FIC: A Stitch Away From Making it (A Scar Away From Falling Apart), Pete/Patrick, FOB, NC-17, 1/2
Title: A Stitch Away From Making it (A Scar Away From Falling Apart) 1/2
Author: Femme
Fandom: Bandslash (Fall Out Boy)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: Oh, so very NC-17
Word Count: ~14,700
Summary: “There’s only so much Robert Smith you can take in one dose, and seriously, I never thought I’d say this but you’re starting to make me hate Disintegration."
Disclaimer: Look, so not true. So very, very, very, very, very, very not true. Unless somehow I’ve managed to make a psychic connection with any of the members of Fall Out Boy, which would be cool, but, er, highly unlikely. Just a bit.
Author’s Notes: Many thanks to luciamad and arsenicjade for their beta work. This takes place sometime during the later part of 2006 though I’ve fudged timeline/events a bit BECAUSE I CAN. *g*
The call came at three-sixteen in the morning.
Of course.
Shit.
Patrick rolled over in bed, cursing fucking Pete Wentz to hell and back and fumbling for his phone, and he swore to God if goddamn Trohman didn’t stop setting his goddamn ringtone to Mr. Big Stuff he was going to fucking shove his goddamn body off one of the hairpin curves of Old Topanga Canyon Boulevard that Pete liked to take at fifty mph on Saturday nights.
A half-empty bag of Cheez Doodles-the puffy ones--tumbled off the nightstand, scattering neon orange dust everywhere.
He flipped the phone open, cutting Jean Knight off sharply mid-who do you think.
"Where the fuck are you?" he asked with a groan and a yawn, rubbing his hand over his face. He’d been expecting this call for the past two weeks.
Pete’s between-the-lines were surprisingly easy to read, after all.
"Los Feliz," Pete said, oddly subdued, and Patrick sighed, reaching for the jeans pooled on the floor of Pete’s guestroom.
"I thought that much, asshole." Patrick tucked the phone against his shoulder and pulled the jeans over his hips, buttoning them with one hand while he groped for his glasses. "Where?"
There was a long pause. "At the foot of her driveway," Pete said finally. Patrick could almost hear the break in his voice.
It infuriated him.
"You realize you can call a fucking cab company with that Sidekick of yours, right?" Patrick jerked a t-shirt over his head and nearly dropped the phone. "Or better yet, actually drive your goddamn car for once. Jesusfuck, Pete, it’s the middle of the fucking night--"
"Patrick."
It was just one word, said softly and with that tiny, barely noticeable twist at the end that made Pete sound as if he were twelve and lonely and needed him, and Patrick knew Pete was using it against him, he knew it because that’s what Pete always did and there wasn't any use fighting it--that was just Pete.
"Fuck you, Pete," he said quietly, and he sat on the edge of the bed, his green Chuck Taylors dangling from his hand, laces flopping. "Give me forty-five minutes, and if you even think about going back into that bitch’s house I’m never speaking to you again. Ever. Understood?"
"Yeah," Pete said, and Patrick hung up on him.
***
Patrick hated L.A.
It was too bright, too shiny, too filled with pretty, condescending people.
All reasons Pete liked it.
"It’s all fucked up out here," Pete had said at one interminable Hollywood party he’d dragged Patrick to three months ago-and Patrick had lost track of what cause or benefit they were partying for now, though he was certain it had something to do with AIDS or Africa or vaginas or autism or starving children or animal cruelty or possibly whatever the fuck Sherry Lansing or Tim Robbins or, hell, Tara-fucking-Reid (and, hey, she was funny in Scrubs, you know, at least at first) had deemed an Appropriate Hollywood Concern lately. "That’s the beauty of it, dude. Everyone’s broken somehow and they’re all hiding behind the glitz, pretending to be the perfect pretty people fooling the world into actually wanting to be them. It’s deep in a very shallow way."
"You’re full of shit," Patrick had said over the rim of his Evian. He watched yet another half-naked starlet slip past them, giving Pete a heated look that Patrick was all too used to seeing.
"Yeah, but you know Spin would jump at that quote."
"They’re full of shit too."
Pete laughed, knocked his shoulder against Patrick’s, and the evening had been a bit more bearable.
Until Pete had spent the last two hours sucking face in one of the more private rooms with the half-naked starlet, who called herself Zoe Hawethorne, but had been born just plain Sally Gayle Miller, and, halfway to falling in love in that Pete Wentz way, had never noticed when Patrick left.
Patrick’d never asked how Pete got home that night or any night after that.
He’d never needed to.
Patrick hated Zoe. Maybe even more than L.A.
Maybe.
He didn't know why Pete wanted either of them.
