the most excellent and lamentable tragedy of patrick and peter (oneshot)
title: The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of Patrick and Peter
pairing: PxP
rating: PG-13
warnings: language, violence, character death
summary: "You belong to the gang, and you say you can't break away"
author's notes: i got bored today. and i just bought "O Valencia!" off of iTunes. "O Valencia!" is a song by the decemberists that this fic is mostly based off. also, this is short and mostly just a writing exercise in preparation for doing some requests and such.
pairing: PxP
rating: PG-13
warnings: language, violence, character death
summary: "You belong to the gang, and you say you can't break away"
author's notes: i got bored today. and i just bought "O Valencia!" off of iTunes. "O Valencia!" is a song by the decemberists that this fic is mostly based off. also, this is short and mostly just a writing exercise in preparation for doing some requests and such.
WHEN FIRST, WE LAID EYES
I SWORE TO NO COMPROMISE
TILL I FELT MY CARESS ON YOUR SKIN
Pete understood why Patrick was always so edgy now, and he didn’t blame him. But the problems were a lot bigger than him understanding Patrick’s near-constant paranoia. Because, see, the thing was--Pete had just found out he and Patrick’s brother were mortal enemies.
Which, y’know, hey--that was going to make meeting the family interesting.
And, well, Patrick didn’t really want to be in a gang--and his Dad was dead set on him joining “the family business.”
“Let’s leave, Pete.” Patrick said, one day, “Let’s get out of Chicago and go some where else, any where else.”
Pete bit his lip--it wasn’t like he didn’t have connections too (the whole he and Patrick’s brother being mortal enemies, thing). But he was in a position where he could just get up and go if he asked nicely and quickly. Gerard liked him well enough, after all.
“Okay.” Pete asked the next day, Gerard gave him a car.
***
They get half way to no where before Patrick breaks down in the middle of a conversation. “Megan told Dad.”
Pete cursed, loud and angry--turning to Patrick, “What the fuck?”
“She saw me packing and she said if I left she’d tell Dad. She did. She called me at the last rest stop. They don’t know where we’re going though.”
“Fuck they do!” Pete snarled, “Your phone’s got GPS-tracking in it dude, they’ll be able to track you down like a rabbit. He pulled off on the next exit and they ditched Patrick’s phone in the open window of an SUV and pulled out onto the high way, Pete looking around anxiously. Patrick sinking down into his seat.
They spend the next hour and a half, cruising down the interstates like that, nervous and paranoid and unsure where the future is going for them.
Pete pulls off the highway, finally, and into a gas station. Patrick goes inside to pay and grab some coffee, he comes out with two cups and a receipt sticking out of his pocket. Pete rushes over to meet him, all smiles and big grins because they’re getting away. They haven’t come after Patrick and they can go off and have their relationship to themselves. He takes a cup of coffee from Patrick, taking a long sip from it before reaching over to press a quick to Patrick’s lips.
Patrick smiled softly, “We should go start a band somewhere. I’ve always wanted too.”
“That’d be great.” Pete replied, jovially, taking another drink from his coffee. “We can spread our sappy romantic love over the airwaves.”
“I’m not singing any lyrics to your goofy love poems, Pete.”
***
They pulled up to a motel somewhere in some state (they didn’t remember which one, anymore) around two a.m. and checked in. Pete went to go grab their bags while Patrick got the key from the front desk.
And then things happened insanely fast and all of the sudden Kevin had jumped out of a black SUV with too-tinted windows (how had Pete missed that? He checked to make sure there were no even remotely suspicious looking vehicles) and yelling out his name, angrily--pointing a gun at him and mentioning something about kidnapping Patrick.
Pete growled a curse, low and under his breath, as he dove behind the car Gerard had given them--leaving their luggage to take a bullet for him while he pulled his gun from beneath his hoodie--standing up just enough so that he could take target at the man responsible for the bullet in his side and the jagged scar on his shoulder.
“Pete, where the fuck is he?!”
Pete snarled, looking around anxiously for Patrick. And there he was, making a dart to the door of the motel office--coming out of it with a horrified look on his face. Pete cursed, “Get the fuck out of here!” He yelled out--looking at Kevin but talking to Patrick.
“Damn you Pete!” Kevin yelled out, and Pete ran out of his cover--distracting him, anything so Patrick would have a few extra seconds to escape, to get away from his brother and the Gang-life.
But Patrick ran out in front of him, like it was in slow motion , skidding to a halt right in front of Pete before Kevin could stop himself, pulling the trigger.
Pete reached forward, catching Patrick as his knees buckled and he put a hand in disbelief to his chest--pulling it away slowly, crimson red blood dripping from his fingers. Pete was horrified, shaking numbly as Patrick looked up at him.
“Patrick--no--”
“’ts my fault, Petey.” He breathed out, exhaling a shuddering breath--tears (of what, Pete didn’t know) filling his eyes as he looked up, “Love you . . .” He whispered, and Pete cursed, holding him closer.
“No, Patrick--you fucking stay with me. I can hear the ambulance, someone must have called--Patrick you stay with me.” He hissed out, tears falling as Patrick’s eyes slipped shut.
Kevin closed in on them, eyes wide in shock and disbelief at who his bullet had hit.
Pete wrapped his arms around Patrick, head on his shoulder as he cursed and muffled his tears. He was in a gang. Pete Wentz didn’t cry when people died. He killed people and then went on with his life.
But Patrick was dead.
