrick slipped his clothes off, holding his breath as he caught Pete’s eyes raking over him.
A hushed sigh and the room was dark.
*
It was freezing and dark when Pete awoke. He rolled over, reaching out for Patrick before he was even fully awake, and moving closer when his fingers skimmed over skin that was still hot. He shivered even under the blankets and a glance out the window showed that the snow was still coming down. Pete climbed out of the bed and went over to the fireplace, starting a fresh fire that started to warm the room as soon as it began to crackle.
Patrick hadn’t moved an inch when he went back to the bed. Ryan had told him once that Patrick could sleep through just about anything and Pete smiled to himself as he sat down on the edge of the bed. In the rich glow from the fire, Patrick had never looked so innocent as he did now, but, Pete thought to himself with a grin, that wasn’t quite the truth. With that mouth and what everyone would assume was Pete’s bad influence, he could just imagine what kinds of things people were going to say about him.
That gave him pause.
He knew that Patrick put a lot of effort into being the ideal son so could make his parents proud and make their life easier and for the first time, Pete wondered how they would feel about him--by all reports, the most disreputable man in at least the whole county--courting their son. And for the first time, he wondered too if Patrick had a good reason to turn him down.
Pete could take all the things people said about him, all the unfair accusations, and the fair ones too, but Patrick. Patrick had a sweet soul, if not necessarily a trusting one, and Pete doubted suddenly that he knew what he was getting into.
Pete turned away from Patrick as a chill swept over him. He realized now what he had done exactly by pursuing Patrick: he had *ruined* him, ruined his reputation, and Patrick probably wasn’t even aware of it, but Pete was, all too aware. It was quite possibly the most selfish thing he had ever done and, yes, Patrick loved him, or said he loved him, anyway, but that was due, Pete was sure, to one of two reasons: either Patrick had changed him and made him better and actually *worthy* of him, or he didn’t really know Pete at all; he wasn’t enough an optimist to hope it was the former.
He realized what he had to do, and he bit down on his lip as he got up from the bed and went to Patrick’s desk. He gave him one last look that blurred after a few moments, took a deep breath, and started to write.
*
The sun had never seemed so bright to Patrick as when he opened his eyes that morning. The snow that had settled on the windowsill seemed to catch the cold, pale sunlight and magnify its brightness. He rolled over with a groan, looking forward to curling up to Pete and maybe spending an extra hour or so in bed before breakfast if they could. He sat up quickly when he realized the bed was empty.
He reached up and rubbed his eyes, glancing around the room in puzzlement until his gaze landed on the piece of parchment on the corner of his desk. He got out of the bed and picked it up, unfolding it slowly. He wondered if Pete had written him a poem and then indulged his artistic temperament as he was wont to do, taking a walk when anyone else would stay in bed.
He settled back into the pillows and started to read.
*
Ryan burst in right after the snow had started coming down again. "Patrick, the most wonderful thing has happened! You’ll never guess what happened last night after you and--Patrick, are you still in bed in your night clothes? Honestly, it’s almost ten! Are you ill? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Patrick peeked out at him from the edge of the covers and cleared his throat to croak out, “Pete’s gone..”
“Gone to where?”
“Home.”
“How do you know?” Ryan asked with a frown. Patrick pointed to the letter still sitting, half-crumpled, on the bedside table. Ryan sat down on the edge of the bed to read it and when he finished, he looked at Patrick not with the pitying expression Patrick had expected and dreaded, but with a disapproving frown. “Well?”
“Well, what?” Patrick snapped, sitting up a bit. “You can *read*, can‘t you?”
“Well, surely you’re not just going to wallow around in bed and feel sorry for yourself.”
“What else do you expect me to do?”
“Patrick,” Ryan said with an air of long-suffering patience. “You are a prefect. You can go look at his records, find out where he lives, and *follow* him.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit--insane?”
“True love demands grand gestures, Patrick. Just tell me,” Ryan said, getting off the bed and going to
the closet, pulling out Patrick’s trunk. “Do you love him?”
“I--yes,” Patrick said helplessly.
“So he at least owes you a better explanation than all this rubbish about protecting your reputation.”
“Yes,” Patrick said slowly after a moment as Ryan started stuffing clothes into the trunk. “You’re *right*. I--he *does* owe me an explanation. The least he can do is say all that to my face.”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve just said, Patrick,” Ryan said patiently.
“I’m sorry, Ryan--what was your news?” Patrick asked. He got out of the bed, still cocooned in the sheets (he may not have been a virgin anymore, but there was still a thing called modesty) and went to the dresser, taking a few items out of the drawers.
“Brendon doesn’t want to marry me anymore!” Ryan said brightly. “He took me to the piano room during the party last night and told me he’s fallen in love with someone else.”
“That’s...wonderful news?”
“Yes, it’s some man called Jon? He’s a bartender in town, apparently.”
“A bartender? That’s a bit common.”
“You should have seen the look on Brendon’s face when he talked about him though. Anyway, he said that he knows I’m in love with Spencer and that he thinks we should get married and I talked to Spencer and he agrees, so we’re getting married as soon as school finishes.”
“Ryan, that’s wonderful. I’m so glad that you’re happy.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Ryan said, somewhat suspiciously. “You don’t have any comments on how poor we’re going to be?”
“There are more important things than money, aren’t there?”
Ryan smiled. “I was wondering how long it would be before you started listening to me! I’m very wise, you know.”
