Fic: Hope He Is a Gentleman 1/2 (Fall Out Boy, R, Pete/Patrick)
His cell phone rings and all Pete has to do is glance at his caller ID to know how to answer it. “Whatever it is, no.”
“Aw, come on, Pete,” Bill whines. His daughter’s been giving him lessons, Pete’s sure of it. He never used to be this good. “What happened to you, man? You used to be fun. I remember when you were a yes man. Yes, Bill, I will totally drop acid with you and chase invisible penguins through the park in my swim trunks. Yes, Bill, I will totally sub in for your bassist who is too hung over to make sound check. Yes, Bill-“
“Yes, Bill, I have a business now.” Pete sighs and leans against the counter. It’s been a slow day. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. It’s almost always a slow day. “So I have to say no to the invisible penguins. They were fucking evil, by the way, and out to get me.”
“You don’t know that.”
That was bullshit. They may not have been real but Pete remembers that night. They had nefarious intent, despite looking like something out of the Hello Kitty collection gone horribly, horribly wrong.
But that was, Jesus, almost ten years ago. He’s got Clandestine now. He can’t fuck off to whatever it is Bill is going to ask him, especially if it’s another scheme that involves leaving Chicago. He doesn’t trust Ryan not to burn the store to the ground. He lives in the building and he’d never get his deposit back. “I do know that. Which is why I’m going to have to say no.”
“I haven’t even asked you yet. At least let me ask. Come on. You may want to say yes.”
Wanting has absolutely nothing to do with it. Pete pretty much always wants to say yes to all of Bill’s crazy shit. He wanted to say yes when Bill asked him to come out as a tech for The Academy Is… three tours ago. But he’d been trying to get the small business loan he needed so he could get the fuck out of the shitty job at the mayor’s office. Then he’d been opening the store and, well, suddenly four years have gone by, he’s a business owner, and Bill’s still Bill-only now he’s actually making money on his music.
That’s probably why Pete sighs again and asks, “What is it?”
“We’re playing in town this week.”
He knew that. No, he did. It’s on his calendar. Ryan wrote it down for him. The guy is spacey as fuck with his own life but he’s pretty good at keeping shit straight for Pete. “On a Thursday night, right?”
“Yep.”
“Yeah, I’m coming to that. It’s the stadium show at the United Center, right? I got tickets. Solidarity and all that shit.”
“I hereby authorize you to scalp them. I’m putting you on the list. I want you to come and hang out.”
“That’s it?”
“’That’s it?’ Seriously?" Bill demands. “I'm getting you backstage to a Patrick Stump concert. Years of listening to you extol his musical genius and I quote ‘perfectly fuckable mouth’ and this is the thanks I get? Dude, your gratitude. It’s boundless.”
Okay, so, yes, Pete is a fan. He doesn’t know anyone who isn’t a fan of Patrick Stump. The guy is more famous than Josh Groban only his music actually rocks. He has a bigger demographic, a harsher baseline, and more punk influence. But Pete is a big believer in the whole don’t meet your heroes idea. Especially when said hero is also the object of masturbatory fantasies and has been since his first album came out fucking forever ago. Bill using something he said, once, while off-his-face drunk is not fair. So Pete goes right back to the beginning of this conversation. “No.”
“The fuck do you mean no?” Bill demands. He sounds actually affronted, like Pete’s the crazy one here. “I’ve been trying to get this shit okayed since he came on the tour. Come on, Pete. It’s your fanboy wet dream come true. You know you want to. You’ve seen him in concert like seven times. This time you’ll get to do it from stage left. Stop being a dick.”
“Bill, I- What the fuck? I thought you were opening for My Chemical Romance.” He remembers Bill telling him about it. Nowhere had Patrick Stump entered the conversation.
“Yeah. We are. But their drummer fucked up his wrist again and he’s friends with Patrick. He subbed for two weeks while he rested it and now, well the guy is kind of a workaholic. He really only knows how to be on tour or in the studio. And fuck, fourth on a bill that includes My Chem and Patrick Stump isn’t bad okay? Besides, he’s a cool guy. He didn’t even get offended when I told him what you thought about his mouth.”
“Motherfucker, I-“
“Kidding. Jesus. Chill. But if you don’t say yes, I’m going to tell him the next time the buses stop for gas.” Bill declared. “I’m going to take your silence for agreement. You get a plus one so you can bring your little shadow if you want. And if you are really going to be all weird about Stump, get there earlier and hide in our dressing room.”
“You’re more evil than those fucking penguins.”
