A Little More Sixteen Candles
Because high school AU makes the world go 'round, and is totally a great way to introduce oneself to fandom at large. ... What? Beta'd by and dedicated to thegoldsky, who is possibly psychic.
Title: A Little More Sixteen Candles
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Words: lots! ~6,685
Pete Wentz is the star of the soccer team. He's their team's only saving grace, and they're damn lucky they even have him -- word is, he's on a Division One club team that's ranked second in the nation. The only information disputing this is that he's maybe on the number one team. He's gone enough that it's believable, but then, he goes out with enough girls (and boys, though that's less going out and more just making out) that it stops making sense.
Pete Wentz doesn't do badly in his classes, exactly, but he doesn't do well. There are a few classes where he gets A's, but only because -- well, no one ever says quite why. They're probably not deserved, is the thing. Those classes are the ones with young, fresh-out-of-college teachers who still have their looks, and there're rumors about that, too.
Patrick Stump is no one. He is in two (2) classes with Pete, total, though he's been in more in previous years. Pete's a year ahead of him. Pete's also at his grade level in all his classes, while Patrick's kind of sort of maybe ahead, just a bit. 'Accelerated.' Something like that, he doesn't like to bring it up. What he will point out is that it's easier being a junior in a senior class than a freshman in a junior class.
Patrick is a non-entity, really, not in any clubs -- band doesn't count -- and not in any way popular. He's got friends, but they're all persona non grata at the popular tables.
So.
So what Patrick really, really wants to know right now is why Pete Wentz is sitting next to him at lunch. Patrick stares straight ahead at his food, and does his best to ignore the interloper at his table. His friends are stunned into silence, too; Ryan actually makes a break for it, heading outside to eat lunch.
"Hi," Pete says. "I'm Pete. Pete Wentz. I think we're maybe in a class together?"
"Yeah, uh, we're actually in two classes," Patrick says. "We have been for the past six months. And, uh, we've been in four other classes over the past two years, just so you know."
"Well, yeah, I knew that part. Sorry. Are we seriously in - oh, yeah, we are. Okay. Yeah, you're in Chem, too, that's what it is.”
"Hey, it's not like we usually talk to each other or anything," Patrick says, turning back to his food. The menu today includes tater tots and mashed potatoes, which Patrick has, and a wide variety of bacon, which he doesn't.
"Two kinds of potatoes," Pete says, echoing Patrick's thoughts, and apparently not giving up on the conversation. "Could they not get in enough government vegetables today, or what? They could have at least mixed it up a little, dyed the potatoes orange so we'd think they were meat. Can't tell the difference by the taste anyway, am I right?" Pete has lunch from Subway.
"I'm a vegetarian," Patrick says, flatly.
"Oh, that's cool," Pete says. "That's cool. My friend Andy's a vegan." Surprisingly enough, Andy's actually one of Patrick's friends. He hadn't realized Andy even knew Pete. Not like it matters. "I just can't bring myself to give up the delicious, delicious taste of all those dead little critters."
"Okay," Patrick says. If he can ignore Pete just a while longer, he can maybe finish his meal and go somewhere else for the rest of lunch.
"Man, sorry, sorry, not trying to offend you or anything. Just trying to be friendly. Should I be letting you eat?"
Patrick looks up, and the way Pete's looking at him, it's like he's actually concerned about interrupting Patrick's lunch. "Uhm. Yeah, no, I'm almost done. It's fine."
"Cool, cool. Can I have a tot?" Pete only thinks to ask when his hand is hovering right over the styrofoam tray, fingers poised and ready to grab one of the last three tater tots.
Patrick nods, and Pete grabs a tot and pops it in his mouth. He's got nice fingers, not that Patrick's paying attention. It's just one of those things you can't help but notice.
Pete says, "So, you know, I gotta talk to you tomorrow, too. Whole rest of the week, actually."
"What?"
He leans in, voice dropping low. Over the din of the cafeteria, it's hard to hear. His proximity makes the hairs on the back of Patrick's next stand up. "Twenty bucks per day, man. I know, I know. It's lame, but hey, free money. I'm just admitting it straight up to you now." Pete pauses. "At some point I'm supposed to ask if you wanna hang out this weekend, too, by the way. I totally get it if you don't want to, but I'll give you a cut of the cash if you play along."
"Are you supposed to just admit it like this?"
"Well, no." Pete's laugh is straightforward. Honest, maybe. "I'm supposed to con you into being my friend, then pull some prank on you in a couple weeks. I figured, hell, that's not cool. So? Mall Friday? I can pick you up at six."
"I, uh," Patrick says. "Sure?" and regrets his answer instantly. Pete beams.
"Awesome," Pete says, and the bell rings. He says, "Hey, see you tomorrow, right?" He's just getting up when he pulls out a pen. "Actually, give me your number. Just in case."
"Do you have anything to ..." Patrick trails off as Pete holds out his hand. "Oh." And he scrawls his cell phone number on the back of Pete's hand. Pete's skin is softer than he would have expected -- why he thought a soccer player's hands would be messed up, he's not sure. "There. I, yeah, later. Class. You know."
"Yup, gotta go get me some education," Pete says, jogging off to catch up with his oh-so-popular friends.
---
Pete does, in fact, talk to Patrick at lunch the next day, and Patrick finds himself laughing more than seems normal, considering that Pete's only talking to him for the money. That, and Pete's more clever than Patrick would have ever expected. Pete talks to him for the rest of the week - talks at him, more like, since their conversations usually wind up with Pete talking about his latest drama while Patrick makes fun of him for it.
("So after that, Rachel didn't want to go out with me anymore, you know? And I was kind of pissed, because it's not like it was even my fault --"
"It wasn't your fault you blew her brother...?"
"Of course not! Bitch was asking for it.")
Things Patrick notices about Pete: When he's left alone for long, he'll sometimes start dancing in the middle of the hallway. After school, Pete Wentz changes into his soccer uniform outside, leaning over the trunk of his car; at least one girl, usually Jeanae, will be standing by in attendance - to hand him his cleats, fold his shirt, and stare. Pete Wentz has, to date, one (1) tattoo - Patrick hasn't had a chance to figure out what it is yet, and like hell he's going to ask. Pete Wentz uses sharpie, not nail polish, to paint his nails black.
After school, Patrick's actually really and truly looking forward to going to the mall. Before he's even got on the bus, Pete trots up by his side, saying, "Hey, you need a ride home or anything? Jeanae's out sick today, and I don't have practice for a while, so I've got time, if you want. Plus I gotta know how to get to your house later anyway. I'd rather not, like, Mapquest it or something, because that's too stalker-y."
"I, sure," Patrick says, because he's not one to turn down a free ride. "Sure, yeah, thanks."
Pete says, “You mind if I change before we go? I'm gonna have to get back, and I don't know how much time I feel like wasting before I do.” While he's saying this, he opens the trunk of his car and starts digging through a duffel bag. He says, “Can you hold these for a sec?”
Patrick stares down at the pair of cleats in his hands, wondering what part of his silence was taken as agreement, but he doesn't comment. “Uh,” he says, and when he looks up he's greeted by the bare skin and muscle of Pete's back. Pete apparently spend enough time in the sun that his skin is the same even tan all over.
“I could just skip practice,” Pete says, maybe to himself as he slips on the team jersey. “But that seems kinda rude, since I didn't say anything to anybody about it. Whatever.”
“Right,” Patrick says, still half in shock at the fact that Pete Wentz is shameless enough to strip down to his boxers in the middle of the school parking lot.
The whole act is well-practiced, though, and Pete shimmies into his shorts, has his socks on, and is asking for his cleats before Patrick can say anything more. “Actually, wait, no, I don't wanna drive with my cleats, never mind.”
So he drives barefoot.
Pete actually checks before turning on the radio. "Do you mind if we listen to some music? Always more fun that way, you know." And his taste in music, it's decent. He's playing The Descendants, not Fifty Cent or Lindsay Lohan or whatever. Patrick's impressed, he'll admit it.
"So," Pete says. "I can't believe I don't even know this yet. I've told you all this stuff about me, and I hardly know anything about you. What do you do in your free time? Hobbies?"
"I, uh. I write music a lot of the time. I'm in the school band and all, but music's just kind of what I do anyway, you know? And I guess I play video games, sometimes. Study. The usual."