“I’m starting to think you’re right about that,” Patrick said, and they both closed the trunk. “But you’re still hopeless at Latin, so don’t get too smug.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan grinned, rolling his eyes. “Okay, go get cleaned up a bit and I’ll take this downstairs and see if Spencer will get us a carriage. This is terribly exciting, isn’t it? Just promise me that when you’re Patrick Martin Wentz, you won’t forget about me, okay?”
“I really don’t think you need to worry about that.”
*
The Wentz’s country estate was only two hours away by carriage, but those two hours, plus the half hour waiting for the carriage, was plenty of time for Patrick to decide he was making a terrible mistake and that he should just turn around, go back to school, and forget he had ever met Pete Wentz. But he had already paid the carriage driver, so he just decided to get it done and over with.
That was what he told himself anyway.
Finally, the carriage dumped him at the Wentz estate at the end of a very long and very muddy road, with his rather heavy trunk. He wished now that he had actually paid attention to what Ryan had been shoving in there. He took a deep, determined breath and started off down the road. After all, he had done more daunting things than this before. (Nothing came to mind, however.)
The house was rather intimidating, though. It was even bigger than Mr. Flowers’ house, with a thin layer of clean, white snow still laying over the lawn. Patrick got to the front door and knocked before he could lose his nerve. He set his pack down and tried to compose something to say to whatever servant answered the door, and so was caught quite off guard when Pete himself answered. Pete looked equally as surprised to see him, and for a long moment, they were both silent and gaping. Finally, Patrick said, in a voice that was mortifyingly small,
“You left me.”
“Patrick, I.” Pete looked at a loss for a moment. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. “I just don’t think this is a good idea. I thought I’d do us both a favor.”
“So it was a mistake?”
“I didn’t say that,” Pete said hastily. “I just mean that--”
“No, I understand,” Patrick cut him off. “I’ll just--I’ll just go,” he mumbled, turning away and starting quickly down the path back to the road. So much for grand gestures. What on earth had he been thinking, looking to *Ryan* of all people for practical advice?
“Patrick, wait,” Pete started, but Patrick was already halfway down the stairs of the porch. He hadn’t gotten too far, however, before some ghastly creature came running from around the corner, barking like the gates of hell, and Patrick jumped back up the stairs very quickly indeed.
“What on *Earth*, Peter?”
“Oh, that’s just Shakespeare,” Pete said as the dog in question slowly but very surely backed Patrick up the steps and back to the door. “He must,” he cleared his throat. “He must really want you to stay.”
“*He* really wants me to stay? Well, I know you don’t. You want me to leave, right?” Patrick asked, going for coldness and landing, unfortunately, on a soft sadness that sounded terrible even to his own ears. Heartbroken, was probably the word.
“I. No. I don’t want you to leave. But I think maybe it would be best if you did, Patrick. I just--you know I have a reputation and I think that--”
“Pete, for all the time I’ve spent lecturing about your reputation, I can tell you that now, in this instance, it’s the absolute *last* thing I care about.”
“Do you know--I mean, *really* know the sort of things people will say about you?”
“I don’t care what people say about me, Pete. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
“You really do love me,” Pete said after a pause, and it sounded flat-out *wondering*.
“Are you some sort of idiot?” Patrick asked impatiently. “Of *course* I love you.”
“Unconditionally.”
“I’m not encouraging you to test it, but yes.” The dog, who had meandered over to Pete, butted his head against the back of Pete’s leg, pushing him towards Patrick with a soft growl. “Your dog is smart. You should start taking romantic counsel from him.”
“Starting now?”
“It *is* very cold out here. You might invite me in.”
“Well,” Pete replied with a grin, leaning against the door frame. “If being cold is your problem, I don’t think it’ll do you much good seeing as how I’m planning to rip your clothes off as soon as you get in the door.”
“Honestly, Pete, don’t be so crass,” Patrick scoffed, picking up his trunk and brushing past him into the house. “Your *mother* could be here.”
“Are you going to be like this after we’re married?”
“Yes, obviously. Why? You can’t change your mind now, you know, I know where your house is,” he said reasonably.
“Oh, I’m not changing my mind, I’m just wondering what I have in my bedroom that I can gag you with,” Pete replied with a grin.
“You know, I don’t think I can trust you, Peter. I may have to tie you to the bed frame.”
“I cannot *wait* to marry you.”
*
“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third, do you know that another of our maids tried to resign today? They’re all terrified of you, you know.”
Pete turned to look over his shoulder at Patrick from where he was seated at the desk in the study. “Me?” he asked innocently.
“Yes, you,” Patrick said with a wry smile. “And you can drop the innocent act, I haven’t fallen for that in--well, ever.”
“Well, I caught her looking at you while you were dressing this morning, and I don’t *like* it when people look at you, and I might have said some things to her that may or may not have involved vague mentions of having her eyes removed.”
“And kept in a jar in your study, yes, she mentioned that.”
“Well, she had it coming,” Pete said steadfastly. “Besides, you can always send her to Ryan and Spencer. She’ll work for pies, right?”
“You’re an idiot, you know,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes with a slight smile as he crossed the room to stand behind Pete at the desk.
