Fic: Hope He Is a Gentleman 2/2 (Fall Out Boy, R, Pete/Patrick)

[dancinbutterfly]

They wander beneath the arena for half an hour, Bill’s voice filtering down through the floor. Patrick seems pretty intent on the Ryan hunt so Pete carries the majority of the conversation. He talks about himself because that’s what he does most of the time anyway, but more so when he’s nervous.

Keeping the focus of conversation on himself has the added benefit of avoiding the over-intimacy Pete has with Patrick’s history. He’s read way too many articles and watched way too many interviews featuring Patrick over the years. He’s got a fucking rolodex of stupid ridiculous factoids that any fan could find about Patrick and he’s half afraid that if he asks anything, that’ll show.

So he babbles - mostly random things like how he still feels a little silly starting a clothing company. He tells Patrick how Ryan wandered into his store one Tuesday five years ago when he was just an undergrad covered in scarves, glitter, and velvet, and just never left. He tells him how he wishes he’d majored in music back in college given how absolutely useless his poli-sci degree turned out to be.

Patrick throws in his own opinions as casually as he pulls open doors. “At least you had the college experience. I didn’t get past eleventh grade.”

“Your parents let you do that? At sixteen?” His parents had been in the “clinging but not too tight” stage when he was sixteen. He was still reeling from boot camp and they were trying to piece him back together. They wouldn’t have let him go like Patrick’s parents’ must have.

“Not exactly. I sort of capitalized on my folks’ divorce. I managed to convince my dad to let me go when I started finding places outside of Chicagoland that wanted me to play.” Patrick opens another door on an empty room. “Once he said yes, my mom couldn’t really do anything, because then it’d turn into a custody thing and at sixteen, they let you pick.”

“And you would’ve picked the parent who’d let you tour.”

Patrick stops and shrugs like he’s trying to pull free of the casual grip he’s had on Pete’s wrist this whole time. But he doesn’t let go. “Yeah. I would’ve and we all knew it. So Mom let me go and Dad took off from work to take me.”

“Wow. That’s-“ Pete stops mid-thought because he needs a second. He fills the time by sliding his hand up so that Patrick’s not holding his wrist anymore. Now their palms are pressed together and it only takes a little maneuvering to lock their fingers.

It seems like the only thing to do. This conversation is nothing that made an interview or a sound bite. It’s flawed, calculated, and it’s Patrick Stump the reality of whom just keeps proving to be better than Pete’s old fantasies.

Patrick isn’t looking at him or their linked hands. He doesn’t notice the way Pete is smiling at him either. So Pete squeezes his hand before he says, “That’s fucking evil.”

“I know, right? I was a shitty kid. I’ve tried to buy her a house like four times to make up for it, but she’d rather hang onto the guilt. She thinks it’s more valuable.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, hell yes.” Patrick laughs. “I haven’t missed a holiday in years, let alone her birthday or Mother’s Day. I got my GED before she let me record the second album though, so it worked out I guess.”

“The second one’s my favorite. Hope He is a Gentleman is one of the best hooks you’ve ever done,” Pete says without thinking. Then he stops and bites his lip because fuck, really, he wasn’t going to talk about the music. He’d promised himself.

Patrick looks ready to say something. Pete has no idea what, probably about how creepy Pete is. Then he’ll give his hand back and tell Pete to stop being a fucking stalker. Instead, he holds up a hand and tilts his head to the side. “Do you hear that?”

All he hears is the opening strains of We’ve Got a Big Mess on Our Hands filtering down from above. “Hear what?”

Patrick doesn’t answer. He just drags Pete forward to a closed double door that looks like it might be some sort of conference room. The door is stuck but oh fuck yeah, Pete hears it now. Some sort of banging and maybe a groaning noise.

Patrick gets the door open but it sticks. He pushes on it with his shoulder like his arm is a battering ram. Pete can hear and feel the impact and it makes his skin buzz. It’s clearly not all the effort Patrick can throw behind his weight, and it makes Pete’s skin feel hot everywhere.

“Help me with this?” Patrick asks. He could probably get more force with both hands, but he’s not letting go which Pete is completely fine with. “I’m not a very big guy. So, on three? Three.”

They both bodily hit the door and it’s not until they stumble into the empty room that Pete realizes what a terribly bad idea this was. His entire body goes slack with shock and Patrick covers his mouth with both hands because really. “Wow.” Pete chokes out because really, that’s about all there is to it.

The room is filled with racks of folding chairs. The blond drummer for My Chemical Romance is braced against one of them, his left hand grasping at shining brown metal like it’s the only thing keeping him standing. Ryan’s folded up behind him, bumping against another rack of chairs with every move. H is ugly paisley shirt hanging open and his pants and boxers only one leg. His eyes are screwed shut and Ryan’s got his face buried against the back of his neck.

It’s weirdly incongruous because Bob Bryar is broader than Ryan, bigger than him in every way except height. It should look silly but Bob leans back into Ryan’s thin frame and even from across the room, it looks to Pete like they fit. They also look weirdly hot, but Ryan’s attractiveness has always been sort of strange so that’s not too surprising.

“We should leave,” Patrick says, tripping backwards. He catches the back of Pete’s shirt and pulls. “We should go now.”

That is of course when Ryan lifts his head and looks at them. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen. He looks dirty and way older than he should. He’s been about twelve in Pete’s head for so long that he doesn’t know how to cope with what he’s seeing.

“Pete?” Ryan pants. “What the- Get the fuck out!”

Patrick is dragging him out bodily out the door and slams it behind him. They fall against the door, which with the concert above and the sold metal between them drowns out most of the sound. Pete bangs his head against the door twice before sliding down to sit on the linoleum.

“So, we found Mikey’s lost drummer.”’

Patrick sighs. “Yeah, we did. And your missing cashier.”

“Yeah. I- Wow.” Pete leans his head back to look up at Patrick. “I maybe should’ve slept with Ryan when he offered me back in the day.”

Patrick lifts an eyebrow and it makes his hat look tilted. “You didn’t?” There’s something in his tone that says he might have and Pete can’t really blame him. Not after that.