"Seriously? You, like, write songs? Lyrics, or what?"
"Nah, I just do the music," Patrick says, staring out the window. "My lyrics aren't any good. But the music part I can do."
"Hey, no, that's really cool. Most people say they write songs and all they do is write shitty lyrics, and they can't even play an instrument, you know?" Pete laughs. "I actually, my mom bought me a bass for Christmas. I haven't played it much, though. Other than that, I guess I'm most people, since I can't really play. Nice and stereotypical, you know. What do you play?"
"Drums. Guitar. Piano. Uh, some other stuff. Turn here," Patrick says, still baffled by the idea that Pete Wentz could possibly have even a passing interest in music. He's not sure why it's so surprising, actually - it makes a certain amount of sense. "Okay, yeah, this is my house. Yeah, with the flamingo. I know, I know."
"Hey, it's cool. Your lawn is totally kickin' with the flamingo. I'll be here six sharp, alright?" Pete's smile, when turned on full, is bright enough to be blinding, warm enough to leave Patrick blushing. Another thing Patrick notices - when Pete smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkle a little. “I've gotta hear you play something sometime. Maybe before we go out tonight. I gotta get to practice now, is all.”
"Okay. Okay, cool," Patrick says. He gets out of the car, and Pete stays in the driveway until Patrick's got the door open before he drives off. And he waves, and Patrick's left feeling dazed by the whole experience.
He tries to do his homework, but can't focus enough to finish anything. He's got the whole weekend to do it anyway, and figures he might as well spend his time on something different. He ends up picking up a bass guitar and noodling around a bit. He tries to convince himself there's no good reason he's playing bass, but he can't manage that, either.
Then his phone rings. The number's one he doesn't recognize, and it's not in his phone book. "Pete?" he says on picking up.
"No, man, it's Joe. I'm using a friend's phone. So I like, have free tickets to a show tonight, and this band some friends of mine are in is opening. You wanna go?"
"I, uh," Patrick says. "I'm going somewhere with Pete tonight, actually."
"Who's Pete? You've brought him up like twice in the ten seconds we've been talking."
"... Wentz?"
"Oh, fuck off, if you don't wanna come just say so." Even though he's used to it by now, Patrick still thinks Joe sounds hilarious when exasperated. “You don't even have to pay or anything!”
"I'm serious!"
"Come on, I'm gonna be by in ten. I am not letting you stay home alone on Friday again. It's just sad."
"Uh," Patrick starts to say, but Joe's already hung up. "God damn it."
So Patrick goes to the show and doesn't hear his phone ring. When he checks it after, there's one call from another unknown number, made just a little after six. There's no message, and no one answers when he tries to call. The answering machine is so generic that he doesn't leave a message either, and he doesn't try calling back again. It's not like Pete -- because that's who he assumes it was - gave it more than one try. And anyway, it could have been anybody, could have even been a wrong number, so it's not like it's a big deal or anything.
Patrick feels kind of guilty about it, until he remembers that Pete only wanted to hang out with him for the money anyway.
---
At school Monday, things are back to normal -- Patrick and his friends are left alone at their table. Andy even shows up for a while -- "Hey, where's Wentz?"
"Uh, I don't know," Patrick says, looking around like he hadn't been covertly staring at Pete for half of lunch. "Over there, with his friends?"
"He sat here the last few days, right? I had something to give him."
"Yeah, no, he's back over there now, where he normally sits." Patrick's not trying to sound bitter, but that's how it comes across.
"O-kay," Andy says. "Sorry? Hey, see you later."
Once, just once, Pete notices Patrick looking. He raises an eyebrow, then frowns and turns away, talking to his friends. They laugh. Patrick ducks his head, feeling somehow stupid and awkward, like he's the one who did something wrong. He's not the one who hangs out with people for cash (then is perfectly honest about what he's doing and why).
Travis pokes him in the side. "Yo, Patrick. Quit staring at him, it's kind of sad."
"I just," Patrick says weakly. "Thought we were actually friends?"
"Yeah, right, man." Travis laughs. He has the nerve to laugh. "A kid like him doesn't just come over and start talking to a kid like you for no reason. Maybe if he'd, like, needed you to tutor him or something. I'm surprised he doesn't."
"He's smarter than he acts," Patrick says. "His grades are actually pretty good. He doesn't try very hard, is all." Patrick says, “Besides, it's not like we're in a ... a bad teen movie or something. A 'kid like him,' Jesus. There's no reason he shouldn't talk to me if he wants to.”
“Doesn't look like he wants to, man,” Travis notes, tilting his head in Pete's direction.
Patrick's not sure why, but when he sees Pete with his arm around Jeanae's shoulders, talking and laughing with his friends he feels kind of - jealous. So he turns his attention back to his French fries and mashed potatoes, once again boggling over the dual potato offering of today's lunch.
Joe leans forward, depositing a cookie on Patrick's tray. “Cheer up. Have a cookie. You act like you just broke up with somebody. Come on, wasn't that show Friday awesome?”
“The rhythm guitarist kind of sucked, and I don't know why they needed a rhythm guitar, two leads and a bass anyway, if they couldn't keep it together,” Ryan cuts in, sounding annoyed.
“Yeah, but the tunes!” Joe says.
With that, the conversation turns, and Patrick's actually allowed to ignore Pete, in favor of things he actually understands, like music.
---
“Dude, Patrick,” Joe says to him after class on Wednesday, laughing. “Go check out your locker.”
“I, uh, was already going to my locker, seeing as school's over. Why?”
“Oh, man, just do it.” Joe is cracking up, and it's getting annoying. He follows along after Patrick all the way to his locker, giggling under his breath the whole time.
Patrick turns a corner and stops. Stares. “Oh, my god.”
There are balloons. There is glitter. There is chiffon ribbon. And there is an envelope, with to patrick!!!! written on it in sparkly pink cursive lettering, decorated with broken heart stickers.
“Oh. My. God.” Patrick turns to Joe -- “Who did this?”
“No one knows! It was normal before lunch, then ... then there was all this stuff.”
Patrick rips down the ribbon, unties the balloons, and - there's not a lot he can do about the glitter, but he'll be damned if he doesn't try doing something about it. The letter, he shoves covertly into his backpack. “Someone hates me,” he decides, as groups of fellow students wander past laughing and giggling, all at his expense.
“I dunno, man, it's pretty funny.” Joe shrugs -- “Hey, you want me to give you a ride home today? I mean, the bus might be a bad plan. You know.”
“Yeah,” Patrick says, getting his stuff together - putting a few books away, shoving a few in his backpack, that kind of thing. “Thanks.”
He doesn't read the letter until he's dropped off at home. He doesn't recognize the handwriting, though it looks like a girl's.
Stump, it says, simply enough, Pete is my boyfriend and he keeps talking about you and it's really creepy because you two aren't even really friends, so stop talking to him OK thanks. It was all Steve's idea and he's really dumb anyway he doesn't like you and wanted to mess with you you know. I know you two (you and Pete I mean) like each other but I don't want to break up with him yet OK so please stop talking because I think he likes your voice or maybe your lips so like just wear a paper bag over your head and don't talk anymore (I mean you're not cool anyway so it's no big loss) thanks. If you don't stop making him cry then I will destroy you and your lame little social life OK!!! He's mine and even though he's sensitive and kisses boys sometimes he's not a fag because he plays sports so just back off, thanks. ♥
Love, Katie!
Thing is, Patrick could have sworn Pete was going out with Jeanae again this week. Maybe that was last week; the two of them don't exactly seem stable.
“Oh, my god,” he says to himself again. “I really am stuck in a bad teen movie.”
--
Despite the locker incident, the rest of the week is uneventful. His friends mock him, a few other people snicker in his general direction, but mostly things are normal. Pete Wentz is rather conspicuously absent from his life, but that's fine, since it's not like they were friends in the first place.
Then on Thursday, there's another envelope in his locker - this one pushed in between the slat, plain and undecorated. Thank god, no one notices it.
This letter, all it is is a - poem? song lyrics? - with no signature. It's typed, so he can't even ask his friends if they recognize the handwriting. All Patrick knows for sure is, when he Googles a few key lines, nothing turns up. Which implies whoever wrote it was the one that gave it to him, which - well, he's not going to assume the obvious.