“Yes, but as long as you don’t mind, I don’t think it’s of too much import,” Pete replied with a happy sigh as Patrick’s hands smoothed over his shoulders and started to knead the tight muscles there. He had been writing his book all morning and all afternoon while Patrick had been working on his second opera. (They had both discovered fairly quickly that couldn’t work around each other, Pete because he found Patrick too distracting too look at it, and Patrick because Pete wouldn’t shut up about it.)
Pete tilted his head back and smiled at him. The year and a half that had passed since Patrick had appeared on his doorstep had held plenty of ups and downs, but Pete didn’t regret any of it, and he didn’t think Patrick did either.
“What are you writing?” Patrick asked curiously, leaning over him to glance at the paper on the desk. Pete’s work was still top secret even to him until it was finished. “Another one of your sad stories?” he asked, running a hand absently through Pete’s hair.
“No,” Pete replied with a grin, reaching up to take his hand. “This story has a happy ending."
Summary : Victorian era AU. There are a few things that a true no matter what time it is. For instance, Pete loves Patrick, Patrick loves Pete, and William Beckett is loud.
Author :
dracopetRating : PG-13 at most
Author's Notes : So, yes, this is meant to read like a romance novel. I was sitting and watching this film called Becoming Jane and I thought to myself, 'This movie is so damn boring. I wonder what would make it better? I know, if all the characters were bandom dudes!' And I came home and started this. Also, yes, Shakespeare is Hemmy. PS) Please comment!
It was mid-September when he showed up.
“Have you heard about the new student?” Ryan asked casually. Casually on Ryan had a tendency, however, to translate to ‘extremely interested’, and he leaned forward conspiratorially when he asked.
“It’s all I’ve heard of all day. Honestly,” Patrick scoffed. “How interesting can he be? What’s his name again?”
“Pete Wentz.”
Patrick grimaced. “The one who--”
“Yes,” Ryan replied, looking rather excited.
“Ryan, don’t get any ideas, alright? He’s a bad influence.”
“You haven’t even met him yet!”
“He’s Pete Wentz,” Patrick said seriously. “I don’t need to.”
*
"He's all sorts of trouble," Patrick said with a frown. He looked up from his parchment for a moment and pushed his glasses up. He cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder at Ryan. "I think you should stay away from him."
"He's a laugh, though," Ryan protested. "He's a damn sight more fun than *you* are," he added sulkily.
"I haven't got time to be fun, Ryan, I'm too busy being sensible. And," he added, turning in his seat to give the younger boy a pointed look. "It's something you might try sometime."
*
“Who *is* that fascinating creature?”
“Fascinating--what, you mean *Patrick*?” Ryan asked incredulously. “You think *Patrick* is fascinating?”
“Well, he’s something quite special, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I suppose so. He’s my tutor, and a complete prude, so you can just forget it.”
“Not a prude, Ryan,” Pete replies with a grin. “A challenge.”
*
“Excuse me, gentleman.” They all tuned to the door, the chatter dying instantly. Patrick stood in the doorway, idly swinging a watch by its chain. “Have you any idea what time it is?”
Pete leaned back on his palms with a smirk. “You have a watch, shouldn’t you know?”
Patrick simply rolled his eyes and came into the room, closing the door behind him. He sat down primly on the edge of the empty seat next to William’s desk. “Go on, then, what are we talking about? I’m imagining it’s not Bach and Anne Radcliffe,” he said sardonically.
Everyone shot nervous side glances around the room for a few moments, the silence growing thicker with each second, until Brendon blurted out,
“We’re talking about sex!”, looking quite excited about the fact. Pete wanted to kick him, certain that Patrick would give them a disapproving look and issue detentions to all of them. To his surprise, Patrick simply scoffed and said,
“Why am I not surprised? Well,” he said, leaning back a bit in his seat. “What have you determined?”
“That no one in this room is a virgin except Brendon and Ryan, and Ryan hardly counts,” William said.
Ryan frowned. “Why don’t I count?”
“Because everyone knows you’re saving yourself for--”
Patrick saw Ryan’s eyes cut to Brendon, and Brendon’s eyes drop to the ground. “There’s nothing wrong with saving yourself for marriage, William,” he cut in smoothly before William could get Spencer’s name out.
“I bet you are,” Pete smirked. “You’re a little country virgin, aren’t you?”
He expected a blush at the very least, and so was very disappointed when Patrick merely brushed a spot of dust off his shoulder and said distractedly,
“Of course I’m a virgin, and the country has nothing to do with it. It’s simply the courteous thing to do for one’s husband.”
“Mr. Flowers must be quite excited about that,” William said with a slow grin. “I bet he can’t wait to deflower his little cream puff,” he snickered.
Pete relished the thought of what Patrick’s reaction would be to that, but he was again surprised when Patrick sent a glare William’s way that was so fierce that it stopped his giggling almost as soon as it had started.
William cleared his throat and ducked his head quickly. “Sorry, Patrick.”
“I think it’s very romantic,” Brendon said solemnly.
“Not waiting is romantic too if you’re with the right person,” William said, a dreamy smile coming over his face. William, who was lucky enough to be rather incredibly rich, was betrothed to a poor Parisian painter named Travis who, as William would tell anyone who would listen, was terribly romantic and had made love to him (though William put it in slightly less delicate terms) in a boat on the Seine. Patrick thought he would have just gotten sea sick, romance or no.
“William, please, not that story again, it’s far too romantic right before midterms,” Ryan groaned.