“I think he was like barely eighteen at the time.”

“Did you have some kind of moral issue with that?” Patrick asks, sliding down to sit beside him. There’s a hint of judgment in the question, but mostly he just sounds curious.

“Heh, no but I think I had a girlfriend at the time? Or a boyfriend? I don’t remember. But I don’t fuck around.” Not coupled up anyway. Single shit is fair game but he’s been cheated on one time too many to do that.

“You don’t?”

“Nope, I don’t remember much about it besides how awkward the whole thing was. Also, he didn’t look like that. He looked a lot more…eighteen and sparkly than sweaty and hot because wow.”

“Yeah.” Patrick agrees, staring across the hallway into the middle distance. “I forgot he looked like that when he was getting fucked, you know?”

Pete stares at him. He doesn’t even bother to hide it. He just stares at Patrick’s calm face and tries to figure out the fuck he’s talking about. “Um, no?”

“What?” Patrick blinks at him, stunned.

“He?” Okay, so Bill wasn’t lying about the whole not as straight as he seemed on MTV after all.

“Oh.” Patrick just shook his head. “Never mind.”

“You can’t just do that.”

“Do what?”

“That. That thing where you start a thought about the two friends of ours we just saw fucking each other and then trail off without finishing.”

That makes Patrick laugh so hard his head hits the door. “That thing? Does that thing happen often?”

“Not so much anymore. But you’re doing it so, spill.” He nudges Patrick’s leg with his knee. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, uh, he and I used to date.”

"You and Bob Bryar?" Pete’s been trolling Patrick for years but there’s never been even a whisper of something like that. A spike of jealousy hits him hard in the chest, but not as hard as the hope that claws its way up his throat.

"Yeah. Ages ago. I just...you know, we've been friends so long that most of the time I forget the ex part.” He laughs again, awkward and strained. He rubs the back of his neck and his face turns pink. “Except, sometimes I remember because like you said. Wow."

“You’ve got good taste. What happened?”

“We just walked in on your stock boy screwing my ex. I thought we were pretty clear on what happened.”

“No, with your ex. He seems-” There’s another banging sound. Pete coughs and grasps for an adjective. All he can remember his the way he held up under Ryan’s grip. “Sturdy. What happened?”

“That’s personal. I don’t think I know you that well.”

“Come on,” Pete pushes even though he knows he shouldn’t fucking push. Because Patrick is right, he doesn’t know Pete that well. He doesn’t know him at all. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“I thought you didn’t sleep with Ryan. He’s not your ex.”

“No, but I’ll tell you about my ex. Well. One of them. You can pick. Most interesting, most painful, funniest. It’s called sharing. That’s how people become friends.”

Patrick pushes the brim of his hat up as he turns to get a better look at Pete. “Considering your friends, I’m not sure that’s what I want.”

“I’ll go first. I’m not going anywhere until they get done anyway so, come on.” He gives Patrick’s leg another nudge with his knee. He likes doing that. It feels familiar and intimate and easy. Pete can’t remember the last time it felt this easy, actually. “Pick.”

The silence stretches out for what feels like a long time, but is really only a couple of seconds. Then Patrick sighs with a sort of indulgent surrender that means that Pete’s worked his way under his skin. “Okay, most intense I guess.”

Okay, that one wasn’t an easy experience but picking the right one is. It’s cake. “Jeanae. We were together off and on for, fuck, years. I was following Warped around one summer and she called me from some guy’s house to tell me she’d fucked him. Twice. And that it was an on-going thing. With all of that, it still took us another six months to break up. We tore each other to pieces first.”

“Jesus,” Patrick sighs. “It was nothing like that with Bob.”

“That’s not a bad thing, dude. My drama was drama. I was twenty-five and I fed on that shit.”

“Like a dung beetle.”

“A very productive dung beetle,” Pete agreed.

He’d thrived on the tumult of breaking up with her for months before he snapped. Only this time, instead of trying to kill himself with a bottle of pills, he’d thrown himself into his work - drafting a business plan, scrounging up loans, making Clandestine something more than Arma Angelus, or any of his other failed bands ever were.

Then he’d quit. He’d quit the job at the mayor’s office and he’d quit throwing his heart at girls and boys young enough to get him arrested. He’d run screaming from Chicago politics the way he ran from starting yet another fucked up relationship. He’d fallen so deep in love with his business and his work that after her, there hadn’t been room in his life for more than his love affair with music and the occasional semi-drunk hook-up at a show.

“It was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Pete says. “I pulled my shit together after her and now here I am.” He holds up his hands. “Now here I am, sitting next to Patrick Stump who is wearing my shirt.”

“Conning his life story out of him.”

Okay, that hurts. “This isn’t a con. This is fair trade.”

“We were on tour together like five years ago and we just sort of clicked. I started out as a drummer and he was on my wavelength. I think it started because we were both hiding from the crowd in the same room."

"Not very social, then?"

"I'm not great with large groups of people. Or being stared at. Or, you know, cameras. Bob and I are both on agreement when it comes to cameras. They're evil. The Native Americans are right - they'll steal your soul."

"Seriously? Evil?" It's like he's speaking a foreign language.

Pete loves cameras. When he did his first line of button down shirts, he and Ryan closed the store down for a day and took like ten gigs of photos. Pete called it producing internet marketing. Spencer had dropped by on his way home from work to remind Ryan that he had an eight am test and called it "you two idiots being blatant camera whores". At least he had until Pete manhandled him into one of the shirts. It had been blue, made Spencer's eyes pop, and Pete is fairly sure he has an army of girls who wanted him to be their boyfriend to thank for his online stock sold out when he posted it.

Hiding like a bad sitcom plot doesn’t click with the stage presence that Pete knows Patrick has. The guy who would rather hide in the basement of an auditorium with a stranger rather than watch the audience and the bands from the wings doesn't really mesh with the rock star he actually is. "You picked a hell of a job if you don't like cameras and crowds."

"It's not about cameras though. It's not about crowds either. It's about the music. I get to write and play music for a living. The cameras and crowds are secondary. They're the price you pay, you know?"