The thing is, the lyrics are good. Without even thinking about it, Patrick finds himself coming up with a tune for them - there's rhythm and rhyme enough that it's easy to find a nice melody. He thinks if he tries hard enough, he could probably come up with a nice harmony, too, and before he knows it he's sketching out the chords.
Over the weekend, he puts the thing through GarageBand, recording it and splicing it together and fucking around with levels, mixing and remixing for three whole days - it's a long weekend, Friday off - because he is stupidly obsessed with getting this to sound right. It's not like he plans on sharing it with anyone.
Except. Except, okay, he does still have that mystery number from the night of the show saved in his phone (under the name “not!Pete????” with exactly four question marks). He turns on his computer, cranks the speakers to nearly full and leaves the song as a message on the answering machine, because of course no one answers.
That's pretty much his whole weekend.
At lunchtime on Monday, it almost looks like Pete's going to come sit with him again. Then a girl comes up beside him, drags him to his usual table, and that's that. The whole thing is getting kind of strange. That same kind of thing keeps happening all week, which means either something's going on or he's getting paranoid. He'll keep seeing Pete glancing over at him, start ambling over in his general direction, then - get stopped, sidetracked by one of his friends. It's actually sort of creepy.
The only other interesting things that happen that week is that Joe manages to break his arm playing guitar - Patrick does not ask how - and, late in the week, another set of typed up lyrics show up in Patrick's locker. Which means, yeah, another song, because it's not like he has anything better to do.
So over the weekend, Patrick Stump records his very first love song. It's buried in metaphor and ramblings about Chicago, but in the end it comes across as a love song, so of course he turns it into a stupid pop-punk number.
The next Monday, what Patrick does is - because this whole thing is getting stupid and he has to know for sure - he burns both tracks to a CD, tossing the CD into one of those little paper envelopes before school. At lunch, what he does is, he goes over to Pete's table and says, “Hey, I think this is yours,” and hands the CD to Pete - who looks surprised and about ready to say something - but Patrick walks off before anybody can comment, at least to his face.
After school Monday is the first time he and Pete Wentz have a conversation again. Pete jogs up alongside him, saying, “Hey, you want a ride again today?”
“Yeah, sure,” Patrick says. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, no,” one of Pete's female friends says. Patrick doesn't even know what her name is. “Pete, I gotta have a ride, Sasha won't drive me today. Can you drop me off first?”
“No?” Pete stares at her, wide-eyed. “You remember which bus is yours, right? I do, if you forgot.”
“Oh my god,” the girl huffs, storming off. “Pete Wentz, you're a whore!”
Pete doesn't say anything else until they're in the car. The first thing he does is put the CD in the CD player, fiddling with the volume for a second. He says, “That's you singing?”
“Yeah.”
“Who'd you get to back you up?” They stop at a traffic light, and Pete turns to look at Patrick, kind of wide-eyed. “Like, who's the drummer? Andy?”
“Uh, no. It's me,” Patrick says. “I just recorded everything on different tracks, put it together, you know. All I used was GarageBand. It's nothing fancy.”
“You put together an entire song in one weekend and that's nothing fancy. You actually made one of my songs into something awesome in one weekend, and it's nothing fancy,” Pete says. “I mean, okay,” he pauses as the track changes, “Shit! You apparently made two of my songs into actual songs! Holy shit. Wait, don't say anything, I wanna listen to this.”
Patrick says, “I think the light is green.” When the song ends, he says, “Well, yeah. I didn't do anything too involved.”
Pete laughs. He says, “You record an entire song and it's not involved. Okay. Okay, wow. You know what?”
“Do I want to know what?”
“No, of course not,” Pete says. “But I'm telling you anyway. You know what, I think given half a chance, I could fall in like with you.”
“Oh-kay,” Patrick says. “You know what, that's kind of weird.”
Pete says, “Aw, c'mon, can I at least have a quarter of a chance? I'll take you to prom. Bet nobody's asked you yet, huh? Only two weeks left. What do you say?”
“I'll have you know, I was planning on going with my friends,” Patrick says. “Not that that's, you know, stopping me from going with you. Okay. You'd probably kill me if I didn't agree, though.”
“Nah. I might cry, though. That's a definite possibility. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth, you know.”
“Haha, yeah, can't have that. So, wait, have your - am I just paranoid, or are your friends not letting you talk to me?”
“They think you're going to break my heart,” Pete declares.
“Wow.” Patrick's really kind of weirded out by this whole conversation, but then, he is relying on Pete to drive him home. He doesn't want to argue. “... Does the whole school know I'm bi, or what?”
“Nah. I asked Andy. Everyone else figures you're straight, which is why they figure I'm gonna end up heartbroken. You know. It's that same old story - boy likes boy, boy doesn't like boys, boy tries anyway and is rejected, boy's ex-girlfriend posts naked pictures of boy on the Internet, boy ends up heartbroken and alone for the rest of his godforsaken tenure on this miserable planet and everybody knows what his penis looks like. The usual.”
“I, just, what.” Patrick says, “We seriously don't even know each other. Your friends are fucking crazy. So are you, actually.”
“Well, yeah,” Pete says. “Would it be any fun if I weren't?”
--
Pete's idea of dancing involves wiggling his hips and arms like a twelve year old girl. For a second, Patrick stares on in horrified awe, because oh god his - date? person he's at prom with? cannot dance at all. Then he remembers that there aren't a lot of options for dancing style when the Lindsay Lohan cover of “I Want You to Want Me” is playing. The idiot twelve year old school of dance is really the only one applicable, so Patrick eventually gives in, laughing and sort-of dancing along.
Pete's probably the dorkiest jock Patrick's ever had the honor of talking to, not that he's spoken to many who weren't in dire need of remedial English.
At one point, just the two of them are leaning against a wall, having wandered away from the milling crowd of people on the dancefloor. Pete says, “Hey, that chick's one of your friends, right?”
“Uh, that's actually ...” Patrick starts, but Pete's already halfway across the room. Patrick just sighs and follows after.
“Hey, what're you doing all alone?” Pete's saying, looking concerned. “C'mon, a girl can't have any fun on her own at prom. You need somebody to dance with?”
“I, uh --”
Pete's turned around and is yelling, “Hey, Brendon!” before either Patrick or the person Pete's accosted can get a word in edgewise. Brendon, looking sharp in a white suit and black tie, comes when called. “Brendon, I'm playing matchmaker. Have fun.”
Brendon stares at Pete, then at the person Pete's trying to set him up with. “Are you serious?”
“When am I not?”
“Yeah, uh,” Ryan says, brushing at his hair a little. “I'm not a girl. Seriously, I'm not even wearing that much makeup..” He is wearing pinstripes and argyle, with garters around his arms.
“You could have been a crossdresser,” Pete says, airily, as if that excuses his mistake. “Or a dyke. Now dance with Brendon.”
“What?” Ryan and Brendon both say.
“C'mon. You're under orders. Bren, I'll tell the coach you were taking steroids if you don't do it.” Pete hits Brendon in the shoulder, before turning to Patrick and saying, “You know, my dear boy, I do believe I have just done a valuable public service. Let us depart.”
“What just happened?” Patrick wonders, as Pete makes a move to raid the snack table. When he turns to look back, it looks like Ryan and Brendon are actually talking to each other. From a distance, it looks like they might actually be getting along.
“I worked my ninja magic.” Pete grabs a handful of pretzels and a glass of punch, which he downs in one go. “I so should not be having so many snacks; I've got a game in two days. Tournament shit. Me and soccer, we're in love. But the allure of pretzels is just too much, you know? I can't help cheating.”
“They're so very tiny, yet so very delicious,” Patrick says. “I can see how that'd be difficult for you, staying loyal like that against the face of such temptation. A real test of your moral fortitude. I think you just failed.”
“See, see, everybody keeps sayin' I need tutoring. This is the proof, right here,” Pete says, still talking even as he chews. “I'm a degenerate! Bringing about my own downfall and shit.”
“It's horrible.” Patrick nods agreeably before stealing Pete's latest glass of punch. “Truly a sign of the, uh. Decline of modern society.”