Bill laughs and hangs up, leaving Pete alone with his store. One of his mixes is on the stereo and it clicks over to a Patrick Stump song, making Pete groan. He’s tempted to throw up the out to lunch sign and go take a nap, but the high schools are getting out about now and Clandestine always gets at least a half a dozen teenage girls this time of day and he needs the business.
It’s cool, and all, having his own store with his own clothing line. After being in a band, it was his biggest goal when he was younger. He’s his own boss doing what he wants and he loves Clandestine Industries, really. He just didn’t think about the part where it would be so much fucking work.
His parents also left out the slow side of the “chasing your dream” speech when he was a kid. He’s been living on a mattress in his store room since he moved to a bigger store. It’s cheaper that way than trying to find an apartment in the city and he couldn’t live in his parents’ basement anymore. After a certain point, it stopped being cost efficient and became just plain sad. This way, everything he has goes back into this store.
That kind of dedication is something people seem to admire so he deserves this right? He can go see his favorite musician perform Thursday and it’s not a big deal. Besides he hasn’t really seen the guy play seven times. It’s six because the summer he followed Warped around only counts as one.
Besides, Bill isn’t the type to make idle threats. So looking at it that way, he doesn’t have a choice. Pete glances up as the bell on his door dings with the first of the after-school crowd and decides to just go with it.
~*~*~
Ryan breezes into the store just after three on Thursday afternoon, talking about his graduate seminar and holy shit, Pete so doesn’t care. Not that he finds Ryan boring, most of the time. Even at his most pedantic and ridiculous, the kid is usually the most entertaining part of Pete’s day - which is one of the main reasons why Pete hasn’t fired him for being late all the time (well, that and the fact that he lets Pete use his shower so that he doesn't have to get the store rezoned for one) - but everything is basically white noise to him right now.
He’s had Patrick Stump’s second and third albums on repeat in the store stereo all day. He keeps coming back to Hope He Is a Gentleman from the second album and wondering if he'll play it acoustic like he did at that show Pete caught in '07, or fully electric like usual.
His ridiculous voice is all Pete wants to hear right now. “I really don’t care about some dead Victorian poet, Ryan. Go do inventory or something. Silently.”
“They’re not Victorian, they’re Edwardian. There’s a difference,” Ryan huffs. He glances at the thirteen year old girl riffling through a stack of t-shirts then leans across the counter to whisper. “You look like shit. What crawled up your ass and died?”
“Nothing, just, there’s a lot of stuff I need you to do so we can close early tonight.” There isn’t actually but Pete can already feel pre-concert jitters rising on his skin. It’s not the same as when he used to get on stage himself, but Pete still fucking loves it.
“Oh right. Bill’s band. I know you got out of taking me last time because of that stupid exam.”Ryan points an accusatory finger in his face, like it was Pete’s fault his American Lit professor’s test schedule fucked with their plans. “But you promised and it’s not going to go down like that this time.”
“I know.”
“Okay, awesome. So. What are you wearing?”
Pete shrugs. “I’ve known these guys since college man. They don’t give a shit what I wear.”
Ryan stares at him, all big brown soulful eyes, and Pete sighs. The little shit knows him way too well.
“Skinny jeans, checkered Converse hightops, the new t-shirt we got in yesterday and my 5o4 Plan hoodie. ”
“Is it the one with the robot watching his heart fly away?” Ryan asks. His face softens. “I like that one. What color?”
“White.”
“Fuck that. Color, Pete. Color. The blue one looked really good in the design stages.”
Pete’s eyes flick around the store briefly, glancing everywhere but taking in nothing. “Dude, customers. Don’t say fuck.”
“Whatever,” Ryan sighs as if the weight of the world sits on his chest. “Princess Twilight left like five minutes ago. Blue. Or purple. You abuse purple like a crackhead on the pipe.”
“Purple is majestic, asshole. And who does crack anymore?”
“Yeah, it’s beyond majestic. I’d say its fucking queenly, almost as regal as you are.”
“Says the boy wearing eye shadow.”
“Hey.” Ryan’s hand flutters up to the hint of blue on his face before he catches himself. Once he does, he tries to make it look cool as he shoves it into the pocket of his pants. They’re hideous - corduroy and a not-quiet-brown that looks like old flakey blood - and it looks extra awkward. “It’s a highlight.”
“Yeah. I bet it is.”
“Look, Pete, trust me. The blue one. It’s bright but you don’t look you all Violet Beauregard just squeezed out of the Wonka juicer. Everybody wins.”
“I am not going to take advice from you. You’re wearing my grandpa’s pants.”
“You are and you will because if you agree to this, I will stop talking and close for you and I’ll give you my keys so you can go shower, right now.”