Patrick checked his watch. “Well, the sun will be up in an hour’s time, so I’m going to bed. You all can stay up if you’d like, but keep it quiet, please,” he said, getting up.
“No detentions?” William asked. “Thank you, Patrick. I’m sorry I called you a cream puff.”
“You like cream puffs, so I don’t take it as an insult,” he said with a slight smile. “Goodnight,” he said, slipping out the door. Everyone called goodnight except Pete, who scowled a bit.
“What a priss,” he said after the door had shut.
“Patrick? Well, yes,” Ryan shrugged. “But,” he added quickly. “He’s very kind-hearted and a wonderful friend, and if you say anything bad at him, I’ll have no choice but to challenge you to fight.”
He was understandably annoyed when everyone burst out laughing.
*
Pete was on a mission. It involved a lot of being mean, and it wasn’t working.
“You’d really think that, looking like that, he’d blush all the time,” Pete said with a sigh of frustration. He and Ryan were sprawled on the lawn next to the lake, Ryan writing in his journal and Pete engaging in his current favorite hobby: Obsessive Patrick Staring.
“Is that what you’re on about with the little comments? It’s hopeless, Pete, Patrick gets teased all the time, he doesn’t even pay attention anymore. It’s not that hard to make him blush though, all you have to do is compliment him.”
Pete made a considering noise. “Is he actually good at anything though?”
Ryan cut his eyes at him, and if looks could kill, Pete would have been a corpse on the lawn. He said, “*Yes*, Peter, Patrick happens to be good at a lot of things. He’s an excellent student, he’s very talented on the piano, and he has a beautiful singing voice. He sings at Mass every morning, which you would know if you actually went.”
“I need my beauty sleep,” Pete replied. “Don’t reply to that,” he added quickly when Ryan opened his mouth. “Hmm, Mass? I think I may have to attend tomorrow then.”
*
Ryan was not lying. Pete’s breath actually caught in his throat when Patrick started to sing, haloed by the soft golden light coming in from the windows of the chapel.
Pete caught his elbow as they exited the chapel. “Patrick. Good morning.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Good morning, Pete.”
“I just wanted to say that you were beautiful. I mean, your singing was beautiful. And you looked beautiful doing it.”
Patrick looked at him suspiciously. “Thank you,” he said slowly.
“I’m being serious.”
“All right.”
“I know I haven’t been--at my best,” he said, ignoring Patrick’s snort. “But I do hope you’ll give me another chance.”
“I will consider it,” Patrick sniffed.
*
It didn’t come as much of a surprise to Patrick that Pete was failing the majority of his classes. City people. Patrick was surprised, however, when they were both called into the headmaster’s office, and even more surprised when he discovered that the headmaster hated him. That was his only explanation for why he had been assigned as Pete’s tutor.
“Patrick,” Headmaster Mark said delicately. “I know you’re not pleased about it, but you have to remember that the Wentzs are quite notable beneficiaries of the school, and without that money, we wouldn’t be able to offer scholarships, in which case…”
“I wouldn’t be able to attend, I know.”
“You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it, all right?”
“I haven’t got much choice, have I?” Patrick said tightly.
*
“I don’t see why I need to know this if I’m going to be a solicitor. I highly doubt I‘ll ever need to know any of this,” Pete said from where he was sprawled on the couch in the music room.
“Probably not, but unfortunately, you don’t get to pick and choose what you learn for your vocation. If you could, this school would turn out countless doctors and lawyers with a vast knowledge of male anatomy and not much else.”
“You’re funny,” Pete stated after a brief pause. “That, I was not expecting.”
“And you’re a loquacious, lazy fool, but that I was expecting,” Patrick replied over his shoulder from where he was seated at the piano.
Pete frowned. “You know, you’re really not very nice,” he said, getting off the sofa and sitting down next to Patrick at the piano. “Will you play something for me?”
“Will you finish your lesson?”
“I need inspiration.”
“For arithmetic?”
“Just play.”
Patrick rolled his eyes and laid his fingers on the keys, pausing for a second before he started to play. Pete closed his eyes at the slow melody for a moment before he picked up a piece of paper from the pile on top of the piano and started to write.
“What are you writing?”
“Poem.”
Patrick hesitated for a moment and then leaned over, reading Pete’s scrawled words over his shoulder, his breath hitting Pete’s neck, soft and quiet. “That’s…cheerful,” he said, sitting back. “It’s beautiful though. Ryan told me you liked to write, but I didn’t expect you to be so good.”
“He told me you could sing, but I didn’t imagine for a moment you could sing like *that*,” Pete retorted, smiling a bit when Patrick’s cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink.
Patrick licked his lips. “Why not?”
“You’re so proper. You don’t look like you’d sing like that.”
“Well, there’s no point in singing if you’re not going to sing from the heart,” Patrick replied, as if it were obvious.
Pete couldn’t help but grin. He bit his lip, for he was certain that anything he said now would be ridiculous with Patrick’s eyes on him. “I’m going to do my lesson now,” he said seriously.
“Ah, so you *can* be trained,” Patrick said lightly. He turned back to the keys, but to Pete’s disappointment, he picked up his grammar book instead of playing another song.
*
"Honestly, Ryan, I don't know why you can't just be satisfied. Brendon is nice."