“Patrick, Patrick,” Pete says, throwing an arm around Patrick's shoulders. His breath, when he talks, smells like a weird mix of pretzels and punch and mouthwash. It's not entirely unpleasant. “You must teach me. Educate me, civilize me. I need private tutoring sessions, underneath your sheets. Sheet music. Music tamed the savage beast, you know, and you're like music.”
“What the fuck?”
“See, yeah, exactly.” Pete nuzzles Patrick's cheek. “You smell like guitar, is what I'm sayin' here.”
“The hell does guitar smell like?”
“It smells like Patrick.” Pete shrugs, breaking away from Patrick to look around for his friends. He spots them, and grabs himself another glass of punch. “I've gotta do my duty, talk to my friends. Slap some hos. You know. Gotta keep 'em in line.”
“Uh,” Patrick says helplessly as Pete walks off. He thinks about following, but really, no. He goes back to Ryan, because Joe disappeared with his girlfriend earlier, Andy's over with Pete's friends, and he doesn't know where anyone else is at the moment. “Hey, man, sorry about that. About Pete earlier, I mean.”
“What?” Ryan says, surprised to notice Patrick standing next to him. “No, it's cool. You know Brendon's from Vegas, too? He moved here a year before me.”
“Yeah, we were like best friends in preschool,” Brendon laughs. “I forgot this kid even existed. Small world, right?”
“Uh, wow,” Patrick says. “That's kind of crazy. You know, I bet Pete knew that? I wouldn't put it past him. The guy's crazy.”
“Crazy awesome?” Brendon grins. “Seriously. Hey, so yeah,” Brendon says, turning back to Ryan. “We gotta catch up, man. I can't believe I didn't recognize you! Three years, and we didn't pick up on it, what the hell? What're you doing after prom?”
Patrick considers volunteering his own after-prom plans - go home, sleep like a log, wish the school year was over - but then notices the way Ryan's got his hips angled, how the kid is managing to slouch at Brendon, the way he's hanging off Brendon's every word and actually smiling for once. Patrick figures it's in his own best interests to leave the two of them alone.
This is what Patrick was worried would happen all along - he'd go with Pete, not his friends, and then not be able to find any of his friends and end up alone. Here he is, the poor chubby balding kid left leaning against a wall with nothing to do. There's dirt under his nails; he starts picking at it, because he needs something to do with his time.
If Patrick's life has turned itself into an awful teen movie, right now is the part where a sad song should start playing. Thinking about it, he's pretty sure it's about time for a montage. What it's not time for is that stupid “Milkshake” song to start playing.
“Dude, Patrick,” Pete says, having wandered back over at some point. “Your friends are here, right? Shit, I'm sorry, I totally did not mean to ditch you or anything. I thought you were gonna follow; I was gonna introduce you to the gang. You went missing!”
“What? No, it's cool. My fingernails are like ten times less dirty now.”
“That is seriously sad.” Pete pauses, biting his lip and looking skyward for a moment. He puts a hand on Patrick's shoulder, looking him in the eye. “Patrick,” he says. “I have something to tell you.”
“What?”
“Your milkshake brings me to the yard.” He sounds so impossibly serious that Patrick starts laughing, and he's still laughing when Pete kisses him. Which is sort of funny in its own way, because Pete tastes like salt and pretzel and people really aren't supposed to taste like things. But when Patrick kisses back, and his tongue and Pete's lower lip come in contact, that's what he tastes. So. So.
So he wonders if making out with another boy at prom is really the best of plans, and he asks as much.
“Dude, it's me, no one cares what I do as long as I keep on rockin',” Pete says. “But okay, okay. I can wait 'till after. Or find a lonely chick to bone behind a potted plant or something, I dunno; which'd you prefer?”
“I,” Patrick says. “Let's go with option number one.”
--
“I,” Pete says, “hate bucket seats, ow ow ow, shit, remind me to buy an automatic next time.” The reason he's saying this: he's attempting to crawl onto Patrick's lap. Patrick is sitting in the passenger seat. Pete was in the driver's seat.
“Dude, don't hurt yourself, I can --”
“No, no, I - Jesus, there is no room. I need a sedan. Can you put the seat back?”
“With you on me? Oh, fuck, where's the thingy - the, you know. Pete, how the fuck do I put the seat back? Agh!”
“Ah, fuck! Back and forward are not the same word!”
“I know that! Oh, shit, shit - okay, okay. Okay. That was the stupidest - seriously, I would have gotten out of the car.” The car is, coincidentally, currently in Pete's driveway. “We could still do that, actually. Go to your house. Your room. You know.”
“It's five AM. I don't want to wake my parents up.”
“I think the six million times you hit the horn while trying to get over here pretty much guaranteed that.”
“My knees,” Pete says. “I make sacrifices for you, Patrick Stump, sacrifices like you would not believe. I think I'm going to die. Here, come on, you gotta comfort me before I die. Grant me some small happiness before I shuffle off this mortal coil and all that shit. Make the sacrifice worth it,” and he breathes those last words against Patrick's lips. He tilts his head to the side, and Patrick catches on quickly enough, first just nuzzling Pete's neck then laying kisses along his jawline.
“That's the idea,” Pete mumbles, one hand at the back of Patrick's neck. “Alright, alright,” and his other hand clutches at Patrick's tie. (Patrick can't help but worry about the tie - it's his dad's, and it's from Europe somewhere, and he hopes it survives unblemished.) “Let's see now.”
“See what?”
“How to - fuck, there's no room to - goddamn suit. Tux. Thing. See, now, if you were a chick, this would be so much easier. Just hitch up the dress, undo the pants, and there you go, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am. But, uh. You know.” Pete pauses, shifting his hips and trying to get more comfortable. “Hel-lo, definitely not. Why aren't you popular?”
“Hey, now, just because I'm not a jock,” Patrick says, wriggling a bit. “Uhm.”
“What?”
“I don't know,” Patrick says, blankly, staring off into space. “Do that again?”
“What? I seriously did not even do anything. Come on, seriously, shut up, and let's at least make out. I am not letting this turn into a waste of time. Man, if you were a chick, your panties would be decorating the steering wheel.”
Patrick says, “If you were a chick, I'd be trying to feel your tits right now, but you're not. So there.”
“If you were a chick ...” Pete says, “I - are we having a competition? Come up with the stupidest if-you-were-a-chick scenario? Because if you were a chick I'd be getting you pregnant right now.”
“That's so romantic.” Patrick rolls his eyes and bites down, hard, on Pete's lip. He buries a hand in Pete's hair, forces him closer. “Weren't you just telling me to shut up?”
“Yeah, well.”
Patrick's eyes narrow to slits, going some dark undefinable color beneath his lashes. He grins. His hands, for lack of a better place to go, move to Pete's back pockets; he shifts and makes a contented almost-growl in the back of his throat. “Okay,” he says, “okay,” and he's biting at bare patches of skin, not that there's many. He moves his hips, in need of friction and thankful the pants he's wearing have heavy fabric. Heavy fabric means more friction, though it also means he's further from Pete.
Trying to undo a bowtie with one hand isn't easy, because Patrick can't convince himself to take more than one hand off Pete's ass, but he manages it eventually. The bowtie was a definite problem, because it's nearly impossible to make a bowtie sexy, though Pete had a better shot at pulling it off than most. So it's gone, disappeared to somewhere in the pseudo-back seat, and buttons are a lot easier one-handed. Patrick has practice with buttons. Even if getting naked is a bad plan and almost impossible, he wants to see just that little bit more skin.
Pete's foot somehow finds the steering wheel again. “Do you want to wake up the entire neighborhood?” Patrick growls. “We could have gone to your room, or, hell, you could have parked somewhere better,” he says, now using one hand to attempt to undo his belt. Hell if he's not getting a little action.
“Dude,” Pete laughs, before getting the idea and slipping one hand between them. Pete, it seems like, has a lot of practice getting pants undone one-handed. His other hand is still fisted in Patrick's tie, and he tugs on it, using it like a leash to bring their lips and teeth crashing together again. He maybe tastes blood on his tongue.
Patrick's eyes roll back a little, maybe, when Pete's hand comes in contact with his dick for the first time. Why they haven't done this before, he's really not sure.
That's when the front porch light on Pete's house turns on, sudden and blinding and not that far off. Patrick's head is tilted so that, when he opens his eyes, he is staring straight at a woman in a bathrobe who he presumes is Pete's mom.
