fic: I'm Not a Grain of Sand
Title: I'm Not a Grain of Sand
Author: adellyna
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1100
Warnings: ANGST
Summary: Breakups. :(
Disclaimer: I've decided fanfiction probably isn't legally actionable.
Author's Notes: Um. It was windy today. Really windy, and when I was leaving the restaurant I had lunch at, I got the first bit of this stuck in my head and it didn't want to go away. Fair warning: I don't usually write angst, and I don't usually bang 1100 words out in twenty minutes, but I did both this time, so it might/probably/definitely sucks. Here, have it anyway. Thanks to jezzabe, shleemeri and theaerosolkid for the fast and dirty betas.
Patrick stands outside in the restless, fitful wind, and nods along while Pete breaks his heart. He keeps trying to peel his t-shirt away from his stomach, the second skin of blue cotton that keeps blowing snug against his body, laying bare all the things Patrick put the damn thing on to cover up in the first place.
"Okay," he says, once Pete has run out of wind. How he could, with all of it around them--sluicing up and over Patrick's hat, rustling the bits of hair that stick out beneath it--Patrick is not sure. "Okay," he says again, because he wants Pete to know he gets it. It's all wrong. Message received. Loud and clear. Apache translators on hand, code-breakers working, situation actionable, defensive maneuvers imminent. "Who is it?"
"It's not like that," Pete says. He moves like he's going to touch Patrick's wrist, tap into the pulse there, but Patrick jerks away. "Patrick. C'mon."
It's always like that, though. With Pete, it is always someone, never something. You can't work on someone. You can't talk more, not when there's someone else. You can't argue less when there's someone else, and you can't spend less time on Garageband when there's someone else, and you can't be more willing to let Pete lick your stomach in public when there's someone else. There's no bargaining. There's no "I can..." that works here, because Patrick can't say "I can be Mikey" or "I can be Ryan" or "I can be Spencer" or "I can be William," because he's not, and he never will be.
Other things Patrick will never be: tall, a writer, lithe, whole again.
Patrick says, "No," and jerks his hand away again, even though Pete wasn't reaching for him.
"Patrick." Pete looks dark and intent, smaller than usual, and Patrick will be fucking damned if he will let Pete make this about him. Not this. Not this moment, in the wind, with techs wandering by, with large black boxes stenciled with "Fall Out Boy" wheeling past, not with the creak of the one bad wheel on their dolly still fading around the corner, not with the surreality of the soundtrack to this: fans screaming Pete's name in the distance, behind a chain-link fence. He blinks over at them, has to squint to read the large, glittery sign one girl is holding up: IT'S MY BIRTHDAY.
"Happy fucking birthday," he mutters. He wants to tip back his hat, rake his hand through his hair, get some of this relentless breeze on his too-hot head, but he can't. Not with the cameras waving above people's heads.
People will photograph this, he knows. And up on Buzznet it will go: Pete and Patrick talk outside the venue. Pete touches Patrick. Pete puts his hand on Patrick's shoulder. Look how close they're standing, they're so in love.
Were. Were so in love.
Pete says, "What?" with his face scrunched, his eyes confused. "Whose?"
Patrick points vaguely behind them but Pete, for once, is focused. He reaches for Patrick's hand, like Patrick was reaching for him; he doesn't even have to jerk away this time, just turns his palm out to the wind and stops resisting. It flies away on its own, Pete left poised to touch, his fingers curled around nothing at all.
"It's not important," Patrick says. He tips his hand up a bit, scratches sweat off of his hairline. "It's not--who do you want to tell? Joe? I can take Andy, if you take Joe."
The wind comes back, but from behind this time, plastering Patrick's shirt to his back and bowing out the fabric at his front. He looks down and smooths his hand over the curve of it. He's been this big before, all on his own, without any help from the wind. Not that it matters. Or, at least, Pete said it didn't.
"Patrick," Pete says again. "Patrick, please."