***
The intersection of North Highland and Franklin was empty at three-thirty-six, and the orange-white glow of the streetlights glinted rhythmically across the windshield of Pete’s black Range Rover. Pete had been on a Raconteurs kick lately, and Steady As She Goes had nearly deafened Patrick when he’d started the engine.
At least it’d woken him up, he supposed.
He knew he’d hit Hollywood when the street faded from smooth black to a potholed gray that sent the SUV rattling and shifting across the pavement.
Goddamn L.A. And goddamn Pete for making him come out here. For calling him every day for three weeks and telling him that he needed to get out of Chicago, that he needed a break from the Anna thing, that he’d be better off here. With Pete.
The fuck of it all was that Patrick knew Pete was right. He was always better off with Pete. Bastard shit.
Patrick had just turned onto Western, passing the gates to the American Film Institute on his left as he made the curve that would take him onto Los Feliz towards Griffith Park, when he realized he’d left his hat behind, tossed on the kitchen bar as he searched for Pete’s keys.
He swore and the CD player clicked, switching into the mp3 disc of mashups Mikey Way had sent Pete last week, and Patrick gripped the steering wheel tighter, mouth a grim line. He was going to kill Pete for this. It was goddamn three-he checked the clock, glowing greenish-yellow in the dark-three-forty-nine.
Shit.
It had only taken half an hour total to make a drive that would take at least twice as long mid-day and when he finally turned down Talmadge, the car headlights sweeping over stucco privacy fences and eucalyptus trees as Patrick sang along with Fischerspooner, the Scissor Sisters, Pet Shop Boys, and Edwin Starr (and really, whoever thought of that combination was either fucking brilliant or on serious drugs, he thought), he caught sight of Pete, huddled on the curb, his knees pulled to his chest, brown hoodie tugged down low over his forehead.
"You look like hell," Patrick said through the open window, and Pete just shrugged as he climbed in and buckled his seatbelt.
"Yeah, and I’m still hotter than you." Pete stared out the window and Patrick knew by the tightness of his jaw and the way his hands clenched in the hoodie’s pockets that he was barely holding it together.
Fuck that bitch.
"What the fuck are you listening to?" Pete asked and Patrick let the wheels squeal loudly as he tore down the street, leaving behind a streak of black rubber against the mottled asphalt.
***
They ended up in a back booth at Swinger’s on Beverly with the early-morning breakfast shift of half-drunk club kids and insomniacs, Josephine Baker playing on the jukebox in the corner, and Patrick ordered two coffees and two short stacks of vegan pancakes-and only in L.A. would a greasy spoon cater to vegans, he thought-while Pete stumbled off to the bathroom.
Patrick’d just started in on his second cup of coffee-poured by a cute waitress named Allison who had pink spiked hair, a Bettie Page body, and a lip ring-when Pete slid into the booth across from him. His hair was damp in the front and his eyes were rimmed red, but he gave Allison a too-bright smile, the kind he pasted on for reporters and photo shoots and fan meet and greets.
Patrick wasn’t overly fond of that smile.
"Well," Patrick said finally, setting down his coffee cup as Allison’s green plaid Vans squeaked off toward the kitchen, "are we going to talk about what happened?"
"No." Pete poked at his pancakes and Patrick knew he wouldn’t eat more than half of them. He never did. "We broke up. That’s all."
Patrick let it slide for a moment, taking a bite of his own pancakes. He chewed slowly, watching Pete ignore him in favor of dragging his fork through the syrup. "So you called me at three-thirty in the morning just for a ride."
"Maybe." Pete sighed and put his fork down. "What do you want me to say, man? We broke up and it sucks." He looked up at Pete then, and his eyes were dark. "She could have been the one."
Patrick decided this might not be the best time to remind Pete that he thought that about them all. It was always like this; when Pete fell, it was hard and fast and when it ended, he was inconsolable for a few days, weeks, maybe, and then-well. It was always a wide smile for the reporter and a laugh and a no, dude, we’re just friends, that’s all, we just hung out some, you know as he shrugged it all off.
Literally.
And the bastard usually managed to stay friends with them all, that’s what amazed Patrick. The next thing you knew, Pete’s heartbreak had drifted into an easy friendship and it was no big deal. Case in point Mikey and God, how Patrick resented him sometimes. Even though it was hard to. Mikey was Mikey, for Christ's sake.
Only Jeanae had been able to get under Pete’s skin for good, and that was a subject that they Did Not Talk About.
Ever.
Patrick tapped a rhythm out against the formica tabletop, his fingers finding the beat of the music drifting in the background. "Come on, man," he said finally.
"Just leave it, all right?" Pete set his fork down and he looked tired and drained. "Can we just not talk?"
"Fine." Patrick sighed. "But only if you eat."
Pete hesitated, then picked up his fork again. "Only to keep you off my fucking back," he muttered, sounding more like himself, and Patrick relaxed a little and reached for his coffee cup.