“God damn it,” he says.
Title: A Little More Sixteen Candles
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Words: lots! ~6,685
Pete Wentz is the star of the soccer team. He's their team's only saving grace, and they're damn lucky they even have him -- word is, he's on a Division One club team that's ranked second in the nation. The only information disputing this is that he's maybe on the number one team. He's gone enough that it's believable, but then, he goes out with enough girls (and boys, though that's less going out and more just making out) that it stops making sense.
Pete Wentz doesn't do badly in his classes, exactly, but he doesn't do well. There are a few classes where he gets A's, but only because -- well, no one ever says quite why. They're probably not deserved, is the thing. Those classes are the ones with young, fresh-out-of-college teachers who still have their looks, and there're rumors about that, too.
Patrick Stump is no one. He is in two (2) classes with Pete, total, though he's been in more in previous years. Pete's a year ahead of him. Pete's also at his grade level in all his classes, while Patrick's kind of sort of maybe ahead, just a bit. 'Accelerated.' Something like that, he doesn't like to bring it up. What he will point out is that it's easier being a junior in a senior class than a freshman in a junior class.
Patrick is a non-entity, really, not in any clubs -- band doesn't count -- and not in any way popular. He's got friends, but they're all persona non grata at the popular tables.
So.
So what Patrick really, really wants to know right now is why Pete Wentz is sitting next to him at lunch. Patrick stares straight ahead at his food, and does his best to ignore the interloper at his table. His friends are stunned into silence, too; Ryan actually makes a break for it, heading outside to eat lunch.
"Hi," Pete says. "I'm Pete. Pete Wentz. I think we're maybe in a class together?"
"Yeah, uh, we're actually in two classes," Patrick says. "We have been for the past six months. And, uh, we've been in four other classes over the past two years, just so you know."
"Well, yeah, I knew that part. Sorry. Are we seriously in - oh, yeah, we are. Okay. Yeah, you're in Chem, too, that's what it is.”
"Hey, it's not like we usually talk to each other or anything," Patrick says, turning back to his food. The menu today includes tater tots and mashed potatoes, which Patrick has, and a wide variety of bacon, which he doesn't.
"Two kinds of potatoes," Pete says, echoing Patrick's thoughts, and apparently not giving up on the conversation. "Could they not get in enough government vegetables today, or what? They could have at least mixed it up a little, dyed the potatoes orange so we'd think they were meat. Can't tell the difference by the taste anyway, am I right?" Pete has lunch from Subway.
"I'm a vegetarian," Patrick says, flatly.
"Oh, that's cool," Pete says. "That's cool. My friend Andy's a vegan." Surprisingly enough, Andy's actually one of Patrick's friends. He hadn't realized Andy even knew Pete. Not like it matters. "I just can't bring myself to give up the delicious, delicious taste of all those dead little critters."
"Okay," Patrick says. If he can ignore Pete just a while longer, he can maybe finish his meal and go somewhere else for the rest of lunch.
"Man, sorry, sorry, not trying to offend you or anything. Just trying to be friendly. Should I be letting you eat?"
Patrick looks up, and the way Pete's looking at him, it's like he's actually concerned about interrupting Patrick's lunch. "Uhm. Yeah, no, I'm almost done. It's fine."
"Cool, cool. Can I have a tot?" Pete only thinks to ask when his hand is hovering right over the styrofoam tray, fingers poised and ready to grab one of the last three tater tots.
Patrick nods, and Pete grabs a tot and pops it in his mouth. He's got nice fingers, not that Patrick's paying attention. It's just one of those things you can't help but notice.
Pete says, "So, you know, I gotta talk to you tomorrow, too. Whole rest of the week, actually."
"What?"
He leans in, voice dropping low. Over the din of the cafeteria, it's hard to hear. His proximity makes the hairs on the back of Patrick's next stand up. "Twenty bucks per day, man. I know, I know. It's lame, but hey, free money. I'm just admitting it straight up to you now." Pete pauses. "At some point I'm supposed to ask if you wanna hang out this weekend, too, by the way. I totally get it if you don't want to, but I'll give you a cut of the cash if you play along."
"Are you supposed to just admit it like this?"
"Well, no." Pete's laugh is straightforward. Honest, maybe. "I'm supposed to con you into being my friend, then pull some prank on you in a couple weeks. I figured, hell, that's not cool. So? Mall Friday? I can pick you up at six."
"I, uh," Patrick says. "Sure?" and regrets his answer instantly. Pete beams.
"Awesome," Pete says, and the bell rings. He says, "Hey, see you tomorrow, right?" He's just getting up when he pulls out a pen. "Actually, give me your number. Just in case."
"Do you have anything to ..." Patrick trails off as Pete holds out his hand. "Oh." And he scrawls his cell phone number on the back of Pete's hand. Pete's skin is softer than he would have expected -- why he thought a soccer player's hands would be messed up, he's not sure. "There. I, yeah, later. Class. You know."
"Yup, gotta go get me some education," Pete says, jogging off to catch up with his oh-so-popular friends.
---
Pete does, in fact, talk to Patrick at lunch the next day, and Patrick finds himself laughing more than seems normal, considering that Pete's only talking to him for the money. That, and Pete's more clever than Patrick would have ever expected. Pete talks to him for the rest of the week - talks at him, more like, since their conversations usually wind up with Pete talking about his latest drama while Patrick makes fun of him for it.
("So after that, Rachel didn't want to go out with me anymore, you know? And I was kind of pissed, because it's not like it was even my fault --"
"It wasn't your fault you blew her brother...?"
"Of course not! Bitch was asking for it.")
Things Patrick notices about Pete: When he's left alone for long, he'll sometimes start dancing in the middle of the hallway. After school, Pete Wentz changes into his soccer uniform outside, leaning over the trunk of his car; at least one girl, usually Jeanae, will be standing by in attendance - to hand him his cleats, fold his shirt, and stare. Pete Wentz has, to date, one (1) tattoo - Patrick hasn't had a chance to figure out what it is yet, and like hell he's going to ask. Pete Wentz uses sharpie, not nail polish, to paint his nails black.
After school, Patrick's actually really and truly looking forward to going to the mall. Before he's even got on the bus, Pete trots up by his side, saying, "Hey, you need a ride home or anything? Jeanae's out sick today, and I don't have practice for a while, so I've got time, if you want. Plus I gotta know how to get to your house later anyway. I'd rather not, like, Mapquest it or something, because that's too stalker-y."
"I, sure," Patrick says, because he's not one to turn down a free ride. "Sure, yeah, thanks."
Pete says, “You mind if I change before we go? I'm gonna have to get back, and I don't know how much time I feel like wasting before I do.” While he's saying this, he opens the trunk of his car and starts digging through a duffel bag. He says, “Can you hold these for a sec?”
Patrick stares down at the pair of cleats in his hands, wondering what part of his silence was taken as agreement, but he doesn't comment. “Uh,” he says, and when he looks up he's greeted by the bare skin and muscle of Pete's back. Pete apparently spend enough time in the sun that his skin is the same even tan all over.
“I could just skip practice,” Pete says, maybe to himself as he slips on the team jersey. “But that seems kinda rude, since I didn't say anything to anybody about it. Whatever.”
“Right,” Patrick says, still half in shock at the fact that Pete Wentz is shameless enough to strip down to his boxers in the middle of the school parking lot.
The whole act is well-practiced, though, and Pete shimmies into his shorts, has his socks on, and is asking for his cleats before Patrick can say anything more. “Actually, wait, no, I don't wanna drive with my cleats, never mind.”
So he drives barefoot.
Pete actually checks before turning on the radio. "Do you mind if we listen to some music? Always more fun that way, you know." And his taste in music, it's decent. He's playing The Descendants, not Fifty Cent or Lindsay Lohan or whatever. Patrick's impressed, he'll admit it.
"So," Pete says. "I can't believe I don't even know this yet. I've told you all this stuff about me, and I hardly know anything about you. What do you do in your free time? Hobbies?"
"I, uh. I write music a lot of the time. I'm in the school band and all, but music's just kind of what I do anyway, you know? And I guess I play video games, sometimes. Study. The usual."
"Seriously? You, like, write songs? Lyrics, or what?"