"He's insufferable, and besides that, I don't love him. I love--"
"Spencer, yes, I know.” Patrick couldn’t bring himself to say too much about Spencer. Although he was the son of the school’s caretaker, and therefore dirt poor, Patrick hadn’t been able to warn Ryan away from him too vigorously since the night he had caught Spencer sneaking into the school to read the textbooks. “That's well and good, Ryan, but Spencer has even less money than you do. What good is to come of your marriage?"
"A lifetime of love and intimacy, Patrick! Honestly."
Patrick shook his head. "You know, sometimes I almost envy your naiveté."
"Well, I certainly don't envy your lack of romantic imagination. Oh," he exclaimed suddenly, taking Patrick's arm. "Do you know what I think you should do?"
"Please do tell me," Patrick said with a long-suffering sigh.
"I think you should run away with Pete."
"Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third?” Patrick exclaimed incredulously. “I hope that's not the Pete you mean. I'd be better off marrying a--a circus performer! He has a *reputation*, Ryan."
"It's all talk," Ryan said seriously. "He really cares for you, Patrick. He fancies himself quite in love with you, and I know he’s not very serious sometimes, but I don’t think he jokes about love.”
“Well, that’s charming and wonderful for him.”
“I know you like him.”
“That’s beside the point, Ryan, and you know it.”
“Patrick, just--just try, all right? I think you might actually have found the right person. He makes you laugh, and you don’t laugh very much, you know. It’s terribly romantic, really,” he said thoughtfully, stretching out on Patrick’s bed. “Like Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed and all.”
“Romeo and Juliet both died at the end of the story, Ryan.”
Ryan made a face. “Pedantic.”
*
"My parents are very disappointed, as you can imagine,” Pete said matter-of-factly as he and Patrick meandered down the path from the stables to the dormitories. “Their only wish in life is that I might settle down with someone nice who has some money and become a lawyer, but I haven't met anyone yet."
"What do you mean, you haven't met anyone? Surely there are plenty in your county who might like nothing more than to suffer your advances?" Patrick asked lightly.
"Surely--I simply have no wish to provide them."
"You're leaving school soon. You're expected to marry."
"And so what of it? I don't think I could ever marry--spend the rest of my life with one person--if I didn't love them, especially the people my parents like. They're only ever after the family fortune."
"It must be a luxury to have such views."
"You don't share them?"
Patrick cleared his throat and looked away for a moment before he looked back. "I find that the only people who disdain of marrying for money are those who don't need to," he said carefully.
"Is that what *you're* going to do, then?" Pete asked with a frown.
"Yes, of course," Patrick replied, as if it were obvious, and to him, it was. "I'm not officially engaged, but I've been promised to someone since I was 14."
"Is he nice, at least?"
"He's perfectly agreeable."
"Perfectly agreeable?" he asked incredulously. "Well, how could you pass that up?"
"He's very rich, of course. I'm quite lucky for the offer.”
"You're quite a fool if that's all you expect. What will you do?"
"As a profession? I'll become a lawyer, of course."
"A *lawyer*?" Pete asked dubiously. "But you love music. I know you do."
"I do," Patrick admitted after a brief hesitation. "But music is hardly a suitable--"
"Dammit, Patrick," Pete interrupted, letting out a harsh sigh of frustration. "Don't you ever tire of being so very proper?"
"Don't you ever tire of being so very the opposite?" Patrick retorted.
"Patrick, don't be a fool. That's no life for you. You could have--you could have *everything*, if you wanted."
"If *I* wanted. I'm sure that's what you occupy your time musing on, what *you* want, but I don't have the luxury of considering what *I* want. My family is in very dire straits and it would be selfish of me to doom them to a lifetime of poverty simply because I don't fancy the life I've no choice but to lead."
"*I* have a lot of money, you know."
Patrick gave him a quelling look. "I hope that's not your idea of a proposal."
"Would you say yes if it was?"
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Patrick said decisively, and looked away toward the wood.
"Patrick--"
"Peter," Patrick said sharply. He sped up, but Pete slowed, frowning. "We're not having this discussion," he added over his shoulder.
*
“Don’t you long for it, though?” Pete whispered softly to Patrick during mass the next morning.
“Long for what?”
“Real love.”
Patrick sighed a bit and looked away. “Of course. Everybody does. Everyone wants to be loved…to be dreamt of...”
“You already are.”
Patrick turned to him and licked his lips, but before he could reply, a shadow fell over them and they both looked up.
“I’m sorry, do you gentlemen have something more interesting to discuss than our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?”
“Of course not, sir.” Patrick said quickly. “Sorry.”
*
“I’ve been tutoring you for three months, almost every day, and your marks are still as awful as day one. How is that possible?”
“It may have something to do with the fact that I spend most of our lessons staring at you.”
“Pete--”
“If you were less distracting, I’d be doing fine. It’s not very considerate, you know, Patrick, as my tutor.”
“It’s hardly my fault you find my neck so fascinating.”
Pete tilted his head with a sigh. “Play something for me.”
By this point, a simple request was all that was needed and Patrick turned with a sigh and started to play.
“Did you write this one?”
“Yes.”
“It’s pretty.”
“Thank you. What I did was--” and with that, Patrick was off on a long explanation of how he had written it, most of which was lost on Pete, who simply played whatever sounded nice and never wrote things down. Pete was, however, content to listen, and he leaned on the piano with a sigh. His eyes traced the soft, pale curve of Patrick’s jaw as he spoke quietly, almost smiling around the corners of his mouth.