"Are you going to tell Joe?" Patrick asks idly. There's something burning in his throat, spreading down to his chest, but he can't seem to lift his voice. It's a miracle, he thinks, that every word doesn't get snatched away and slammed up against the venue wall. "Who it is, I mean. Are you going to tell Joe? Because if you tell Joe, I think you should tell me, too."
"There's no one," Pete says. He finally gives up and jams his hands in his pockets. It's like victory, only sadder. "No one. I wouldn't do that to you."
Patrick nods. He nods until his spine feels loose and his head is spinning, and then he laughs, and then he puts his own hands in his own pockets, because he wants to punch Pete so badly it hurts. But he doesn't want that on Buzznet, either: Pete is hunching his shoulders. Pete is toeing the ground. Patrick punches Pete. Wow, they must be breaking up. I wonder if the band will stay together.
"You know what?" he says. "Fuck it. Fuck it, I'll just be singing about it in a few months anyway, right? Another Pete Wentz heartbreak: track three. Another Pete Wentz love story: track six."
Of course the band will stay together. Even if they can't.
He hears the squeak of the dolly wheel coming back around the corner, the dulled-down din of fans screaming, the roaring thumpthumpthump of his own heart.
Pete says, "Patrick," again, like his heart is breaking. "Patrick. This isn't that. I couldn't--"
"Spare me," Patrick snaps. And snaps, somewhere in his chest. And snaps, somewhere in his knees. And snaps, somewhere deep in his gut, sudden, rushing flood of hot and sick. He feels like he's going to throw up. "Spare me," he repeats. He takes a step back. He's going to throw up, he is, but when he turns the wind pushes his shirt up against his stomach again, and he opens his mouth and lets the air rush in, lets it keep the bile down.
He walks away, and every step is sluggish. It always feels wrong to walk away from Pete, always, even when the weather isn't pushing him back, even when the wind isn't whispering things in his ear, hissing "beg" and "tell him you love him" and "try harder" like any of that would mean anything.
"I'm sorry," Pete calls after him. "I'm so--"
Patrick just waves, giving Pete his knuckles; he hunches his shoulders and keeps walking. One foot in front of the other, one patch of gravel crunched beneath his sneaker, then another.
Author: adellyna
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1100
Warnings: ANGST
Summary: Breakups. :(
Disclaimer: I've decided fanfiction probably isn't legally actionable.
Author's Notes: Um. It was windy today. Really windy, and when I was leaving the restaurant I had lunch at, I got the first bit of this stuck in my head and it didn't want to go away. Fair warning: I don't usually write angst, and I don't usually bang 1100 words out in twenty minutes, but I did both this time, so it might/probably/definitely sucks. Here, have it anyway. Thanks to jezzabe, shleemeri and theaerosolkid for the fast and dirty betas.
Patrick stands outside in the restless, fitful wind, and nods along while Pete breaks his heart. He keeps trying to peel his t-shirt away from his stomach, the second skin of blue cotton that keeps blowing snug against his body, laying bare all the things Patrick put the damn thing on to cover up in the first place.
"Okay," he says, once Pete has run out of wind. How he could, with all of it around them--sluicing up and over Patrick's hat, rustling the bits of hair that stick out beneath it--Patrick is not sure. "Okay," he says again, because he wants Pete to know he gets it. It's all wrong. Message received. Loud and clear. Apache translators on hand, code-breakers working, situation actionable, defensive maneuvers imminent. "Who is it?"
"It's not like that," Pete says. He moves like he's going to touch Patrick's wrist, tap into the pulse there, but Patrick jerks away. "Patrick. C'mon."
It's always like that, though. With Pete, it is always someone, never something. You can't work on someone. You can't talk more, not when there's someone else. You can't argue less when there's someone else, and you can't spend less time on Garageband when there's someone else, and you can't be more willing to let Pete lick your stomach in public when there's someone else. There's no bargaining. There's no "I can..." that works here, because Patrick can't say "I can be Mikey" or "I can be Ryan" or "I can be Spencer" or "I can be William," because he's not, and he never will be.
Other things Patrick will never be: tall, a writer, lithe, whole again.
Patrick says, "No," and jerks his hand away again, even though Pete wasn't reaching for him.