"Nah, I just do the music," Patrick says, staring out the window. "My lyrics aren't any good. But the music part I can do."
"Hey, no, that's really cool. Most people say they write songs and all they do is write shitty lyrics, and they can't even play an instrument, you know?" Pete laughs. "I actually, my mom bought me a bass for Christmas. I haven't played it much, though. Other than that, I guess I'm most people, since I can't really play. Nice and stereotypical, you know. What do you play?"
"Drums. Guitar. Piano. Uh, some other stuff. Turn here," Patrick says, still baffled by the idea that Pete Wentz could possibly have even a passing interest in music. He's not sure why it's so surprising, actually - it makes a certain amount of sense. "Okay, yeah, this is my house. Yeah, with the flamingo. I know, I know."
"Hey, it's cool. Your lawn is totally kickin' with the flamingo. I'll be here six sharp, alright?" Pete's smile, when turned on full, is bright enough to be blinding, warm enough to leave Patrick blushing. Another thing Patrick notices - when Pete smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkle a little. “I've gotta hear you play something sometime. Maybe before we go out tonight. I gotta get to practice now, is all.”
"Okay. Okay, cool," Patrick says. He gets out of the car, and Pete stays in the driveway until Patrick's got the door open before he drives off. And he waves, and Patrick's left feeling dazed by the whole experience.
He tries to do his homework, but can't focus enough to finish anything. He's got the whole weekend to do it anyway, and figures he might as well spend his time on something different. He ends up picking up a bass guitar and noodling around a bit. He tries to convince himself there's no good reason he's playing bass, but he can't manage that, either.
Then his phone rings. The number's one he doesn't recognize, and it's not in his phone book. "Pete?" he says on picking up.
"No, man, it's Joe. I'm using a friend's phone. So I like, have free tickets to a show tonight, and this band some friends of mine are in is opening. You wanna go?"
"I, uh," Patrick says. "I'm going somewhere with Pete tonight, actually."
"Who's Pete? You've brought him up like twice in the ten seconds we've been talking."
"... Wentz?"
"Oh, fuck off, if you don't wanna come just say so." Even though he's used to it by now, Patrick still thinks Joe sounds hilarious when exasperated. “You don't even have to pay or anything!”
"I'm serious!"
"Come on, I'm gonna be by in ten. I am not letting you stay home alone on Friday again. It's just sad."
"Uh," Patrick starts to say, but Joe's already hung up. "God damn it."
So Patrick goes to the show and doesn't hear his phone ring. When he checks it after, there's one call from another unknown number, made just a little after six. There's no message, and no one answers when he tries to call. The answering machine is so generic that he doesn't leave a message either, and he doesn't try calling back again. It's not like Pete -- because that's who he assumes it was - gave it more than one try. And anyway, it could have been anybody, could have even been a wrong number, so it's not like it's a big deal or anything.
Patrick feels kind of guilty about it, until he remembers that Pete only wanted to hang out with him for the money anyway.
---
At school Monday, things are back to normal -- Patrick and his friends are left alone at their table. Andy even shows up for a while -- "Hey, where's Wentz?"
"Uh, I don't know," Patrick says, looking around like he hadn't been covertly staring at Pete for half of lunch. "Over there, with his friends?"
"He sat here the last few days, right? I had something to give him."
"Yeah, no, he's back over there now, where he normally sits." Patrick's not trying to sound bitter, but that's how it comes across.
"O-kay," Andy says. "Sorry? Hey, see you later."
Once, just once, Pete notices Patrick looking. He raises an eyebrow, then frowns and turns away, talking to his friends. They laugh. Patrick ducks his head, feeling somehow stupid and awkward, like he's the one who did something wrong. He's not the one who hangs out with people for cash (then is perfectly honest about what he's doing and why).
Travis pokes him in the side. "Yo, Patrick. Quit staring at him, it's kind of sad."
"I just," Patrick says weakly. "Thought we were actually friends?"
"Yeah, right, man." Travis laughs. He has the nerve to laugh. "A kid like him doesn't just come over and start talking to a kid like you for no reason. Maybe if he'd, like, needed you to tutor him or something. I'm surprised he doesn't."
"He's smarter than he acts," Patrick says. "His grades are actually pretty good. He doesn't try very hard, is all." Patrick says, “Besides, it's not like we're in a ... a bad teen movie or something. A 'kid like him,' Jesus. There's no reason he shouldn't talk to me if he wants to.”
“Doesn't look like he wants to, man,” Travis notes, tilting his head in Pete's direction.
Patrick's not sure why, but when he sees Pete with his arm around Jeanae's shoulders, talking and laughing with his friends he feels kind of - jealous. So he turns his attention back to his French fries and mashed potatoes, once again boggling over the dual potato offering of today's lunch.
Joe leans forward, depositing a cookie on Patrick's tray. “Cheer up. Have a cookie. You act like you just broke up with somebody. Come on, wasn't that show Friday awesome?”
“The rhythm guitarist kind of sucked, and I don't know why they needed a rhythm guitar, two leads and a bass anyway, if they couldn't keep it together,” Ryan cuts in, sounding annoyed.
“Yeah, but the tunes!” Joe says.
With that, the conversation turns, and Patrick's actually allowed to ignore Pete, in favor of things he actually understands, like music.
---
“Dude, Patrick,” Joe says to him after class on Wednesday, laughing. “Go check out your locker.”
“I, uh, was already going to my locker, seeing as school's over. Why?”
“Oh, man, just do it.” Joe is cracking up, and it's getting annoying. He follows along after Patrick all the way to his locker, giggling under his breath the whole time.
Patrick turns a corner and stops. Stares. “Oh, my god.”
There are balloons. There is glitter. There is chiffon ribbon. And there is an envelope, with to patrick!!!! written on it in sparkly pink cursive lettering, decorated with broken heart stickers.
“Oh. My. God.” Patrick turns to Joe -- “Who did this?”
“No one knows! It was normal before lunch, then ... then there was all this stuff.”
Patrick rips down the ribbon, unties the balloons, and - there's not a lot he can do about the glitter, but he'll be damned if he doesn't try doing something about it. The letter, he shoves covertly into his backpack. “Someone hates me,” he decides, as groups of fellow students wander past laughing and giggling, all at his expense.
“I dunno, man, it's pretty funny.” Joe shrugs -- “Hey, you want me to give you a ride home today? I mean, the bus might be a bad plan. You know.”
“Yeah,” Patrick says, getting his stuff together - putting a few books away, shoving a few in his backpack, that kind of thing. “Thanks.”
He doesn't read the letter until he's dropped off at home. He doesn't recognize the handwriting, though it looks like a girl's.
Stump, it says, simply enough, Pete is my boyfriend and he keeps talking about you and it's really creepy because you two aren't even really friends, so stop talking to him OK thanks. It was all Steve's idea and he's really dumb anyway he doesn't like you and wanted to mess with you you know. I know you two (you and Pete I mean) like each other but I don't want to break up with him yet OK so please stop talking because I think he likes your voice or maybe your lips so like just wear a paper bag over your head and don't talk anymore (I mean you're not cool anyway so it's no big loss) thanks. If you don't stop making him cry then I will destroy you and your lame little social life OK!!! He's mine and even though he's sensitive and kisses boys sometimes he's not a fag because he plays sports so just back off, thanks. ♥
Love, Katie!
Thing is, Patrick could have sworn Pete was going out with Jeanae again this week. Maybe that was last week; the two of them don't exactly seem stable.
“Oh, my god,” he says to himself again. “I really am stuck in a bad teen movie.”
--
Despite the locker incident, the rest of the week is uneventful. His friends mock him, a few other people snicker in his general direction, but mostly things are normal. Pete Wentz is rather conspicuously absent from his life, but that's fine, since it's not like they were friends in the first place.
Then on Thursday, there's another envelope in his locker - this one pushed in between the slat, plain and undecorated. Thank god, no one notices it.
This letter, all it is is a - poem? song lyrics? - with no signature. It's typed, so he can't even ask his friends if they recognize the handwriting. All Patrick knows for sure is, when he Googles a few key lines, nothing turns up. Which implies whoever wrote it was the one that gave it to him, which - well, he's not going to assume the obvious.