And he was crying.
Because he loved Patrick. And Patrick loved him.
And Pete didn’t think to put the gun to his chest before the police came.
He just clutched Patrick as close to him as he could, and wondered if Gerard could get him out of this one--since Kevin was scampering off, back to his expensive tinted SUV--and he had some unfinished business to take care of.
Pete just pressed his lips to Patrick’s temple and swore that he’d burn the whole city down if it meant he could take his revenge.
I SWORE TO NO COMPROMISE
TILL I FELT MY CARESS ON YOUR SKIN
Pete understood why Patrick was always so edgy now, and he didn’t blame him. But the problems were a lot bigger than him understanding Patrick’s near-constant paranoia. Because, see, the thing was--Pete had just found out he and Patrick’s brother were mortal enemies.
Which, y’know, hey--that was going to make meeting the family interesting.
And, well, Patrick didn’t really want to be in a gang--and his Dad was dead set on him joining “the family business.”
“Let’s leave, Pete.” Patrick said, one day, “Let’s get out of Chicago and go some where else, any where else.”
Pete bit his lip--it wasn’t like he didn’t have connections too (the whole he and Patrick’s brother being mortal enemies, thing). But he was in a position where he could just get up and go if he asked nicely and quickly. Gerard liked him well enough, after all.
“Okay.” Pete asked the next day, Gerard gave him a car.
***
They get half way to no where before Patrick breaks down in the middle of a conversation. “Megan told Dad.”
Pete cursed, loud and angry--turning to Patrick, “What the fuck?”
“She saw me packing and she said if I left she’d tell Dad. She did. She called me at the last rest stop. They don’t know where we’re going though.”
“Fuck they do!” Pete snarled, “Your phone’s got GPS-tracking in it dude, they’ll be able to track you down like a rabbit. He pulled off on the next exit and they ditched Patrick’s phone in the open window of an SUV and pulled out onto the high way, Pete looking around anxiously. Patrick sinking down into his seat.
They spend the next hour and a half, cruising down the interstates like that, nervous and paranoid and unsure where the future is going for them.
Pete pulls off the highway, finally, and into a gas station. Patrick goes inside to pay and grab some coffee, he comes out with two cups and a receipt sticking out of his pocket. Pete rushes over to meet him, all smiles and big grins because they’re getting away. They haven’t come after Patrick and they can go off and have their relationship to themselves. He takes a cup of coffee from Patrick, taking a long sip from it before reaching over to press a quick to Patrick’s lips.
Patrick smiled softly, “We should go start a band somewhere. I’ve always wanted too.”
“That’d be great.” Pete replied, jovially, taking another drink from his coffee. “We can spread our sappy romantic love over the airwaves.”
“I’m not singing any lyrics to your goofy love poems, Pete.”
***
They pulled up to a motel somewhere in some state (they didn’t remember which one, anymore) around two a.m. and checked in. Pete went to go grab their bags while Patrick got the key from the front desk.
And then things happened insanely fast and all of the sudden Kevin had jumped out of a black SUV with too-tinted windows (how had Pete missed that? He checked to make sure there were no even remotely suspicious looking vehicles) and yelling out his name, angrily--pointing a gun at him and mentioning something about kidnapping Patrick.
Pete growled a curse, low and under his breath, as he dove behind the car Gerard had given them--leaving their luggage to take a bullet for him while he pulled his gun from beneath his hoodie--standing up just enough so that he could take target at the man responsible for the bullet in his side and the jagged scar on his shoulder.
“Pete, where the fuck is he?!”
Pete snarled, looking around anxiously for Patrick. And there he was, making a dart to the door of the motel office--coming out of it with a horrified look on his face. Pete cursed, “Get the fuck out of here!” He yelled out--looking at Kevin but talking to Patrick.
“Damn you Pete!” Kevin yelled out, and Pete ran out of his cover--distracting him, anything so Patrick would have a few extra seconds to escape, to get away from his brother and the Gang-life.
But Patrick ran out in front of him, like it was in slow motion , skidding to a halt right in front of Pete before Kevin could stop himself, pulling the trigger.
Pete reached forward, catching Patrick as his knees buckled and he put a hand in disbelief to his chest--pulling it away slowly, crimson red blood dripping from his fingers. Pete was horrified, shaking numbly as Patrick looked up at him.
“Patrick--no--”
“’ts my fault, Petey.” He breathed out, exhaling a shuddering breath--tears (of what, Pete didn’t know) filling his eyes as he looked up, “Love you . . .” He whispered, and Pete cursed, holding him closer.
“No, Patrick--you fucking stay with me. I can hear the ambulance, someone must have called--Patrick you stay with me.” He hissed out, tears falling as Patrick’s eyes slipped shut.
Kevin closed in on them, eyes wide in shock and disbelief at who his bullet had hit.
Pete wrapped his arms around Patrick, head on his shoulder as he cursed and muffled his tears. He was in a gang. Pete Wentz didn’t cry when people died. He killed people and then went on with his life.
But Patrick was dead.
And he was crying.
Because he loved Patrick. And Patrick loved him.
And Pete didn’t think to put the gun to his chest before the police came.
He just clutched Patrick as close to him as he could, and wondered if Gerard could get him out of this one--since Kevin was scampering off, back to his expensive tinted SUV--and he had some unfinished business to take care of.
Pete just pressed his lips to Patrick’s temple and swore that he’d burn the whole city down if it meant he could take his revenge.