Back when Pete was in bands, it was almost as much for the attention as it was for the music. So he doesn't exactly. He doesn’t get a chance to say so though because the door he's leaning against opens sharply and he falls back onto a pair of large black sneakers half hidden by black jeans.

He gets an inverted look up at Bob's flushed and sweaty face before he pulls himself upright. The view isn't much better that way because he's face to face with Ryan Ross in afterglow, which is no less bitchy than regular Ryan Ross. It's just more unnerving.

"You fucking waited?" Ryan demands, looking just as flushed, but his hair looks better now. Messy works better with his big eyes than the pseudo-professor waves he had going earlier. "Seriously? What the hell are you, my dad?"

Pete would cross his arms and get indignant, only it's hard to do that half-sprawled on the floor. He settles for rolling his eyes instead. "You wish I was your dad."

"You're old enough," Ryan shoots back. It's lacking some of the venom, though. Pete figures a good fuck must do that for him.

"Bob, Mikey and the guys have been looking for you for awhile now." Patrick pulls out his cell phone to check the time. "Almost an hour. I'd say call them, but there's no reception down here so."

"What?" Bob looks stunned.

"The Academy Is is almost done with their set, dude," Patrick says. "I'd run. Remember how Frank reacted after Boise?"

Bob actually manages to go white while retaining a bit of post-fuck flush on his cheeks. The color combination looks weird with his blond beard.

From his angle Pete can't help but look up so he doesn't miss it as Bob grabs Ryan by his tie and pulls him into a fast kiss. "Wait for me stage right," Bob says before taking off down the hallway at a dead sprint. The three of them watch him go wide eyed.

"What happened in Boise?" Ryan asks finally, breaking the silence Bob left in his absence.

"Their lead singer got lost and was an hour late getting back. Frank went on a full scale prank war that ended in Gerard having to cut off and rebleach his hair. I think the thing with soaking all his clothes in the blue urinal stuff when they still had a month of tour left was worse, but that’s when their manager made them end it."

"See?" Ryan says, pointing an accusing finger at Pete. "Never complain again when Spencer cuts off your shower privileges because next to that? It's nothing."

"He controls your shower?" Patrick laughs.

"Yeah, only its not his shower. It's mine. Fearless leader's too cheap to spring for a real apartment-"

"I'm not cheap, I'm investing in my business."

"With real plumbing so. Stage right is..." Ryan points but he's already walking away. "That way?"

Pete trots after him and catches him by the back of the shirt. Ugh, its sweaty. From fucking Patrick's ex. Oh yeah. This night just got more and more perfect. "You're not escaping again."

"I am not your pet, Pete."

He grabs the back of Ryan's hair because its growing out and it is almost as good as a leash. It probably hurts more when he yanks. "You so are and I think you've heard enough of the call of the wild for one night, Buck." He pushes Ryan forward like he's five instead of twenty-five and Patrick falls into step behind them.

"Jack London?" Patrick whispers. "Really? That's kind of ninth grade of you."

"Hey. It's an awesome book. Buck was a badass and he found himself and his true place in the world by the end. It's spiritual."

Pete can feel his gaze even though he can't see it. "You're a dog guy," Patrick says. It's a definitely a judgment. He's just too busy focusing on getting Ryan to not slip away again

"Who isn't a dog guy?" It's a judgment of his own. He really, really needs Patrick not be an anti-dog person. At the very worst, they seem like they're starting to be friends and Pete can't be friends with dog-haters. Not even a Patrick Stump shaped one.

"I wasn't allowed a pet as a kid. My dad had an apartment and my mom worked all the time. I always wanted one though."

Pete turns to grin at Patrick. It's huge and dopey and probably makes him look like a tool, but he doesn't care. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Joe's more of a cat guy, but dogs." Pete turns in time to see Patrick shrug. "It just seems like they'd love you better."

He says it so simply that Pete knows. It hits him sort of like an elbow to the nose that he can really fall for this man. Not some deluded crush, and not that crazy erratic passion he used to mistake for love when he was younger.

No, he could fall real actual love with Patrick if he got the chance. He knows it would be the kind that blasts hot then settles into a slow burn that just lasts and lasts. Hell, maybe he's halfway there already.

"Look, Pete." Ryan's voice is riding the edge between reasonable and whining. He's got a very sensitive scalp. Spencer always goes for the hair first when he's pissed. "Let go of my hair so you guys can make out already. You know you want to."

"Do you know how to get to stage right?" Patrick asks. "The tunnel system is kind of big."

"He doesn't." Pete is glad they've both silently agreed to ignore the making out comment. Totally not appropriate and way too fast and also, he might just have to kill Ryan for saying it at all. He's not that kind of boy. Much. Anymore.

"I can take a guess. You go to the stage and go right. Can't be that complicated."

"You got lost on the stairs in your own apartment building." Pete gives Ryan's hair a little tug. He yelps and bats an arm backwards at Pete. It lands, but not with much impact.

"Once, all right, once, and I was really, really baked. I think Brendon laced it with something. That doesn't count."

"Sorry, guy, I think that counts."

"See. Patrick motherfucking Stump agrees with me. You're overruled."

Ryan lets out a put-upon sigh. "Fine but I want a bonus on my paycheck this month."

Yeah. Sure. Like he's going to waste precious investment capital on that when he doesn't have a bed frame in his room or, like, chairs. "I think you got your bonus. It's called the drummer who's probably going to blow you after the show. Don't push it."

Ryan doesn't argue with that. It's about as close to agreement as Pete is going get, and he doesn't bitch much as Patrick leads the way up to the main stage entrances. Pete thinks that Ryan's too excited to see Bob again to be too big of a twat.

Not that Pete can blame him. Patrick doesn't seem to be in any great rush to ditch Pete and while the feeling isn't exactly the same as it must be considering the live-action porn they walked in on, it's still pretty fucking good.

~*~*~

"You said the second album was your favorite." They're sitting in Patrick's dressing room. Pete's watching as Patrick absently tunes his guitar for his set. He's sitting on the floor even though there's a very nice couch in this room. "That's interesting."