Fucking Ryan fucking Ross. One day, Pete is going to get a real apartment instead of living in his store's inventory room. One with a bathroom that has an actual bath in it. Then what will Ryan have to hold over him? Nothing. Pete will have all the power once again.
“Blue,” Pete repeats. He narrows his eyes at his supposed employee. This could totally be a trap.
“Yep.”
“I hate you. You know this right?”
Ryan smirks at him. “Yep.”
“All right. Just so we’re clear. And I plan to use all your hot water.”
“I showered this morning. That’s Spencer’s problem.”
Spencer doesn’t seem to have much of a problem when Pete rolls into his and Ryan’s two-bedroom apartment an hour later. He’s sprawled out on the couch that usually acts as Brendon’s bed, an arm slung behind his head watching the Food Network. He only seems to acknowledge Pete when he crosses in front of the TV. “Ryan’s closing?” he asks, not looking up.
“Yeah. I’m meeting him at the Logan Square stop on the red line.” Pete says, toeing off his shoes and leaving them on the floor. His Converse are in his bag with clean clothes anyway. “Brendon here?” He may rethink the pants he brought if Brendon’s around to steal from.
“He’s working late.” Spencer nods and hits mute on what seems to be Iron Chef America. “Dude, don’t leave your shit all over the floor. You guys won’t come back for two days and I’m going to have to pick it up.”
Pete mock-curtseys and ducks down to grab his shoes and chuck them into Ryan’s room. “You got it, princess. And before you have a stroke - heads up, I’m using your body wash. Ryan’s smells like an old man and yours is all citrusy.” Because smelling like an orange is always better than smelling like mothballs and hard candy left in a pocket too long. Not that that’s what Ryan’s soap actually smells like, but it might as well. He liked it better when Ryan was all about glitter and flowers. He had better shit to borrow.
“That’s Brendon’s. I use Old Spice.”
That makes Pete’s eyebrows shoot up. He steals their shower four or five days a week and that’s a new development. “Are you the man your man could smell like, Spencer Smith?”
Spencer dignifies that by sitting up a little. He stares at Pete even has he edges away - towards hot water and towels that are probably mostly clean and away from Spencer’s wide eyes. “That sentence doesn’t even make sense.”
“Look again,” Pete declares, once he’s safely in the bathroom. “Your towels are now diamonds!” He shuts the door, laughing before Spencer can throw the remote at him. He’s got ridiculously good aim and all the black eyes Pete’s gotten since he stopped going to hardcore shows every weekend come from Spencer’s pitching arm.
“Whatever. And if you’re going to jerk off in my shower again make sure I don’t hear it this time!” Spencer shouts back. “And don’t leave the fucking towels on the floor!”
Pete rolls his eyes and climbs into their cramped shower. Even as small as it is it’s better than the wash cloth and loofah set-up he makes do with in the Employee’s Only bathroom at the store. He can actually get his entire head under a stream of hot water and it’s better than all the sex he’s not getting lately.
He burns about fifteen minutes scrubbing his skin and washing his hair with Brendon’s ridiculous fruity shower gel and shampoo then he just stands there letting the water beat off two days of sweat and work. He leans against the ugly 1970s green tile wall of the shower with his eyes shut.
He’s not nervous or anything but the tension sluices off of him with the water and like he almost always does when he’s relaxed, or you know, breathing, his mind wanders. Fragments of thoughts, images and song lyrics drift in and out and settles as they so often do on Patrick Stump ones. Pete’s got a mental rolodex of Patrick’s voice from years of collecting bootlegs, LPs, and other shit that most sane fans don’t give half a shit about. It’s hard not to though when just the memory of his voice and pictures of his face in Rolling Stone or AP magazine do stupid, stupid shit to Pete, things like make him hard in his best friends’ shower.
His imagination does most of the work. Patrick’s not one of those stars who wear torn up clothes that you can see right through. Bill tends to like his shirts to ride up and his jeans to ride down for maximum skin exposure on stage. Every live show and video clip of Patrick that Pete’s ever seen is practically Victorian by comparison. That way Pete’s best mental pictures are of the guy in a wet t-shirt or button down.
Not that that’s a bad thing. Which is okay because Pete’s brain is more has always been more than capable of utilizing images like that, imagining what it’d be like to suck on skin through soaked cotton and feel soft lips against panting his ear. He can picture working through layers of clothes to touch pale skin, warm and soft. He wonders what those lovely curved lips would taste like, how a second dick in his fist would change the speed and pressure of his thrusts, and comes against the wall of the shower. It’s not exactly the classiest thing he’s ever done but hey, at least he wasn’t loud.