“I can feel you staring at me, you know,” Patrick said after a few minutes. He ducked his head, but Pete thought he could see his smile getting wider.
“You’re gorgeous.”
“I’m not,” Patrick replied immediately, and they had had this discussion so many times that he didn’t even blush anymore at the compliment.
“I’m in love with you, you know.”
“No, you’re not.”
“How long do you plan on denying it?”
“Until one of us believes it,” Patrick answered, his voice quiet over the music he was still playing.
Pete gave a short sigh and moved closer, sliding tentatively across the bench. He hooked his fingers under the edge of Patrick’s shirt, the top two buttons undone, showing what seemed to Pete to be a massive amount of soft, unmarked skin. He leaned in and pressed his lips to the spot under Patrick’s ear. Patrick’s fingers faltered on the keys, but the melody continued.
“What are you doing?” Patrick whispered.
“Nothing, just keep playing,” he answered, kissing him again, further down now, making his way to the sharper curve of his collarbone. He moved down and was very much gratified to hear Patrick gasp, breath halting, even tilting his head a bit and giving more and more and more of that pale skin. Pete bit down, hard, because he knew there had to be a way to get his feelings across to him, and Patrick hit a discordant note that seemed to freeze in the air in perfect harmony with the moan that slipped out of Patrick’s mouth as he turned to Pete. Pete leaned in and met him in a hard kiss, thinking that there was no possible thing that could feel better than this moment, until, of course, Patrick’s mouth opened under his.
It was on kiss number four (or possibly thirty-four--Pete was having an awfully hard time keeping his concentration), with Patrick’s fingers curled tightly in his shirt and Pete’s own testing the texture of Patrick’s hair (feather soft, just as he’d suspected) when the door crashed open, and that was the most accurate word for it, because it was William, and William never did anything quietly.
Patrick jumped up from the piano bench so fast that it tipped over backwards, taking Pete to the floor with it, and for a long moment, Patrick simply stared between him and William, who was leaning against the door frame with the air of someone who had just seen a ghost.
Finally, he cleared his throat and said, in what Pete guessed was supposed to be an authoritative voice, “What are you doing in here, William?”
“I’m supposed to practice.”
“Right, well, okay,” Patrick said vaguely, tugging at his collar. Pete could see the marks forming all up the line of his neck already. God bless pale skin. “Go. Um, go ahead,” he said
quickly. He glanced at Pete for a brief moment and then made an almost literal run for the door.
*
“I need to talk to you.”
Patrick jumped and turned the slightest bit, just enough to confirm what he already knew, that Pete was standing alarmingly close to him in this dark corner of the ball room while everyone else enjoyed the Christmas party. They hadn’t spoken in the two weeks since what Patrick mentally referred to as the Piano Room Debacle. Patrick had no idea how he had managed to avoid him for so long, but it had worked up until now.
“About?”
“I think you know.”
“Well, I don’t think--”
Pete’s fingers closed on his arm and pulled him around to face him. “I didn’t say you had a choice,” he said, pulling him towards the door. Patrick glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to them as Pete dragged him out of the room.
It was crisply cold outside, the air completely still save for the light fluttering of snow.
“Patrick,” Pete said, his voice heavy. “There’s something I have to say to you.”
“I--”
“Don’t. Just listen to me for a moment.” He took a deep breath. "There's nothing I want in life but to love you, Patrick. Just--" Pete faltered and gave him an almost wounded look, his eyes bright in the moonlight, and shining. "Just tell me one thing honestly, and say nothing of propriety. Do you love me?"
"Pete, you know that it--"
"Do you love me?" Pete asked heatedly, taking his shoulders and shaking him a little. "Do you love me?" he asked again, softer now, and despairing. Patrick found that when he looked into his eyes, he could form no other words but,
"Yes."
For a long moment, Pete simply looked at him wonderingly. Then he leapt into the air, throwing his arms up and shouting yes. Not very discrete, but Patrick found himself laughing nevertheless.
"I'm glad to have made you happy."
"You have, Patrick Martin Stump. You've made me the happiest man in the county. No, the happiest man in England."
Patrick cleared his throat, ducking his head, and said, "I imagine my parents won't be very pleased, but," he took a quick breath and said what he had been longing to say for so long. "I don't care. I love you and I want to be with you. For as long as I can be, however long that may be."
"Forever," Pete said with hesitation. "I'll hear of nothing else."
"Is that your idea of a proposal?" Patrick asked with a slight smile, biting into his lip nervously.
"If it is, are you saying yes?"
Patrick couldn't stop the smile from blooming across his face. "No other words could pass my lips."
*
“I love you.”
Whispered words in the dim light of the candle as Patrick slipped his clothes off, holding his breath as he caught Pete’s eyes raking over him.
A hushed sigh and the room was dark.
*
It was freezing and dark when Pete awoke. He rolled over, reaching out for Patrick before he was even fully awake, and moving closer when his fingers skimmed over skin that was still hot. He shivered even under the blankets and a glance out the window showed that the snow was still coming down. Pete climbed out of the bed and went over to the fireplace, starting a fresh fire that started to warm the room as soon as it began to crackle.
Patrick hadn’t moved an inch when he went back to the bed. Ryan had told him once that Patrick could sleep through just about anything and Pete smiled to himself as he sat down on the edge of the bed. In the rich glow from the fire, Patrick had never looked so innocent as he did now, but, Pete thought to himself with a grin, that wasn’t quite the truth. With that mouth and what everyone would assume was Pete’s bad influence, he could just imagine what kinds of things people were going to say about him.