The hole in his jeans is slowly expanding as Pete picks at it. He's on the couch because it's leather and he doesn't have one at home. If he wants sofa time, he usually has to go to the coffee shop down the street or share it with Brendon, which is like climbing into the kid's bed. He doesn’t do it that too often because Brendon has this sexy puppy thing going on that makes Pete feel like a creeper and not in a fun way. So he's taking advantage of a freak-free couch while he can.

Besides, he can see Patrick's fingers work better from here. He's so caught up in watching that it takes him a second to process what Patrick's said. "Why?"

"Most people like the third one best. That’s the one that got all the radio play in the beginning. I mean, the latest one is getting a lot of good attention right now, the fourth one did really well, and a lot of people really like the first one because of that whole possessive 'I liked that guy first' thing, but most people aren't too hung up on the second one."

"Most people are idiots."

"Maybe, maybe you're the idiot. It's all…" Patrick tunes the G string so that when he plucks it, it plays a little sharper than it did before, a little closer to in tune. "It's awkward."

"Yeah, but how old were you when you made that record? Sixteen, seventeen, maybe eighteen years old? That was almost ten years ago. You were a teenager. It sounds like a teenager." Pete shrugs and picks a white thread out of the blue and tugs. "That's authentic. Honest."

That makes Patrick laugh, though Pete doesn’t like the self-effacing edge to it. "Man, I wish you'd been there when the second one came out and no one wanted to buy it." He smiles a little and ducks his head. When he lifts it, Pete is hit with blue-green eyes that look right through him. "Honest?"

"Well, I mean, yeah. I remember when I listened to it the first time. I felt seventeen again. I'd forgotten and your album helped remind me. It, I don’t know. I think it helped to remember that." He watches the corner of Patrick's mouth quirk upwards. Since the honesty thing seems to mean a lot to him, Pete tries to keep with it. "Except for that one word in the chorus of Hope He is a Gentleman. It always felt off to me."

"You said it was your favorite."

"It is. It was just one word. Never mind it's stupid and I don’t even know what the fuck I'm talking about."

"You clearly do." Patrick tightens the E string. He plucks it twice but his eyes don't leave Pete's face. "You've been thinking about it for almost ten years."

"It's not ten years. It only came out eight years ago." Right that's believable denial. Pete wants to punch himself in the mouth.

"And you know that off the top of your head. Just tell me." His voice is quiet and level. It feels like it cuts right through Pete to the embarrassed fanboy Pete's been suppressing all night.

Right. Honesty. Pete takes a deep breath. "Okay, it's just- Word choice. I minored in English so, like, the chorus, particularly as the opening line, when you say where is your man tonight. I always thought you should've had it been where is your boy instead. I mean, you were a teenager. I mean, who were you talking to at seventeen years old - sixteen if you wrote it before you started recording - who were you talking to that they had a man?"

Patrick says nothing. He just makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Pete doesn’t know if it’s a good noise or a bad one but for some reason he cannot stop talking. It's like Brendon has possessed his body and is forcing him to babble through astral projection.

"Plus, uh," Pete rubs the back of his neck because wow, its suddenly hot in here. He wants to take off its hoodie because yeah, its warm. "It's a word repeat without a rhythm variation? Man then gentleman, it is kind of awkward. That’s part of what I like about it but-" Patrick's staring and Pete swallows hard. He can feel the click in his eardrums. "You asked."

"How long have you been a fan?" Patrick asks. It makes Pete think of those scenes in Oz when the warden, who Pete could only ever remember as Winston from Ghostbusters, asks a guy on death row what he wants for his last meal.

Of course Pete doesn't blush. His skin doesn't really do that. But as hot as his skin is right now he must be bright red. "Since '02? A friend gave me your demo and I think I saw you play in Wilmette the next month."

The expression on Patrick's face looks like he's been slapped with a dead fish. Pete's only seen that happen in the movies - the dead fish slapping thing - but that's how Patrick looks with his eyes huge behind his glasses and his jaw hanging open. He opens and closes his few times, coughs then sputters, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Uh no? I was kind of drunk that night so it’s mostly a blur, but your voice was amazing. I remember that. I wanted to talk to you after but I think your mom dragged you out the second your set ended." Pete laughs. "I'm pretty sure it was a school night."

"And you're still a fan?"

"Yeah." Pete tucks up his right leg and rests his chin on the hint of exposed knee peaking out of his jeans. "I kind of think you're a musical genius. Don't hold it against me."

"Heh, I'll try I guess?" His voice wavers a little even as he tries to smile.

Right. He is the world's biggest tool. He's like one of those inflatable hammers you can win at amusement parks. Pete sighs. "I'm sorry."

Finally Patrick sets the guitar aside. It feels like it's been forever that Patrick's been holding it between them like fragile shield. "For what?"

"For being that guy."

"Which guy?"

"The creepy guy who's been a fan for way too long and, um, maybe has a crush on his favorite musician. You know. That guy."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"You have a crush on me? Really?"

Pete covers his face with his hand. "Since it was technically a crime."

"You- Wow. Wow."

Before Pete could actually suffer a shame coronary, the door opens. "Patrick, let's go man. My Chem's up for encore in ten. We need you upstairs."

"Coming, Joe."

"Okay because since the whole Bob thing we're already like half an hour behind and Jerry's ready to shit a brick."

"I said I'm coming."

"All right, all right. Don't kill the messenger, dude," Joe huffs.

The door swings shut behind him and clicks. Then there's a long stretch of quiet where there's nothing in Pete's world but the press of his sweaty fingers against his face, the dark, and the coupled sounds of their breathing.

As is the pattern with this day, Patrick is the first to break. "I should go."

"Yeah."

"I have to go play."

"I know that."

"Pete." His name hangs in the air limp and heavy.

He drops his hand and looks up at Patrick. His skin is so pale under the brim of his trucker hat. His lips are perfect, curved at the bottom and sharp points at the corners and for some reason - realizing that he's never going to get a chance to kiss them now is more painful than nearly ten years of knowing that exact same fact for certain. "I'm really sorry."