“You’re a pig, Wentz!” Spencer calls through the door. “If I find any flakes, I’m setting all your shoes on fire.”
Pete sighs. Oh well. He’d tried to be quiet at least. That’s really all anyone can expect of him. He grabs the showerhead and redirects the spray to erase any stray evidence before climbing out.
He grabs Spencer’s towel - he knows it was Spencer’s because it was actually hung up and it smelled kind of like Old Spice - wraps it around his hips and stares in the mirror. He doesn’t look bad. His hair’s a lot shorter than it was the last time he saw Bill and the rest of the guys, his bangs on his forehead but out of his eyes. He’s thinner, has a few more tattoos, and a little less of a tan.
Mostly he looks tired. That’s because he is, though. He busts his ass on ten and twelve hour shifts six and seven days a week, not counting the time he spends designing and fighting with his textile people. He looks his age, a guy in his early thirties with a full-time career, even if it is one he loves where it’s okay to wear eyeliner to work. Now he’s going to hang out with a group of rock stars he hasn’t seen in ages, since he thought he was going to be one too.
He sighs and runs a hand through his wet hair, making it stand up the way he used to. He grabs some of Brendon’s gel, because he left that in his bathroom at Clan, and tries to beat his hair into submission. He steals Ryan’s “highlighting” eye shadows and lines his eyes in the dark brown and feels more like someone he recognizes from the last time he hung out with Bill Beckett even before he has any clothes on.
He grins at the mirror and the reflection looks about ten years younger than he feels. He looks like someone Bill and Tom and Sisky will recognize. He doesn’t bother to shave as he pulls on his clothes and lets himself get really excited about the show tonight.
He leaves the towel on the floor when he leaves, though. He has to, just to hear Spencer curse as he closes the apartment door behind him.
~*~*~
Backstage at the United Center is actually underground. It's a concrete and cinderblock tunnel full of techies in black and musicians, also in black. The extra people who do things Pete can only imagine buzz around like worker drones in a beehive. Pete’s never been in a venue this big and on the way in, his main focus is to get to TAI’s dressing room and keep Ryan from getting lost on the way. He keeps starting to wander off after this musician or that guitar tech and Pete has to catch him by the belt loops of his ugly as sin grandpa pants and drag him back.
Once they get to the dressing room, it’s all people - napping or listening to music or drinking or trying to shove their legs into pants a size too small. It's his twenties all over again. It’s a bigger better version of the gigs he used to conjure from the ether. Pete feels it in his bones and he admits to himself that yeah, he really misses this.
Then he gets tackled and Bill Beckett humps him like something out of a Tom Green movie and demands that Pete give him his full attention. If nothing else, Bill can fucking talk and there’s a lot to talk about. Tom is gone, which Pete isn’t sure how he missed exactly, and there’s talk of the VMAs and a new album. Pete listens where he would’ve held court five years ago until the nearly gravitational pull of Christine being right here, in town, becomes too much temptation for Bill to resist in favor of talking to Pete.
Programming a reminder into his Sidekick to call and find out how far out of the loop he’s really let himself get isn’t the most comforting thing ever, but it does help. He doesn’t even feel guilty talking music with the replacement, Chislett. Mike Carden keeps hanging on Chislett and trying to convince Pete of how this guy is the very best human being to ever live, to the point where Pete thinks the two of them might be fucking. Pete can see Sisky and Butcher laughing at him from across the room.
Pete watches out of the corner of one eye as Sisky and Bill exchange some sort of telepathic message. Carden’s telling him about how Chislett's going to show them around Australia next time they have a world tour, so Pete misses whatever the mind-chat resulted in until Bill walks over and drapes an arm over Pete’s shoulders and declares, “We’re out of beer.”
That is a blatant lie. William Beckett has a half full bottle of Bud dangling from his long fingers. Pete is looking right at it. “Oh, are you, now?”
“Yeah. This one’s the last one. Can you run to the green room and grab the cooler the chick from Paramore thinks we don’t know about? You can have your mini-me help when you find him. Butcher saw him leave like ten minutes ago.”
“What?”
“I got eyes everywhere. They’re like fifteen and they’re hording beer. It’s not classy. And it’s that watery light shit.”
It takes Pete a second to realize that Bill is talking about Paramore. It doesn’t make things make that much more sense but everything is in pre-show chaos so Pete doesn’t really expect too much logic. “This why you dragged me here? To be a mule for your moonshine?”
Bill grins at him. “No you’re here because I’m too pretty for you to stay away from.” He gives Pete a smacking kiss on the cheek, then points. “And I’m kind of afraid of what’ll happen to Pete version 2.0 if he wanders into the My Chem dressing room. He dresses bad enough, throw in that table top shit they do and he’ll never get laid and out of your hair.”