"Patrick." Pete looks dark and intent, smaller than usual, and Patrick will be fucking damned if he will let Pete make this about him. Not this. Not this moment, in the wind, with techs wandering by, with large black boxes stenciled with "Fall Out Boy" wheeling past, not with the creak of the one bad wheel on their dolly still fading around the corner, not with the surreality of the soundtrack to this: fans screaming Pete's name in the distance, behind a chain-link fence. He blinks over at them, has to squint to read the large, glittery sign one girl is holding up: IT'S MY BIRTHDAY.
"Happy fucking birthday," he mutters. He wants to tip back his hat, rake his hand through his hair, get some of this relentless breeze on his too-hot head, but he can't. Not with the cameras waving above people's heads.
People will photograph this, he knows. And up on Buzznet it will go: Pete and Patrick talk outside the venue. Pete touches Patrick. Pete puts his hand on Patrick's shoulder. Look how close they're standing, they're so in love.
Were. Were so in love.
Pete says, "What?" with his face scrunched, his eyes confused. "Whose?"
Patrick points vaguely behind them but Pete, for once, is focused. He reaches for Patrick's hand, like Patrick was reaching for him; he doesn't even have to jerk away this time, just turns his palm out to the wind and stops resisting. It flies away on its own, Pete left poised to touch, his fingers curled around nothing at all.
"It's not important," Patrick says. He tips his hand up a bit, scratches sweat off of his hairline. "It's not--who do you want to tell? Joe? I can take Andy, if you take Joe."
The wind comes back, but from behind this time, plastering Patrick's shirt to his back and bowing out the fabric at his front. He looks down and smooths his hand over the curve of it. He's been this big before, all on his own, without any help from the wind. Not that it matters. Or, at least, Pete said it didn't.
"Patrick," Pete says again. "Patrick, please."
"Are you going to tell Joe?" Patrick asks idly. There's something burning in his throat, spreading down to his chest, but he can't seem to lift his voice. It's a miracle, he thinks, that every word doesn't get snatched away and slammed up against the venue wall. "Who it is, I mean. Are you going to tell Joe? Because if you tell Joe, I think you should tell me, too."
"There's no one," Pete says. He finally gives up and jams his hands in his pockets. It's like victory, only sadder. "No one. I wouldn't do that to you."
Patrick nods. He nods until his spine feels loose and his head is spinning, and then he laughs, and then he puts his own hands in his own pockets, because he wants to punch Pete so badly it hurts. But he doesn't want that on Buzznet, either: Pete is hunching his shoulders. Pete is toeing the ground. Patrick punches Pete. Wow, they must be breaking up. I wonder if the band will stay together.
"You know what?" he says. "Fuck it. Fuck it, I'll just be singing about it in a few months anyway, right? Another Pete Wentz heartbreak: track three. Another Pete Wentz love story: track six."
Of course the band will stay together. Even if they can't.
He hears the squeak of the dolly wheel coming back around the corner, the dulled-down din of fans screaming, the roaring thumpthumpthump of his own heart.
Pete says, "Patrick," again, like his heart is breaking. "Patrick. This isn't that. I couldn't--"
"Spare me," Patrick snaps. And snaps, somewhere in his chest. And snaps, somewhere in his knees. And snaps, somewhere deep in his gut, sudden, rushing flood of hot and sick. He feels like he's going to throw up. "Spare me," he repeats. He takes a step back. He's going to throw up, he is, but when he turns the wind pushes his shirt up against his stomach again, and he opens his mouth and lets the air rush in, lets it keep the bile down.
He walks away, and every step is sluggish. It always feels wrong to walk away from Pete, always, even when the weather isn't pushing him back, even when the wind isn't whispering things in his ear, hissing "beg" and "tell him you love him" and "try harder" like any of that would mean anything.
"I'm sorry," Pete calls after him. "I'm so--"
Patrick just waves, giving Pete his knuckles; he hunches his shoulders and keeps walking. One foot in front of the other, one patch of gravel crunched beneath his sneaker, then another.