"Don't be sorry." He plants his one hand on the ground, grabs his guitar with the other and pushes himself up. For a second, Pete thinks he's going to leave on that note but he doesn’t.

"I am though. Because you're this really fucking awesome guy who likes dogs and is funny and knows the right way to hold a two year old and can tune a guitar without even looking and I've been objectifying you for years. Seriously, you and Ashlee Simpson - you're both total sex objects in my head. I have bought backup copies of Blender with both of you on the cover so that I'd have one where it wouldn’t matter if I couldn't read the articles eventually."

"Wow okay." He doesn't flinch exactly so much as flash a hint of the smacked with a dead fish face again. "I'm pretty sure that is way more information than I needed to have."

"I know. And I'm sorry."

"I don't - Pete, this sort of thing doesn’t come up for me very often." He holds out his hands palms up. "I don’t know how to deal with it. I mean, sex symbol isn't really what I'm famous for. I got like, number fifty-four on People's least attractive stars list. I came in after Abe Vigoda."

"The people at People are stupid blind assholes. You're so hot it's distracting."

Patrick stares at him, his wrist twisting back and forth so that his guitar rotated ninety degrees and then back again. It was hypnotic, like one of those little office supply store knickknacks with the magnets that swing forever. More importantly, it’s a safe place to train his eyes. Pete gets lost in the motion until Patrick says, "Pete, I have to go."

"I know. You have to go and I'm a creeper. It's cool. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It's just been kind of awesome to meet you." He tugs the sleeve of his hoodie down further and wishes it were longer. He could gesture with soft worn fabric instead of his fingers, which feel too big and like they're grabbing every time he points them in Patrick's direction. "It was awesome and not just because I've been in love with your music for what feels like forever. You're just - you're a really great guy, Patrick, the kind of person I'd want to be friends with no matter what."

It's sexy the way Patrick worries his full lower lip with his teeth. It's also sad because he can't or won't meet Pete's eyes and for a few hours there, they had felt like friends. "You should go. You have to go play. That’s why everyone's here."

"Are you going to stay and watch?"

Of course he is. Pete hasn’t missed a Patrick Stump concert he's been able to get to since 2005. He just nods and a hint of Patrick's smile returns. It's barely there, confined mostly to those sharp upturned corners, but Pete thinks he can see it.

"Good. Okay. We'll talk more after my set."

Pete nods again and then Patrick and his guitar are both gone. Pete sags for a moment, kicking himself mentally because he lacks the flexibility to do it physically. That went spectacularly bad. He should get like…an award or something for worst explanation of liking someone in the history of ever.

Then he gets off the couch and heads upstairs, because the scream of the My Chem encore just echoed down through the cinderblock and he needs to find Ryan before Bob drags him off to have more dirty tour sex. He finds him on stage right, grinning like a little kid in a pet shop having his hand licked by three puppies at once - which on Ryan Ross is a slightly disconcerting expression.

Especially when he doesn’t break it to look Pete over and shout, "You look like shit," directly into his ear over the sound of the crowd and Gerard Way's voice.

Pete doesn't respond verbally to that. He gives Ryan a little punch on the shoulder which gets the 'fuck you' across just as clearly. He feels tired and not in a good way - not the way he would if he'd been down on the floor moshing like he'd originally planned to spend tonight.

"You need to go call Spencer," he yells into Ryan's ear. "Tell him you're not coming back to the apartment so he doesn’t get pissed off at me." Thinking about how badly he needs to maintain access to hot water is a lot more pressing than Ryan's annoyed gaze. Ryan's gaze is always annoyed.

"It's like you're six and scared of your mom finding out you broke the window playing ball inside."

Yes, yes he is. It's a totally legitimate concern and fuck Ryan very much for not taking it seriously. "Don't make me make you."

"I already texted him. It's cool."

Ryan goes back to grinning at Bob as he hammers away at the drums. He's got a dreamy expression his face that Pete's never seen on him before and Pete's seen Ryan with dozens of people at parties and in the store and at his and Spencer's apartment. He didn’t look at any of them the way he's watching this guy he's known all of a few hours. Pete wishes he couldn’t relate.

He grabs Ryan's thin upper arm and pulls him down so that he can talk directly into his ear. He got tall somewhere along the line. "Be careful," he says, his lips brushing Ryan's ear as he speaks. He remembers a lot of things from when he was younger - how fast things fell apart with Bill first and second and third girlfriends when he was on tour before he found a fit with Christine. He's seen from the sidelines how that life tears people apart and wears them down.

Ryan's a good kid. He's a good man, really, because he's rapidly approaching twenty-five and that's not really a kid anymore. He doesn't know everything about Ryan, but he knows that before he followed Spencer to Chicago, his life was kind of shitty. He deserves for things to stay good and falling in love with a guy in a band that tours nine or ten months out of the year every year wouldn’t be conducive to that.

Pete feels Ryan jerk back, watches him blink down at him. He's not surprised when Ryan nods. He's kind of shocked when he leans down and says, "Yeah you, too."

Insightful Ryan always throws him off guard. This time it allows Ryan slip to free of Pete's grip easily. It leaves Pete standing on the side of the stage, watching alone.

He's leaned against a sound stage control box when Patrick and his band come up from stage left. It's kind of amazing to watch from this perspective. He's been front row center, caught in the middle of the crowd, and on a blanket at the back. This is new and he feels so close he's almost part of the show.

Patrick is, well, he's Patrick Stump. His voice can go from gravel rough to lube slick, thick like honey or easy and liquid as water. Like it always does, Patrick's voice works its way into Pete's body, through his joints, toes and fingertips as much as his ears.

Only tonight, he's watching Patrick play and sweat and sing so close that he could cross to him in a few steps. The difference between this and watching from behind the barricade or listening through speakers is like the difference between being in the shallow end of a wave pool and being hit by a tidal wave. The musical current threatens to knock Pete off his feet and sweep him away with the rest of the debris. Then Patrick launches into a song from the third album that makes Pete's heart stop and the undertow of Patrick pulls him down.