The thing is, the lyrics are good. Without even thinking about it, Patrick finds himself coming up with a tune for them - there's rhythm and rhyme enough that it's easy to find a nice melody. He thinks if he tries hard enough, he could probably come up with a nice harmony, too, and before he knows it he's sketching out the chords.
Over the weekend, he puts the thing through GarageBand, recording it and splicing it together and fucking around with levels, mixing and remixing for three whole days - it's a long weekend, Friday off - because he is stupidly obsessed with getting this to sound right. It's not like he plans on sharing it with anyone.
Except. Except, okay, he does still have that mystery number from the night of the show saved in his phone (under the name “not!Pete????” with exactly four question marks). He turns on his computer, cranks the speakers to nearly full and leaves the song as a message on the answering machine, because of course no one answers.
That's pretty much his whole weekend.
At lunchtime on Monday, it almost looks like Pete's going to come sit with him again. Then a girl comes up beside him, drags him to his usual table, and that's that. The whole thing is getting kind of strange. That same kind of thing keeps happening all week, which means either something's going on or he's getting paranoid. He'll keep seeing Pete glancing over at him, start ambling over in his general direction, then - get stopped, sidetracked by one of his friends. It's actually sort of creepy.
The only other interesting things that happen that week is that Joe manages to break his arm playing guitar - Patrick does not ask how - and, late in the week, another set of typed up lyrics show up in Patrick's locker. Which means, yeah, another song, because it's not like he has anything better to do.
So over the weekend, Patrick Stump records his very first love song. It's buried in metaphor and ramblings about Chicago, but in the end it comes across as a love song, so of course he turns it into a stupid pop-punk number.
The next Monday, what Patrick does is - because this whole thing is getting stupid and he has to know for sure - he burns both tracks to a CD, tossing the CD into one of those little paper envelopes before school. At lunch, what he does is, he goes over to Pete's table and says, “Hey, I think this is yours,” and hands the CD to Pete - who looks surprised and about ready to say something - but Patrick walks off before anybody can comment, at least to his face.
After school Monday is the first time he and Pete Wentz have a conversation again. Pete jogs up alongside him, saying, “Hey, you want a ride again today?”
“Yeah, sure,” Patrick says. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, no,” one of Pete's female friends says. Patrick doesn't even know what her name is. “Pete, I gotta have a ride, Sasha won't drive me today. Can you drop me off first?”
“No?” Pete stares at her, wide-eyed. “You remember which bus is yours, right? I do, if you forgot.”
“Oh my god,” the girl huffs, storming off. “Pete Wentz, you're a whore!”
Pete doesn't say anything else until they're in the car. The first thing he does is put the CD in the CD player, fiddling with the volume for a second. He says, “That's you singing?”
“Yeah.”
“Who'd you get to back you up?” They stop at a traffic light, and Pete turns to look at Patrick, kind of wide-eyed. “Like, who's the drummer? Andy?”
“Uh, no. It's me,” Patrick says. “I just recorded everything on different tracks, put it together, you know. All I used was GarageBand. It's nothing fancy.”
“You put together an entire song in one weekend and that's nothing fancy. You actually made one of my songs into something awesome in one weekend, and it's nothing fancy,” Pete says. “I mean, okay,” he pauses as the track changes, “Shit! You apparently made two of my songs into actual songs! Holy shit. Wait, don't say anything, I wanna listen to this.”
Patrick says, “I think the light is green.” When the song ends, he says, “Well, yeah. I didn't do anything too involved.”
Pete laughs. He says, “You record an entire song and it's not involved. Okay. Okay, wow. You know what?”
“Do I want to know what?”
“No, of course not,” Pete says. “But I'm telling you anyway. You know what, I think given half a chance, I could fall in like with you.”
“Oh-kay,” Patrick says. “You know what, that's kind of weird.”
Pete says, “Aw, c'mon, can I at least have a quarter of a chance? I'll take you to prom. Bet nobody's asked you yet, huh? Only two weeks left. What do you say?”
“I'll have you know, I was planning on going with my friends,” Patrick says. “Not that that's, you know, stopping me from going with you. Okay. You'd probably kill me if I didn't agree, though.”
“Nah. I might cry, though. That's a definite possibility. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth, you know.”
“Haha, yeah, can't have that. So, wait, have your - am I just paranoid, or are your friends not letting you talk to me?”
“They think you're going to break my heart,” Pete declares.
“Wow.” Patrick's really kind of weirded out by this whole conversation, but then, he is relying on Pete to drive him home. He doesn't want to argue. “... Does the whole school know I'm bi, or what?”
“Nah. I asked Andy. Everyone else figures you're straight, which is why they figure I'm gonna end up heartbroken. You know. It's that same old story - boy likes boy, boy doesn't like boys, boy tries anyway and is rejected, boy's ex-girlfriend posts naked pictures of boy on the Internet, boy ends up heartbroken and alone for the rest of his godforsaken tenure on this miserable planet and everybody knows what his penis looks like. The usual.”
“I, just, what.” Patrick says, “We seriously don't even know each other. Your friends are fucking crazy. So are you, actually.”
“Well, yeah,” Pete says. “Would it be any fun if I weren't?”
--
Pete's idea of dancing involves wiggling his hips and arms like a twelve year old girl. For a second, Patrick stares on in horrified awe, because oh god his - date? person he's at prom with? cannot dance at all. Then he remembers that there aren't a lot of options for dancing style when the Lindsay Lohan cover of “I Want You to Want Me” is playing. The idiot twelve year old school of dance is really the only one applicable, so Patrick eventually gives in, laughing and sort-of dancing along.
Pete's probably the dorkiest jock Patrick's ever had the honor of talking to, not that he's spoken to many who weren't in dire need of remedial English.
At one point, just the two of them are leaning against a wall, having wandered away from the milling crowd of people on the dancefloor. Pete says, “Hey, that chick's one of your friends, right?”
“Uh, that's actually ...” Patrick starts, but Pete's already halfway across the room. Patrick just sighs and follows after.
“Hey, what're you doing all alone?” Pete's saying, looking concerned. “C'mon, a girl can't have any fun on her own at prom. You need somebody to dance with?”
“I, uh --”
Pete's turned around and is yelling, “Hey, Brendon!” before either Patrick or the person Pete's accosted can get a word in edgewise. Brendon, looking sharp in a white suit and black tie, comes when called. “Brendon, I'm playing matchmaker. Have fun.”
Brendon stares at Pete, then at the person Pete's trying to set him up with. “Are you serious?”
“When am I not?”
“Yeah, uh,” Ryan says, brushing at his hair a little. “I'm not a girl. Seriously, I'm not even wearing that much makeup..” He is wearing pinstripes and argyle, with garters around his arms.
“You could have been a crossdresser,” Pete says, airily, as if that excuses his mistake. “Or a dyke. Now dance with Brendon.”
“What?” Ryan and Brendon both say.
“C'mon. You're under orders. Bren, I'll tell the coach you were taking steroids if you don't do it.” Pete hits Brendon in the shoulder, before turning to Patrick and saying, “You know, my dear boy, I do believe I have just done a valuable public service. Let us depart.”
“What just happened?” Patrick wonders, as Pete makes a move to raid the snack table. When he turns to look back, it looks like Ryan and Brendon are actually talking to each other. From a distance, it looks like they might actually be getting along.
“I worked my ninja magic.” Pete grabs a handful of pretzels and a glass of punch, which he downs in one go. “I so should not be having so many snacks; I've got a game in two days. Tournament shit. Me and soccer, we're in love. But the allure of pretzels is just too much, you know? I can't help cheating.”
“They're so very tiny, yet so very delicious,” Patrick says. “I can see how that'd be difficult for you, staying loyal like that against the face of such temptation. A real test of your moral fortitude. I think you just failed.”
“See, see, everybody keeps sayin' I need tutoring. This is the proof, right here,” Pete says, still talking even as he chews. “I'm a degenerate! Bringing about my own downfall and shit.”
“It's horrible.” Patrick nods agreeably before stealing Pete's latest glass of punch. “Truly a sign of the, uh. Decline of modern society.”
“Patrick, Patrick,” Pete says, throwing an arm around Patrick's shoulders. His breath, when he talks, smells like a weird mix of pretzels and punch and mouthwash. It's not entirely unpleasant. “You must teach me. Educate me, civilize me. I need private tutoring sessions, underneath your sheets. Sheet music. Music tamed the savage beast, you know, and you're like music.”