That gave him pause.
He knew that Patrick put a lot of effort into being the ideal son so could make his parents proud and make their life easier and for the first time, Pete wondered how they would feel about him--by all reports, the most disreputable man in at least the whole county--courting their son. And for the first time, he wondered too if Patrick had a good reason to turn him down.
Pete could take all the things people said about him, all the unfair accusations, and the fair ones too, but Patrick. Patrick had a sweet soul, if not necessarily a trusting one, and Pete doubted suddenly that he knew what he was getting into.
Pete turned away from Patrick as a chill swept over him. He realized now what he had done exactly by pursuing Patrick: he had *ruined* him, ruined his reputation, and Patrick probably wasn’t even aware of it, but Pete was, all too aware. It was quite possibly the most selfish thing he had ever done and, yes, Patrick loved him, or said he loved him, anyway, but that was due, Pete was sure, to one of two reasons: either Patrick had changed him and made him better and actually *worthy* of him, or he didn’t really know Pete at all; he wasn’t enough an optimist to hope it was the former.
He realized what he had to do, and he bit down on his lip as he got up from the bed and went to Patrick’s desk. He gave him one last look that blurred after a few moments, took a deep breath, and started to write.
*
The sun had never seemed so bright to Patrick as when he opened his eyes that morning. The snow that had settled on the windowsill seemed to catch the cold, pale sunlight and magnify its brightness. He rolled over with a groan, looking forward to curling up to Pete and maybe spending an extra hour or so in bed before breakfast if they could. He sat up quickly when he realized the bed was empty.
He reached up and rubbed his eyes, glancing around the room in puzzlement until his gaze landed on the piece of parchment on the corner of his desk. He got out of the bed and picked it up, unfolding it slowly. He wondered if Pete had written him a poem and then indulged his artistic temperament as he was wont to do, taking a walk when anyone else would stay in bed.
He settled back into the pillows and started to read.
*
Ryan burst in right after the snow had started coming down again. "Patrick, the most wonderful thing has happened! You’ll never guess what happened last night after you and--Patrick, are you still in bed in your night clothes? Honestly, it’s almost ten! Are you ill? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Patrick peeked out at him from the edge of the covers and cleared his throat to croak out, “Pete’s gone..”
“Gone to where?”
“Home.”
“How do you know?” Ryan asked with a frown. Patrick pointed to the letter still sitting, half-crumpled, on the bedside table. Ryan sat down on the edge of the bed to read it and when he finished, he looked at Patrick not with the pitying expression Patrick had expected and dreaded, but with a disapproving frown. “Well?”
“Well, what?” Patrick snapped, sitting up a bit. “You can *read*, can‘t you?”
“Well, surely you’re not just going to wallow around in bed and feel sorry for yourself.”
“What else do you expect me to do?”
“Patrick,” Ryan said with an air of long-suffering patience. “You are a prefect. You can go look at his records, find out where he lives, and *follow* him.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit--insane?”
“True love demands grand gestures, Patrick. Just tell me,” Ryan said, getting off the bed and going to
the closet, pulling out Patrick’s trunk. “Do you love him?”
“I--yes,” Patrick said helplessly.
“So he at least owes you a better explanation than all this rubbish about protecting your reputation.”
“Yes,” Patrick said slowly after a moment as Ryan started stuffing clothes into the trunk. “You’re *right*. I--he *does* owe me an explanation. The least he can do is say all that to my face.”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve just said, Patrick,” Ryan said patiently.
“I’m sorry, Ryan--what was your news?” Patrick asked. He got out of the bed, still cocooned in the sheets (he may not have been a virgin anymore, but there was still a thing called modesty) and went to the dresser, taking a few items out of the drawers.
“Brendon doesn’t want to marry me anymore!” Ryan said brightly. “He took me to the piano room during the party last night and told me he’s fallen in love with someone else.”
“That’s...wonderful news?”
“Yes, it’s some man called Jon? He’s a bartender in town, apparently.”
“A bartender? That’s a bit common.”
“You should have seen the look on Brendon’s face when he talked about him though. Anyway, he said that he knows I’m in love with Spencer and that he thinks we should get married and I talked to Spencer and he agrees, so we’re getting married as soon as school finishes.”
“Ryan, that’s wonderful. I’m so glad that you’re happy.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Ryan said, somewhat suspiciously. “You don’t have any comments on how poor we’re going to be?”
“There are more important things than money, aren’t there?”
Ryan smiled. “I was wondering how long it would be before you started listening to me! I’m very wise, you know.”
“I’m starting to think you’re right about that,” Patrick said, and they both closed the trunk. “But you’re still hopeless at Latin, so don’t get too smug.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan grinned, rolling his eyes. “Okay, go get cleaned up a bit and I’ll take this downstairs and see if Spencer will get us a carriage. This is terribly exciting, isn’t it? Just promise me that when you’re Patrick Martin Wentz, you won’t forget about me, okay?”
“I really don’t think you need to worry about that.”
*
The Wentz’s country estate was only two hours away by carriage, but those two hours, plus the half hour waiting for the carriage, was plenty of time for Patrick to decide he was making a terrible mistake and that he should just turn around, go back to school, and forget he had ever met Pete Wentz. But he had already paid the carriage driver, so he just decided to get it done and over with.