Pete laughs “You’re a humanitarian. If you cure cancer be sure to let me know."
“It’s on my list. But first, beer. Beeeeeeeeeeeer, Peter. Beer. You remember beer don’t you? Bubbly. Golden. Alcoholic. Awesome before a kick ass rock show. Come on old man, you remember how to rock, don’t you?”
Fuck. Him, Pete thinks. He gives Bill a shove because he’s no one’s bitch but his own. “You have roadies and, like, groupies for this shit.”
“Yes, but tonight I have you. Dance, monkey, dance.”
Pete points a finger in his face. “I’m only doing this because I scalped those tickets for like fifty bucks a piece more than they cost me in the parking lot on the way in and I was just going to spend it on drugs and prostitutes anyway.”
“Dude, I can get you prostitutes. And drugs. Wait?” Bill pauses with a thoughtful expression. “What kind of drugs? No, I can get those, too. Never mind. So beer? Finding a gopher who isn’t busy doing actual work will take forever.”
He looks so hopeful that Pete can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. Like you would know actual work if it attached itself to your head like a facehugger.”
“I think I’d figure it out before the alien burst out of my chest though. Just so long as you come back with beer.”
“Yeah, that’s because you’re an optimist,” Pete calls over his shoulder.
He gets turned around three times trying to find the green room. Everything looks the same - one giant halogen lit maze with industrial doors and no discernable layout. There probably is one Pete just can’t be assed to figure it out. He just walks with a hand on the wall until he hits an open door with a table covered in food visible from outside.
It’s not green though Pete’s pretty sure that isn’t supposed to be literal. There are a few people milling around inside. He recognizes the bassist of My Chemical Romance ferreting through a stack of Frito-Lay products and figures he’s probably in the right place.
“Hey, Mikey right?” Pete asks, even though he knows. He’s a fan and has been since Tim handed him a burned copy of Bullets after an Arma Angelus practice session in his mom’s basement.
Mikey Way was almost as bad a bassist as he was back in the day. He saw him play at Warped a couple times. He hasn’t seen them live in years but over the years he’s gotten pretty good. Of course he doesn’t look like a solid musician twisted around with three things of Cooler Ranch Doritos in one hand, two 20 oz. Coke Zeroes in the other, and lift an eyebrow as if to say ‘yeah what?’
“Do you know where the beer is?”
Mikey drops his eyebrow like that’s answer enough. Then he glances back at the snack table. “You haven’t seen any of the Pizza flavored ones have you? I look everywhere we play and I can’t find them.”
“I think they got discontinued like ten years ago, dude.”
“Fuck, really?” Mikey looks genuinely disappointed. “Shit.” He sighs and scratches behind his ear with one of the bags of chips. “Wait, who are you?”
“Pete.” He holds out a hand, which Mikey looks at like it’s a puzzle. Of course with two full hands, Pete can see why. He goes for a classic no-I-was-really-just-going-to-smooth-my-hair move. “Pete Wentz. I’m a friend of William Beckett and the other Academy guys.”
“Right right. The guy with the batheart thing.”
“Yeah,” Pete replies, trying not to smile too widely just because the bassist of My Chemical Romance knows his logo. He’s a man on a mission here. “So, hey, do you know where the beer is?”
“In here somewhere. Probably that way. I don’t drink man, sorry. Yo, Patrick,” Mikey calls over his shoulder, “Show this guy to the beer will you? I gotta go.” He illustrates this by waving his beverage hand at the door. “We can’t find Bob.”
“Are you kidding me?” Comes the reply and Pete’s heart fucking stops.
He’s going to pass out and die. No, really. He is, because My Chemical Romance Mikey just asked Patrick fucking Stump to show him to the beer. He knew it was possible he could see the guy; he’s the fucking headliner. But this was just way too surreal.
“No. You know I don’t know where they keep the booze, dude.”
“I meant about Bob. You sure it’s not Ray who’s wandered off? Or Gerard? I mean, he gets lost sometimes. Remember the show in Boise? You guys were like an hour late.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. So, I gotta go, we’re calling out the sniffer dogs and shit. See you up there.” Mikey gives him a nod before darting out of the green room in search of the missing Bob. “Nice to meet you, Pete.”
“You too,” Pete chokes out, nodding like a bobble head doll even after Mikey’s gone. When he manages to make himself stop, he turns and comes face to face with Patrick Stump.
Patrick looks better than he does in the pictures. He’s shorter too, complete with a green trucker hat pulled down over his forehead wearing an open light blue plaid button-down over bright red shirt and khaki slacks like any suburban guy off the street. He’s smiling a little and Patrick’s mouth, fuck, his smile, is even more amazing in person.