Most of the show doesn't register that clearly. It's more of a sensory experience for Pete, like being high. He's buffeted by sound so loud he can feel it on his skin as he's hypnotized by the way Patrick manipulates his guitar or keyboard. He's awkward and charming when he speaks to the crowd. His guitarist Joe and his drummer Andy, who Pete actually remembers from years ago in the scene, are the ones who keep the rock energy up. They've been with Patrick in every show Pete's seen and while they're always good, everyone is playing on another level tonight. Even their temporary bassist, a skinny guy Pete heard a tech call Matt, is on fire.

Two thirds of the way through the set, Patrick's shirt is soaked through. He pauses to grab a bottle of water and downs half of it in one go as the crowd screams at him. A tech trades one guitar out for another.

Patrick picks out a couple of notes then clears his throat into the mic. "Okay, so a lot of people have attached a lot of importance to this one but I just had this stupid crush when I was in high school. That’s what it was back then anyway. It's not what it was when I started and I think that’s the thing about music, about life in general. It changes as you go or you don't grow. So, uh, this one's for a new friend who made me want to grow a little."

There're a few discordant notes as Joe, Patrick and Matt silence their instruments. Then Patrick wraps his hand around the mic and half-sings half-says "Where is your boy tonight? I hope he is a gentleman. And maybe he won't find out, but I know you were the last good thing about this part of town."

Pete can't breathe as the musicians on stage launch back into playing. He can't breathe because he's clearly dead. He's dead and in heaven because Patrick would not just take his advice and use it on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans in this life. It's impossible.

Except Patrick gets to the chorus and there it is again, where is your boy instead of man. It sounds… right, fits the way Pete has always known this song could in his head and under his skin. On the second reprise, Patrick glances over at him and gives him a little smile as he sings. It turns something over in Pete's chest with a click like a key in a lock.

Time seems to speed up after that. The rest of the set seems to play in double time. It doesn't, of course. Andy has perfect timing. He always has. Pete remembers his last name is Hurley because he's from the Chicago scene too. They almost played in a band together once. Andy had always been exceptional and they'd been sort-of friends, but way too good for Pete.

Encore comes too fast and Patrick comes to stage right and smiles at him. He's got a huge smile up close. Not like Pete's smiles are big - threatening to grow to epic proportions and destroy Tokyo. His are more just huge in the way they make his face shine and Pete's chest ache.

"Hang out here," Patrick says directly into his ear. He gives Pete's hoodie-covered arm a bump with his shoulder that Pete is sure is intentional before joining the techs farther back from the stage. They have three songs left on the set list they haven’t played.

The songs left are the singles that everyone knows, even people who don't like most of Patrick's stuff. Pete sings along under his breath mostly because he can't help it, not even with Patrick looking over every few measures and catching him. They're too much a part of him not to.

Once the concert ends, Patrick seems to shrink a little, back down to human size instead of the larger than life god he was on stage. Human-sized Patrick-maybe slightly smaller than human sized if Pete's honest, because he really is just so short-comes up to Pete. It's noisy, so he doesn’t say anything. He taps Pete's elbow instead, motioning with his head for Pete to come with him.

Pete doesn't know where they're going, but he doesn’t care. It's hard to give crap about much of anything with the way Patrick is smiling at him. They come to a halt in one of the many cinderblock hallways beneath the floor of the arena.

There's a five second pause where Patrick just grins at him before he explodes with excitement. "It's better right? It is. All those fucking years and it never occurred to me to use boy, but it is." Patrick is practically vibrating with excitement. Pete can't do anything but stare. "It's so much better. It's sharper, makes everything else hit harder. It's so fucking simple and nobody else told me how to make it right." He stops finally and smiles at Pete. "Nobody 'til you."

The song. He's talking about the song. He's talking about Hope He is a Gentleman. He thinks that Pete made it better, right, so Pete has to kiss him. It's not really even a choice. He just finds himself grabbing Patrick by the front of his shirt, the one he's been wearing for five days that Pete designed, and dragging him forward until their mouths crash together.

He has to, because Patrick Stump sang his words on stage and thought it completed a song that Pete's loved for almost ten years. Because he made Mario jokes and thought dogs would love a person better and was awkward now, just in a different way than his teenage musical confessions implied. He's all of it and more, and Pete wants to know it. He wants to lick it out of Patrick's mouth.

There is a pause, a moment of shock where Patrick freezes. It's enough time for Pete to worry, but then Patrick is kissing back. He's kissing back with an edge of desperation that makes Pete moan.

The sound is soft and gets lost in Patrick's mouth. It seems to flip a switch in Patrick, only instead of light, Patrick is moving. He grabs Pete's sides, bunching his hoodie in his fists. Pete trips a little over his own feet as Patrick uses that hold to push him six steps into the closest wall.

Impact makes Pete pull in a stunned gasp. It gives Patrick the chance he needs to thrust his tongue into Pete's mouth and oh, fuck, yes. He pushes forward with his body and his kiss at the same time. Pete could come like this. He wants to, in his pants like he's making out under the bleachers at school.

However, this is not school and he is not Ryan Ross slutting it up with a hot drummer. Even if Patrick is hot and can play drums. He pulls back but not far. He can't go that far without his head hitting cinderblock.

"We should, uh, we should maybe stop?" he says. Of course he says this while panting, with his hands still holding Patrick's face. Pete is sure that makes his attempts at reason a lot less impressive.

"Yeah," Patrick agrees but he's still holding Pete captive by the fabric of his hoodie. "Yeah we- yeah. We should probably go somewhere else."

"Don't you guys have to roll out in like an hour?"

Patrick nods then shakes his head. "We do, but the next show is in Milwaukee. I was going to go to my mom's and grab a shower and sleep." It's less than 2 hours away. Patrick wouldn't even have to get up that early to meet up with them before sound check.

Pete would do the same thing if he were in Patrick position. Mom time and a still bed trumps making out with a guy he barely knows. Pete totally understands. He's only a little disappointed. Okay a lot disappointed, but he gets it. "Oh, okay."

"Yeah, but, uh, we could go back to your place, maybe?"