That was what he told himself anyway.
Finally, the carriage dumped him at the Wentz estate at the end of a very long and very muddy road, with his rather heavy trunk. He wished now that he had actually paid attention to what Ryan had been shoving in there. He took a deep, determined breath and started off down the road. After all, he had done more daunting things than this before. (Nothing came to mind, however.)
The house was rather intimidating, though. It was even bigger than Mr. Flowers’ house, with a thin layer of clean, white snow still laying over the lawn. Patrick got to the front door and knocked before he could lose his nerve. He set his pack down and tried to compose something to say to whatever servant answered the door, and so was caught quite off guard when Pete himself answered. Pete looked equally as surprised to see him, and for a long moment, they were both silent and gaping. Finally, Patrick said, in a voice that was mortifyingly small,
“You left me.”
“Patrick, I.” Pete looked at a loss for a moment. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. “I just don’t think this is a good idea. I thought I’d do us both a favor.”
“So it was a mistake?”
“I didn’t say that,” Pete said hastily. “I just mean that--”
“No, I understand,” Patrick cut him off. “I’ll just--I’ll just go,” he mumbled, turning away and starting quickly down the path back to the road. So much for grand gestures. What on earth had he been thinking, looking to *Ryan* of all people for practical advice?
“Patrick, wait,” Pete started, but Patrick was already halfway down the stairs of the porch. He hadn’t gotten too far, however, before some ghastly creature came running from around the corner, barking like the gates of hell, and Patrick jumped back up the stairs very quickly indeed.
“What on *Earth*, Peter?”
“Oh, that’s just Shakespeare,” Pete said as the dog in question slowly but very surely backed Patrick up the steps and back to the door. “He must,” he cleared his throat. “He must really want you to stay.”
“*He* really wants me to stay? Well, I know you don’t. You want me to leave, right?” Patrick asked, going for coldness and landing, unfortunately, on a soft sadness that sounded terrible even to his own ears. Heartbroken, was probably the word.
“I. No. I don’t want you to leave. But I think maybe it would be best if you did, Patrick. I just--you know I have a reputation and I think that--”
“Pete, for all the time I’ve spent lecturing about your reputation, I can tell you that now, in this instance, it’s the absolute *last* thing I care about.”
“Do you know--I mean, *really* know the sort of things people will say about you?”
“I don’t care what people say about me, Pete. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
“You really do love me,” Pete said after a pause, and it sounded flat-out *wondering*.
“Are you some sort of idiot?” Patrick asked impatiently. “Of *course* I love you.”
“Unconditionally.”
“I’m not encouraging you to test it, but yes.” The dog, who had meandered over to Pete, butted his head against the back of Pete’s leg, pushing him towards Patrick with a soft growl. “Your dog is smart. You should start taking romantic counsel from him.”
“Starting now?”
“It *is* very cold out here. You might invite me in.”
“Well,” Pete replied with a grin, leaning against the door frame. “If being cold is your problem, I don’t think it’ll do you much good seeing as how I’m planning to rip your clothes off as soon as you get in the door.”
“Honestly, Pete, don’t be so crass,” Patrick scoffed, picking up his trunk and brushing past him into the house. “Your *mother* could be here.”
“Are you going to be like this after we’re married?”
“Yes, obviously. Why? You can’t change your mind now, you know, I know where your house is,” he said reasonably.
“Oh, I’m not changing my mind, I’m just wondering what I have in my bedroom that I can gag you with,” Pete replied with a grin.
“You know, I don’t think I can trust you, Peter. I may have to tie you to the bed frame.”
“I cannot *wait* to marry you.”
*
“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third, do you know that another of our maids tried to resign today? They’re all terrified of you, you know.”
Pete turned to look over his shoulder at Patrick from where he was seated at the desk in the study. “Me?” he asked innocently.
“Yes, you,” Patrick said with a wry smile. “And you can drop the innocent act, I haven’t fallen for that in--well, ever.”
“Well, I caught her looking at you while you were dressing this morning, and I don’t *like* it when people look at you, and I might have said some things to her that may or may not have involved vague mentions of having her eyes removed.”
“And kept in a jar in your study, yes, she mentioned that.”
“Well, she had it coming,” Pete said steadfastly. “Besides, you can always send her to Ryan and Spencer. She’ll work for pies, right?”
“You’re an idiot, you know,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes with a slight smile as he crossed the room to stand behind Pete at the desk.
“Yes, but as long as you don’t mind, I don’t think it’s of too much import,” Pete replied with a happy sigh as Patrick’s hands smoothed over his shoulders and started to knead the tight muscles there. He had been writing his book all morning and all afternoon while Patrick had been working on his second opera. (They had both discovered fairly quickly that couldn’t work around each other, Pete because he found Patrick too distracting too look at it, and Patrick because Pete wouldn’t shut up about it.)
Pete tilted his head back and smiled at him. The year and a half that had passed since Patrick had appeared on his doorstep had held plenty of ups and downs, but Pete didn’t regret any of it, and he didn’t think Patrick did either.
“What are you writing?” Patrick asked curiously, leaning over him to glance at the paper on the desk. Pete’s work was still top secret even to him until it was finished. “Another one of your sad stories?” he asked, running a hand absently through Pete’s hair.
“No,” Pete replied with a grin, reaching up to take his hand. “This story has a happy ending."