He’s also a lot shorter in person than Pete was expecting. He’s got such a big voice that Pete was not prepared for a guy who was shorter than he was, even though somewhere he realizes he must’ve known that.
“Hey, sorry about that,” Patrick says, holding out a hand. “I’m Patrick. That was Mikey and he’s not usually that bad with people. They’ve misplaced their drummer.”
“It happens.” He manages to not sound like a complete tool as he shakes Patrick’s hand. It feels good because Patrick’s hand is warm, but it isn’t soft. The pads of his fingers were rough and hard in places with calluses. It was a detail he really didn’t need. It made him seriously glad he wore these jeans, even if it is already a little painful. The chance for embarrassing himself is a lot lower.
“Sometimes,” Patrick agrees with another little smile, mostly just deepening the corners of his mouth. He takes his hand back and shoves it into a pocket. “So Bill sent you for beer, huh? It’s like he thinks he’d break a nail or something.”
Pete’s brain finally beats his hormones into submission as he searches for an appropriate retort. Instead, now that he’s not focused on how intensely bangable Patrick turned out to be live and in person, his eyes and mouth leap ahead of his ability to think shit through. “You’re wearing my shirt,” Pete blurts out.
That makes him sound like a crazy person and it shows on Patrick’s face. His shock-widened eyes look green instead blue. It’s nice. Unfortunately, there’s still the shock factor. “What?”
“My shirt. You’re wearing my shirt.” Yes, because repeating the same thing again will make things so much better. He is such a fucking idiot. It’s not his fault though. He hasn’t had a crush on anyone this intense since he was on the freshman soccer team.
At least then Pete had never been forced to talk to him because the guy played for the catholic school and situations like this didn’t happen. Thank God for that, too. He’s a master at getting people to give a fuck or to show up but he always seems to magically transform into a colossal dork when he really cares. This is bad but he can’t imagine how much worse it would’ve been if he were attempting this at fourteen.
“No, I’m not,” Patrick shoots back. Color is rising in his cheeks and his shoulders hunch forward and he folds his arms over his chest. “I put it in my luggage and then I wore it for four days and now I’m wearing it because it’s my shirt, that I bought.”
It’s not that hard to recognize the “the best defense is a good offense” strategy. Pete knows it when he sees it. Ryan’s great at it. So’s his little sister. At this point, the only option left is damage control. “No, wait. Seriously, I didn’t mean that.”
“Okay, so what did you mean? Look, if you’re drunk, I’m going to call Bill to come get you because you’ve got a problem. It’s barely seven, man.”
“No, I meant the design.” Pete points at his own shirt, at the robot with the escaping heart then at Patrick’s shirt, with his Bear Boy character carrying a bear on his back. “I’m Pete Wentz and Clandestine Industries is my company so,” he gives Patrick what he hopes is a reassuring smile, “you’re kind of wearing my shirt. Technically.”
The pink in Patrick’s cheeks goes from rosy to worrying and races down his neck. His eyes drop down to Pete’s chest and then to the floor. “Oh. Yeah. Right. That, no, that makes sense. Bill’s got one of the one’s with the logo. He’s how I found your site.” He scratches at the back of his neck and all right, that is fucking endearing.
Pete is grinning and can’t seem to make himself stop. “You really wore it for four days?”
“Yeah. We don’t get a lot of chances to do laundry on the road.” The blush is receding, but his cheeks are still a little flushed, and his fucking ears are pink at the tips.
It’s freaking precious. He’d never have expected Patrick to be shy, but blushing looks so good on him. Oh yeah, Pete is in so much fucking trouble.
He knows that and yet there he stands, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans, beaming at Patrick like a total idiot. “So you wore my shirt for four days.”
He chuckles. “Uh, no? Today’s actually number five, so you might want to stay over there,” he points at the space between them. “I haven’t seen a real shower in like, a week.”
Pete remembers the grimy-filth caked feeling fairly well. He toured back in the day. Of course Arma Angelus never really got out of the Midwest, and he could usually find someone to let him and the guys crash on their couch and use their bathroom to clean up. Back before he hired Ryan and started hijacking his shower, he used to push it pretty far before he went home to shower.
Of course that’s not what he says. Because that would make sense. No, what comes out is, “That sucks. I had one like an hour before I got here.”
Where Pete had jerked off to the fantasy of hooking up with the guy in front of him. Why did he even bring it up? Because he’s an idiot, that’s why.