“What the fuck?”
“See, yeah, exactly.” Pete nuzzles Patrick's cheek. “You smell like guitar, is what I'm sayin' here.”
“The hell does guitar smell like?”
“It smells like Patrick.” Pete shrugs, breaking away from Patrick to look around for his friends. He spots them, and grabs himself another glass of punch. “I've gotta do my duty, talk to my friends. Slap some hos. You know. Gotta keep 'em in line.”
“Uh,” Patrick says helplessly as Pete walks off. He thinks about following, but really, no. He goes back to Ryan, because Joe disappeared with his girlfriend earlier, Andy's over with Pete's friends, and he doesn't know where anyone else is at the moment. “Hey, man, sorry about that. About Pete earlier, I mean.”
“What?” Ryan says, surprised to notice Patrick standing next to him. “No, it's cool. You know Brendon's from Vegas, too? He moved here a year before me.”
“Yeah, we were like best friends in preschool,” Brendon laughs. “I forgot this kid even existed. Small world, right?”
“Uh, wow,” Patrick says. “That's kind of crazy. You know, I bet Pete knew that? I wouldn't put it past him. The guy's crazy.”
“Crazy awesome?” Brendon grins. “Seriously. Hey, so yeah,” Brendon says, turning back to Ryan. “We gotta catch up, man. I can't believe I didn't recognize you! Three years, and we didn't pick up on it, what the hell? What're you doing after prom?”
Patrick considers volunteering his own after-prom plans - go home, sleep like a log, wish the school year was over - but then notices the way Ryan's got his hips angled, how the kid is managing to slouch at Brendon, the way he's hanging off Brendon's every word and actually smiling for once. Patrick figures it's in his own best interests to leave the two of them alone.
This is what Patrick was worried would happen all along - he'd go with Pete, not his friends, and then not be able to find any of his friends and end up alone. Here he is, the poor chubby balding kid left leaning against a wall with nothing to do. There's dirt under his nails; he starts picking at it, because he needs something to do with his time.
If Patrick's life has turned itself into an awful teen movie, right now is the part where a sad song should start playing. Thinking about it, he's pretty sure it's about time for a montage. What it's not time for is that stupid “Milkshake” song to start playing.
“Dude, Patrick,” Pete says, having wandered back over at some point. “Your friends are here, right? Shit, I'm sorry, I totally did not mean to ditch you or anything. I thought you were gonna follow; I was gonna introduce you to the gang. You went missing!”
“What? No, it's cool. My fingernails are like ten times less dirty now.”
“That is seriously sad.” Pete pauses, biting his lip and looking skyward for a moment. He puts a hand on Patrick's shoulder, looking him in the eye. “Patrick,” he says. “I have something to tell you.”
“What?”
“Your milkshake brings me to the yard.” He sounds so impossibly serious that Patrick starts laughing, and he's still laughing when Pete kisses him. Which is sort of funny in its own way, because Pete tastes like salt and pretzel and people really aren't supposed to taste like things. But when Patrick kisses back, and his tongue and Pete's lower lip come in contact, that's what he tastes. So. So.
So he wonders if making out with another boy at prom is really the best of plans, and he asks as much.
“Dude, it's me, no one cares what I do as long as I keep on rockin',” Pete says. “But okay, okay. I can wait 'till after. Or find a lonely chick to bone behind a potted plant or something, I dunno; which'd you prefer?”
“I,” Patrick says. “Let's go with option number one.”
--
“I,” Pete says, “hate bucket seats, ow ow ow, shit, remind me to buy an automatic next time.” The reason he's saying this: he's attempting to crawl onto Patrick's lap. Patrick is sitting in the passenger seat. Pete was in the driver's seat.
“Dude, don't hurt yourself, I can --”
“No, no, I - Jesus, there is no room. I need a sedan. Can you put the seat back?”
“With you on me? Oh, fuck, where's the thingy - the, you know. Pete, how the fuck do I put the seat back? Agh!”
“Ah, fuck! Back and forward are not the same word!”
“I know that! Oh, shit, shit - okay, okay. Okay. That was the stupidest - seriously, I would have gotten out of the car.” The car is, coincidentally, currently in Pete's driveway. “We could still do that, actually. Go to your house. Your room. You know.”
“It's five AM. I don't want to wake my parents up.”
“I think the six million times you hit the horn while trying to get over here pretty much guaranteed that.”
“My knees,” Pete says. “I make sacrifices for you, Patrick Stump, sacrifices like you would not believe. I think I'm going to die. Here, come on, you gotta comfort me before I die. Grant me some small happiness before I shuffle off this mortal coil and all that shit. Make the sacrifice worth it,” and he breathes those last words against Patrick's lips. He tilts his head to the side, and Patrick catches on quickly enough, first just nuzzling Pete's neck then laying kisses along his jawline.
“That's the idea,” Pete mumbles, one hand at the back of Patrick's neck. “Alright, alright,” and his other hand clutches at Patrick's tie. (Patrick can't help but worry about the tie - it's his dad's, and it's from Europe somewhere, and he hopes it survives unblemished.) “Let's see now.”
“See what?”
“How to - fuck, there's no room to - goddamn suit. Tux. Thing. See, now, if you were a chick, this would be so much easier. Just hitch up the dress, undo the pants, and there you go, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am. But, uh. You know.” Pete pauses, shifting his hips and trying to get more comfortable. “Hel-lo, definitely not. Why aren't you popular?”
“Hey, now, just because I'm not a jock,” Patrick says, wriggling a bit. “Uhm.”
“What?”
“I don't know,” Patrick says, blankly, staring off into space. “Do that again?”
“What? I seriously did not even do anything. Come on, seriously, shut up, and let's at least make out. I am not letting this turn into a waste of time. Man, if you were a chick, your panties would be decorating the steering wheel.”
Patrick says, “If you were a chick, I'd be trying to feel your tits right now, but you're not. So there.”
“If you were a chick ...” Pete says, “I - are we having a competition? Come up with the stupidest if-you-were-a-chick scenario? Because if you were a chick I'd be getting you pregnant right now.”
“That's so romantic.” Patrick rolls his eyes and bites down, hard, on Pete's lip. He buries a hand in Pete's hair, forces him closer. “Weren't you just telling me to shut up?”
“Yeah, well.”
Patrick's eyes narrow to slits, going some dark undefinable color beneath his lashes. He grins. His hands, for lack of a better place to go, move to Pete's back pockets; he shifts and makes a contented almost-growl in the back of his throat. “Okay,” he says, “okay,” and he's biting at bare patches of skin, not that there's many. He moves his hips, in need of friction and thankful the pants he's wearing have heavy fabric. Heavy fabric means more friction, though it also means he's further from Pete.
Trying to undo a bowtie with one hand isn't easy, because Patrick can't convince himself to take more than one hand off Pete's ass, but he manages it eventually. The bowtie was a definite problem, because it's nearly impossible to make a bowtie sexy, though Pete had a better shot at pulling it off than most. So it's gone, disappeared to somewhere in the pseudo-back seat, and buttons are a lot easier one-handed. Patrick has practice with buttons. Even if getting naked is a bad plan and almost impossible, he wants to see just that little bit more skin.
Pete's foot somehow finds the steering wheel again. “Do you want to wake up the entire neighborhood?” Patrick growls. “We could have gone to your room, or, hell, you could have parked somewhere better,” he says, now using one hand to attempt to undo his belt. Hell if he's not getting a little action.
“Dude,” Pete laughs, before getting the idea and slipping one hand between them. Pete, it seems like, has a lot of practice getting pants undone one-handed. His other hand is still fisted in Patrick's tie, and he tugs on it, using it like a leash to bring their lips and teeth crashing together again. He maybe tastes blood on his tongue.
Patrick's eyes roll back a little, maybe, when Pete's hand comes in contact with his dick for the first time. Why they haven't done this before, he's really not sure.
That's when the front porch light on Pete's house turns on, sudden and blinding and not that far off. Patrick's head is tilted so that, when he opens his eyes, he is staring straight at a woman in a bathrobe who he presumes is Pete's mom.
“God damn it,” he says.