His place. His place was a train ride and two line changes away with a single mattress and his milk-crate night stand and left-on-the-curb-for-the-trash-guy lamp. Pete could think of a dozen great things to do to Patrick in his bed, most of them involving sweat and spit and some of the lube he's got stashed behind the boxes of Clan sweaters from 2 years ago that he mixes into the sales rack every month or so.

"You should go to your mom's. I bet she wants to see you." Pete says because he just can't imagine doing them there, not yet. Patrick deserves better. Also, it's just too intimate too soon, even for him.

The thing is that his store is probably a lot like Pete imagines Patrick's music to be. It's private in a lot of ways, something he managed to do almost wholly on his own. For the last few years when he's hooked up, he's always gone to his partner's place. It's like the space is sacred or something. Even though he wants this, wants Patrick there, he just doesn't want him in that space until he knows there's something stable there, that he'll be part of Pete's future like the store.

So, no. Pete doesn't want to go back to his place with Patrick. Not yet. Hell, maybe it won't happen ever if the way Patrick is letting go of his hips is any indication.

"Oh. Okay, yeah, she is." Patrick shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his pants and ducks his head. His hat makes it so Pete can't see his eyes, not even this close. "She's supposed to be waiting for me out back. So, I guess I should go if you don't want-"

"I didn't say that." Pete says. He grabs for Patrick and catches his arm. His skin is so fucking soft, like he's never spent a second in the sun in his entire life. "I didn't say that. I just- I don't think now is good, you know? Later though. Later'd be pretty awesome. If you want."

He punctuates the point by pushing up Patrick's hat with his other hand. He wants to see his eyes. They've been so expressive so far tonight and maybe if Pete can see them, a little of the panic that he's fucked this up beyond saving will go away.

Patrick bats his hand away but not before Pete gets the brim of his trucker hat up. "The hat doesn't come off," Patrick declares but the smile is back in his blue-green eyes.

"Is that a hard and fast rule? Like even when you go to sleep or during sex?"

Patrick shrugs and takes hold of Pete again. This time though, he fits his hands to Pete's hips. "Depends on the sex. It'd have to be pretty awesome."

He licks his lips then smiles for real and oh. Oh, fuck. Pete is in so much goddamn trouble. "Yeah? You know, that sounds like a challenge to me."

"Might be," Patrick agrees. "But another time, because if we're not going to do this then I guess my mom is still waiting, like I'm freaking sixteen."

He gives a rueful smile. Pete wants to kiss it, but he doesn't want it to go away. Instead he settles for pressing his lips to one corner briefly before pulling back. "I like that. Plus, everyone I've ever dated says I'm emotionally sixteen, so we're about the same age."

"Well then how about you walk me out," Patrick says. He goes up on his toes a little and gives Pete a playful kiss on the cheek. "I'll let you carry my books and everything."

"Oh wow. That's almost like going steady."

"Almost," Patrick repeats, moving down Pete's face to take his mouth again. He wouldn’t have expected that he'd be the kissed rather than the kisser in this scenario. It's probably the short thing. Or more likely it's the fact that the way Patrick pushes a thigh between his legs as he kisses Pete deliciously contradicts all the fantasies that Pete's had over the years that involved pushing Patrick to his knees or onto his back. The reality is even sexier.

Pete whimpers and drops his hand from the brim of Patrick's hat to the back of his neck. Patrick kisses him like if he can just focus hard enough and dig in deep enough, he'll find all the answers to who Pete is. He won't, but Pete knows Patrick will find something, probably already has. Patrick knows how to search.

They kiss until Pete's neck aches from bending down to meet Patrick. They kiss until they are both panting and Pete's lips tingle. When they break apart again, Pete feels like his head is going to explode.

Patrick reaches for his pocket and Pete thinks wait, and yes and we didn’t even make it to a closet or a bathroom stall. Only instead of groping for Pete's cock through his jeans, he pulls out one of the dozens of Sharpies that find their way into his pockets. He pulls the cap off with his teeth and leans back a little. "I need you to give me your number," Patrick says around the cap.

That makes no sense. Pete can practically feel how blown his pupils are as he blinks at Patrick. "What?"

Patrick pushes the back end of the Sharpie onto the cap so that he can speak clearly. "Your phone number. I left my phone with the tour manager. You have to give it to me before I go." He licks his lips. Pete can't remember his cell number until he's done. "I have to go now, Pete. I don’t know how long we've been and she's probably waiting."

Everyone is probably waiting, including Patrick's tour manager who is in possession of his phone. Pete mumbles out his number and Patrick writes it down on the inside of his arm. Then he reaches out, unzips Pete's hoodie and writes his name and number down on the bright blue fabric of his shirt between the robot and his escaping heart.

"You can call it an autograph," Patrick says. He hands Pete back the sharpie. "Or you could call me."

He doesn’t know what to do with the pen now he has it back. Getting at his pockets requires pawing at Patrick and if he does that he won't be able to stop. Of course, he can't say that, so he just worries it between his fingers and goes for a teasing tone when he says, "I kissed first. You call me."

"I will." There's nothing joking about that answer. Patrick just steps back from Pete and holds out his hand. Lacing their fingers together is so fucking high school, but Pete doesn't care. It feels good. It feels like the starting line of a race he didn’t know he was training for.

"I'll answer," Pete promises. "And I'll walk you out." He holds out his hand with the kind of gentlemanly courtesy that he never extended to anyone back in high school when it would've been appropriate.

Patrick takes his hand and lets Pete lace their fingers together. It makes him smiles again. Pete could get used to Patrick's smile. He doesn't do it that often in publicity stills, and it's gorgeous. He enjoys sneaking glances at it as they walk out of the tunnels out the exit to the back parking lot.

It's cold outside. There're only a couple buses left, when there was practically a caravan when Pete arrived. The parking lot has emptied out into a traffic jam on the surrounding streets so there aren’t many cars to cut down on the force of the wind as it sweeps over the empty asphalt. Pete's hoodie isn't really sufficient, and Patrick doesn’t have a jacket at all.