At least Patrick doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he just laughs. “Ignore me. I’ll just be here seething with jealousy. I’m hoping I can sneak out to my mom’s before we roll out tonight and get a real shower.” Patrick crosses his fingers. “I’m calling in all my favors to get past the tour manager.”
“Worried about your hair becoming sentient under that hat?”
Patrick laughs with his whole body. It’s clear that he finds that fucking hilarious and something warm expands in Pete’s chest. He was supposed to do something here but he can’t remember what because Patrick Stump’s got a crazy laugh and gets his sense of humor.
“I think I’ll get some warning before it crawls away.”
“That’s kind of horrifying.”
“Yeah,” Patrick agrees with another one of those little mouth quirks. “I really like this hat.”
“I like it, too.” Pete says and then they’re just standing there smiling at each other.
The moment draws out thin and glittering like a spider’s web after it rains. The fantasy Patrick in his head and the awkwardly interesting guy in front of him are crashing together in Pete’s head and he knows there are other people in the green room, he just can’t give a shit who they are or anything pretty much besides the way Patrick’s eyes look bright in the shitty overhead lights.
It’s Patrick who breaks the silence first. He tugs his hat a little lower on his forehead and says, “So, uh, you needed to bring Bill beer?”
Bill who? Oh right. Beckett. That guy who he’s been friends with for forever and a half. “Yeah. Probably. And I need to find my friend, Ryan. He got loose.”
That earns Pete another laugh. It’s kind of awesome. “Got loose? Was he on a leash or something?”
“No, but that’s just poor planning on my part.”
“You’ll know better next time, I guess.”
“I’ll have to. This is why I can’t have nice things, I guess.”
“Oh come on, everyone gets nice things,” Patrick says, leading Pete across the room, skirting around the small clusters of people picking at food and drinking. Pete follows and wishes that Patrick wore clothes that fit him better. His khakis don’t really give anything away. “Like take this cooler of beer, for example. It’s pretty nice.” he says, lifting the lid of one of about six Igloo coolers.
It must have been refilled recently since full of mostly cans and ice, rather than water. “Awesome. Mission accomplished." He beams at Patrick. "You just got me the metaphoric flag at the end of the level on Super Mario Brothers. You’re like Yoshi, only I’m not riding you.”
There’s a moment of silence where Pete wishes he could kill himself by sheer will alone. It’s possibly the worst sentence Pete has ever uttered in his whole fucking life. It’s got that perfect combination of horrifically nerdy and inadvertently filthy. Yeah, death would be awesome right about now.
Then Patrick’s eyes go wide. Pete braces himself for this surreal encounter to finally go sour as it’s been poised to since the word go, with Pete’s ridiculous crush and huge mouth.
Instead of telling Pete where he can shove it, he says, “Holy shit. For some reason I just had this image of Bill as Princess Peach. I’m pretty sure my head just exploded.”
“Marry me.” Pete’s brain must have just broken because he did not just say that. Please God.
Of course he did. Patrick blinks at him, a little confused. “What?”
“Uh, help carry this with me?” Pete asks, gesturing awkwardly at the cooler. Patrick seems to buy that. That’s good because Pete sure as hell didn’t when he heard it come out of his mouth.
“Yeah, sure.” He looks down at the cooler. “We each grab a handle?”
“That works,” Pete agrees and picks up the plastic handle by his knee. It’s obscenely heavy, water and booze and ice all light on their own but together, obnoxious and unwieldy. Pete’s more used to working with cardboard boxes full of shirts and hoodies and pants and dresses.
“Well,” Patrick says as they get a couple of hundred feet down the hallway. “This sucks. I think they put the beer in the one that didn’t have wheels on purpose.”
“I head Paramore was hoarding. It’s probably a preventative measures.”
“Hoarding,” Patrick repeats. His amusement is conveyed through the grunt of exertion. “It’s not like there are stacks of cats on their bus or something.”
“It probably wouldn’t be very practical to stack cats. I mean,” Pete shifts his grip on his handle. His palm is sweaty from being fucking nervous for so long talking to Patrick and his hand keeps sliding. “They wouldn’t like it. But you could totally do it with enough, like, duct tape and catnip. You’d need to get them docile first, probably.”
Twisting to give Pete another of those looks is a feat with the cooler in his hands, but Patrick manages it. Pete’s kind of glad. The pressure of his eyes on Pete’s face is almost tactile. It feels good, but it does go on for a little too long.
“What?”
“It’s kind of scary how fast you seemed to formulate a plan for something like that.”
His grin splits his face wide. He probably looks like a Batman villain - the Joker or maybe the stitched-on Scarecrow smile. “You don’t know. Maybe I’ve got hidden depths.”