A couple of days and it’d be okay again.
That’s just the way life was with Pete.
"Your shirt’s inside out," Pete said, not looking up from his pancakes. He took a bite, chewed it as he scraped his fork tines over the top pancake, peeling back the toffee-brown skin, prodding a sliver of banana.
Patrick glanced down. The overlock seam of the green ringer hung over his collarbone. "Fuck."
Pete laughed, even if it was just a faint echo of his usual warm bark, and Patrick smiled into his lukewarm coffee.
Yeah. It’d be okay.
***
The tape clips hit YouTube on Wednesday afternoon, East Coast time and less than an hour later were linked on both Perez Hilton’s blog and Egotastic.
Defamer had it fifteen minutes after that and of course Gawker chose that afternoon to run a jump link to the story. By three on the L.A. clock, P.A.s from Entertainment Weekly and E!News had already called Island and Bob and the Wentz house in Wilmette. Pete’s mom hung up on them.
And then called Pete.
It was the Sidekick photos all over again.
"Jesus, Pete," Patrick said, as Pete threw the Sidekick across the room when it buzzed yet again, "do you ever think with something besides your dick?"
"Fuck you." Pete was curled on the couch, bare feet tucked beneath him, arms wrapped tight around his thin chest. He was wearing his old CBGB t-shirt, and it rode up just enough to leave a stretch of pale-golden skin showing above his hipbone.
Patrick refused to look at it.
Instead he collapsed on the couch next to Pete, letting his head drop back against the beige chenille.
"I didn’t know she was taping," Pete said sullenly and he chewed on his thumbnail. "I mean, fuck. Three goddamn months, man. Aren’t guys supposed to be the jerks in relationships?"
Patrick glared at Pete. "Have you ever noticed you have really craptastic taste in women?"
"Not all of them." Pete pushed his foot against Patrick’s hip, shoving him into the couch arm.
Patrick caught Pete’s foot and pulled it onto his lap, digging his fingernails in hard enough for Pete to flinch. "This one. She had to leak it, you know."
Pete shrugged and went back to chewing his thumbnail. "Yeah. Maybe I shouldn’t have called her a motherfucking cunt when we broke up."
"Nothing wrong with speaking the truth."
Pete gave him a faint smile.
"Anyway, at least everyone’s already seen your dick," Patrick said and Pete just gave him a look. "What? It’s true."
"And now they know how I give head," Pete snapped.
"And get it."
Pete slammed his heel hard into Patrick’s gut, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Patrick saw those damn floaty things drift across his eyes as he blinked hard against the sharp pain. Fuck, the bastard’s bony little feet hurt.
"Thanks, man," Pete snapped. "Way to cheer me up." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end before it flopped back over his eyes. "I don’t even want to see the Net."
"Jesus," Patrick wheezed, and he rubbed his stomach, sincerely hoping that Pete hadn’t, you know, burst his spleen or anything. "Look, man, fuck them all, okay? It doesn’t matter what they say-"
Pete pulled away, stood up. "It always matters," he said quietly. "You know that. It always does. We just say we don’t give a fuck."
"Pete-"
"I’m going upstairs," Pete said, and he looked so damn young, shoulders hunched, fists shoved into his pockets, pulling his jeans dangerously low. That was the thing about Pete, Patrick thought. Their ages be damned; Patrick always felt five years older than Pete. Sometimes it was fucking exhausting, all of this.
Pete was already halfway up the stairs when Patrick turned, arm over the back of the couch. "You know this will be okay," he said quietly, eyes fixed on Pete’s face and Pete hesitated, hand on the banister.
"Maybe," Pete said, and he gave Patrick a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Maybe."
Hemingway padded into the living room just as Patrick heard Pete’s bedroom door snick shut. The bulldog nuzzled Patrick’s bare feet, his nose cold and wet and he whined until Patrick picked him up, setting him on the couch next to him and scratching behind his ear.
"It’s going to be a bumpy ride, Hemmy," Patrick murmured and Hemmingway barked softly, burrowing into Patrick’s side.
***
"How’s he doing?" Mikey asked, and his voice crackled across the cell phone connection.
"Okay, I guess," Patrick said, lowering his voice, and darting a glance at the closed studio door. He shifted the Gibson SG in his lap. Pete was supposedly upstairs sleeping-Andy had dosed him with some weird vervain and lavender concoction about half an hour after his plane had arrived tonight--but he had a tendency to wander the house at odd hours and Patrick didn’t really think Andy’s version of a sleeping pill was going to work. Not on Pete.
Mikey didn’t say anything for a moment. "He’s not eating is he?" he asked finally and Patrick could tell he already knew the answer.
"You know Pete," he said with a sigh. His fingers strummed lightly over the guitar strings. "He’s working out though. A lot. When he comes out of his room."