Patrick's teeth click together a little when he points at a blue midsized sedan and says, "That's her car. She was in the audience, but she left a little early." He grins and shrugs.

Pete wants to pull his hoodie off and give it to Patrick to make him look less like a popsicle in training. He only doesn't because Patrick is still talking. Pete doesn't want to cut him off to explain why he'd need to let go of his hand.

"She doesn't like crowds, either. So, uh," he gives Pete's fingers a squeeze. "I should go get my phone from Jerry and go."

Only he doesn't let go. They both stand together, holding hands and half frozen. Pete says, "I had a really great time tonight," because this really is like high school. Pete's just one more Lost Boy stuck a few feet from adulthood forever. That's okay though, because Patrick seems to be here too.

Patrick nods and pulls him forward for one more kiss, quick and closed-mouth since that is his mother's car sitting right there. Even the light contact makes Pete's lips tingle. The tingle becomes an ache when Patrick lets go and runs across the lot to his bus.

Pete waits and watches as Patrick emerges a minute later wearing a jacket and carrying a duffle bag. Patrick hauls open the passenger side door of his mother's car then stops. He looks up and over at Pete and waves. He's too far away for Pete to see his expression clearly but Pete's pretty sure it's another of those bright smiles. He waves back until Patrick climbs in and shuts the car door.

He doesn't bother going back into the United Center once Patrick's gone. Ryan's no doubt gone off with Bob Bryar to have incongruously hot sex. Bill texted him during the show to say he was going to Christine's mother's with the baby so there's nothing left for Pete in the stadium. Instead he catches the bus back home, the music of the evening echoing in his head.

The quiet in the store is a little unsettling after all the noise and chaos. Pete can hear his keys jingling in his pockets after he closes and locks the behind him. He hits play on the stereo just to have something other than the quiet, and is almost surprised when Patrick's voice comes out. Hope He is a Gentleman echoes through the empty space.

It's unexpected and the chorus sounds wrong now. Wrong, but soothing at the same time. It makes Pete's skin prickle, but he doesn't bother to change it as he walks back to his inventory-turned-bedroom.

He doesn't bother to flip on the light. The only clothes he takes off are his shoes before dropping onto his bed. He feels tired, all the way through to his bones, but it's good. Post-show exhaustion. Post-kissing fatigue. Pete could do to be this kind of tired more often.

Maybe Patrick won't actually call him, but Pete thinks that's okay. Tonight's been a reminder that it was possible for weariness to come from something other than his work. He'd forgotten there for awhile.

He remembers why he got started better now. He'd wanted to have time for his life, for doing things he wanted to do like going to shows and designing clothes and hanging out with his friends. So maybe, next quarter, he'd look at investing in an apartment. Something with a full bath and a kitchen. He doesn't cook or anything, but Spencer does.

He's trying to remember if his dad knows anyone in real estate when his phone vibrates in his pocket. It buzzes again and then goes silent.

this isn't a phone call but i figure its close enough the first text read. Pete clicked to the newest one which said also the walls at moms r really thin lol.

Pete grins at the blue light for the longest time before he gets his fingers to work. it totally counts he types. He hits send before he can let his higher reasoning stop him. Feeling brave and loose, he follows this with speakin of walls - i was just thinkin bout gettin a real apt.

His phone rings three seconds later. It's a local number not in his contact list. Pete picks up on the first ring.

"You should do it," Patrick says.

"Get an apartment?"

"Yeah. You should do it. When the tour ends, I can help you look. If you want."

Pete laughs because this is surreal. His life doesn’t involve talking to Patrick Stump in bed while his singing voice filters in from his sound system. At least it wasn't his life before today. Yesterday clearly sucked by comparison. "That'd be great. Thanks."

"Cool. I need to look anyway. I was talking to my mom and she's been wanting me to come home for awhile after this one. She brings it up like every time we talk. I keep telling her I'm supposed to start working on the next album but I've been thinking about it, and there are recording studios in Chicago."

Pete's mouth goes dry. "There are."

"Yeah. Anyway, it's an idea."

"It's a fucking genius idea. Brilliant."

"Yeah?" Pete can practically hear Patrick smiling through the phone.

It sends a rush of excitement through his nervous system because this could work. This could be something real. He can't remember the last time he even wanted something like this, let alone thought he could reach it. "Yeah. We should hang when you're in town. Go out."

"Like on a date?"

There's an out there. One last chance for Pete to say no. He doesn't take it. Pete's always been the kind of guy who chases after what he wants. "Yeah. And if you're real nice, I might let you wear my letterman jacket."

Patrick laughs at him. "You do not have a letterman jacket."

"I totally do. Varsity soccer team. I'd have to dig it out of my parent's attic, but I've got one."

"You weren’t kidding about the hidden depths thing, were you, Pete?"

"Nope. So, you go out with me and I'll pull out the high school relic. You can bring the hat from your band uniform."

"They don’t let you keep the hat." Patrick sighs. "I asked."

Of course he did. "That's amazing."

"That was me being a 9th grade dweeb." Patrick laughs. "And that's all you're getting on that now because I've got to crash, but yeah. It's a date."

"I'll call you later," Pete says because he wants to say all sorts of sappy, romantic things you're not supposed to say the first day you meet someone. I think I could fall in love with you is not acceptable, but I'll call you and all the promises it carries definitely is.

"Good," Patrick says. His tone is the closest to his singing voice Pete's ever heard it when speaking. It's delicious. "I'll answer. Night, Pete."

He hangs up and Pete drops his hand onto his chest, still clutching his phone. His iPod has switched albums somewhere during the phone call, and now Patrick is singing about airplanes and a life unlived.

The song is beautiful. It's one of Pete's favorites, in fact. It usually makes him think about college and being full of expectations. Tonight, it makes him think of long kisses and fluorescent-light filled tunnels. The joking, teasing Patrick he just spoke to is a hundred times better than the voice in his speakers, a thousand even, and Pete is going to get to know him.

Pete hums along a little before he lifts the phone again. He rereads the texts a few times before he saves Patrick's number to his contacts. Then he closes his eyes and lets himself drift off, smiling in the dark.