“No,” Patrick agrees, looking down at the cooler between them. “I don’t know.” He pauses, like he’s about to say something else - Pete’s got high hopes. Let’s grab a drink after the show, come blow me before it, come keep me company while we sound check so we can talk old video games no one plays anymore - all of those are on the list of hopeful prospects.
Bill ruins it with his timing that’s still just as sharp as it was when they were too young to get their booze legal. “Beer! Our heroes have returned victorious. Away.” He grins and grabs the handle out of Patrick’s hand and hauls Pete into the dressing room. It’s good to see his cock-blocking skills haven’t gotten rusty since the last time he kept Pete from getting laid.
“You’re a god among men,” Bill declares. He’s got an arm draped around Pete’s neck keeping him from checking over his shoulder to see if Patrick was still there.
Pete laughs a little, mostly with relief at not having to carry the heavy cooler anymore. “You are the laziest fucker ever.”
“Not true. Didn’t you see Se7en? The sloth guy was way lazier than me. Anyway.” He ducks his head beside Pete’s and drags him down as he bends over for a beer. They’re both bent with their faces less than two feet from the floor when Bill says, “So, I see you met my friend Patrick and his mouth.”
There’s a fun flash of panic that makes Pete want to jerk up to see if Patrick is still here. If so, if he was close enough to hear. Bill’s hold on him stops Pete from doing anything but choking out, “Don’t.”
“I’m not. I’m not anything. I’m just saying. I see you met. And he’s single and less straight than MTV makes him seem. Just saying, is what I’m saying.”
“God, I hate you,” Pete sighs.
Bill lets go and digs in the cold cans. “You want a beer?”
“Two. Really, don’t fucking say anything.”
It’s stunning that Bill actually doesn’t. Not about Patrick at least. Instead he pops the tap of his beer and takes a thoughtful sip. “I kinda notice that you didn’t find your mini-me.”
“Ryan?”
“Is that his name? Carden says hasn’t come back yet. You seemed responsible for him so, I thought I’d let you know. Last thing you need is for him to get all tangled up with hookers and blow.”
Pete glances around. “Where are hookers and blow? You said I had to ask for that special.”
“Dude, my kid’s here. There’s no hookers and no blow. Besides, My Chem’s practically Straight Edge. But, you know, we’re on in like fifteen, so you might want to find him before the chaos starts.” He sets his beer down on the nearest precarious table edge then darts across the room to snatch Genevieve up in a giggling hug out of the arms of someone -
Oh. Of course. Patrick Stump, he of the amazing voice and the insane smile and the rough but warm skin, had been holding her and Pete turned just into to see him pass her over to her father. The sight isn’t the sort of thing photo shoots or magazines would ever capture. It’s so much better.
He catches Pete staring and the happy expression his face shifts from the little girl to Pete. The feeling is like being locked in a bone-melting tractor beam and somehow he ends up across the room, in front of Patrick, holding out a beer. “I thought you’d want one, considering all the work you put into getting it here.”
Their fingers brush again as Patrick takes it. There’s another little jolt of heat. This time Pete’s prepared though, so he notices the way Patrick’s head ducks down, just a little bit, as he smiles. “Thanks.”
Given the choice, Pete could stand like this forever. He wants to. There’s a lot of small talk to get through to the “tell me all your secrets” stage that Pete is already itching to jump to.
Unfortunately, Ryan is a plus one, not a pass holder like Pete, so if he gets kicked out it could be days before he made it back to the store or his apartment. Spencer had been really, really pissed the last time Pete lost him. He hadn’t showered for two weeks. Customers had complained. Damnit.
“Hey, this is going to sound weird, but I have to find my cashier. He’s technically an adult, but he doesn’t really act like it. I need to drag him back to civilization before people start needing to do real work, so,” he makes a vague gesture at the door.
Patrick looks briefly stunned then nods, stepping back. “Yeah, right. Of course. Sorry. Don’t let me keep you.”
He looks kicked. Pete’s been single forever and he almost forgot what that expression looked like. It doesn’t work on Patrick. His mouth’s built to quirk up. Pete wants to get it back that way.
“You could come with me. I mean, I could use the extra eyes, if you want. I just thought you’ve got a concert to get ready for.”
“The Academy and My Chem have got at least an hour a piece not counting set up and take down. I’ve got time. Come on. I’ve played this venue before, I know a few places we can look.”
He takes Pete by the wrist and guides him out of The Academy Is…’s dressing room and into a hallway. Pete’s usually the one to lead in any given situation - whether he knows what he’s doing or not. This time, though, he’s pretty content to follow.
~*~*~
Part 2