"Adrenaline."
"Yeah."
And control, Patrick wanted to add, but he didn’t because it didn’t need to be said. Not to Mikey. But it hung there between the two of them, heavy and slightly uncomfortable as things sometimes could be between them when it came to Pete. Instead he asked, "what are we going to do?" even though he knew there wasn’t really an answer to that.
There was a pause and the line cracked again. "Mikey?" Patrick asked, and he was almost certain he’d lost the connection when Mikey sighed. Patrick gripped the phone tighter.
"It’s you he needs, you know," Mikey said softly. "I mean, last time, I could do it because-" He drifted off and sighed again and Patrick could almost see him sprawled across the ratty couch in the apartment he shared with Frank. "Look, it’s you this time, Patrick. I don’t know if you need him more or he needs you more, but I don’t think it matters."
"What the fuck are you talking about, man?" Patrick pushed his hat back on his head and rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead. A twist of nervousness churned his stomach. Fuck, he’d been careful. He knew he had. He’d gotten damn good at hiding things. You had to around Pete.
"Come on. You know. Don’t talk shit, okay?" There was a rustle over the phone line, a murmur of voices in the background and a whispered fuck, Frank, just wait a fucking minute. Patrick recognized Iero's laugh. "I have to go, but call me, yeah? We'll be in town in a few days to record and we’re worried over here."
Patrick was left staring at his phone, the call disconnecting on the screen.
Sometimes Mikey saw too much.
Patrick threw the phone across the room.
***
Patrick sat at the kitchen table, hunched over his MacBook Pro, headphones on. A cold mug of coffee sat at his elbow, forgotten and undrinkable, along with a few scraps of peanut-butter-smeared toast and orange peels. He was supposed to be working on some beats for Travis, but instead he was watching the clip. Again.
He sucked as a best friend. He knew he did. He shouldn’t even know where the fucking clip was, much less hit watch again, but he couldn’t stop himself and he refused to think of what it might mean that he immediately pushed the slider past the grainy image of Pete’s back between Zoe’s long white legs.
Fucking bitch.
And then Pete arched on his screen, his skin warm and gold against the white sheets, fingers grabbing at the pillow beneath his shoulders as Zoe kissed down his stomach, her blonde hair tumbling over his hip. It was a shitty video; the quality sucked, but it didn’t matter because the look on Pete’s shadowed face-Christ.
This was crazy.
And hot.
Shit.
He scrambled to shut Firefox, face red, when Andy came in, shirtless, boxers hanging off his hips, and headed straight for the Fridgidaire.
"Hey, man," Andy mumbled sleepily, and he scratched his balls as he drank from the two-liter of Mountain Dew.
Patrick grunted and shifted in his chair. He was half-hard and, fuck, Andy sat at the table and looked at him, blinking from behind smudged glasses.
"What?" Patrick asked, snapping the word out more tensely than he’d intended.
"Joe called," Andy said mildly. "He’s coming back out today."
Patrick slid his headphones off. "He doesn’t have to; he's got another week off. And Pete’s…" Patrick hesitated. It wasn't that Pete was okay. But he wasn’t like he had been after the Ativan or the wang photos-and Christ, how he’d yelled at Pete for both of those--shattered a mirror, even, after Pete had joined them in Europe post-hospital. "You know."
Andy shrugged. "None of us have to. Doesn’t mean we don’t want to. It’s Pete."
"Yeah." Patrick dipped his head, staring down at his keyboard. He tapped his thumb restlessly against the apple key and sighed. "Well, it’s good he’ll be here, I guess."
He knew it was shit of him, really, it was, but he kind of didn’t want Andy and Joe here. He kind of wanted it to be just him. And Pete.
Fuck Mikey Way.
Andy was watching him, and the morning sun filtered through the ivy-draped windows, sending light and shadows moving across his shoulders, over the swirls of red and green and blue ink that spiraled down his arms.
"You want to talk?" Andy asked finally and Patrick gave him an incredulous look.
"About what?"
Andy shrugged. "I don’t know. Pete?"
"There’s nothing to talk about." Patrick fired up Garage Band, watching as the guitar icon bounced in his dock. He’d finally replaced the desktop of him and Anna a few months ago with a picture of him and the boys that Dirty had taken in the bus on the last tour. They were all sprawled across the sofa, and he was shoved up against Troh on one side and Andy on the other, and Pete was sitting behind him, draped over his shoulder, his legs around Patrick’s hips.
Red Bull cans were everywhere and Andy was shirtless, as usual, and Joe had that slightly glazed, amused-with-the-world look in his eye that meant he’d slipped off at some point before with Dirty and Charlie for a smoke.
And there was Pete.
Pete’s arm was around Patrick’s neck, pulling him back into him, and his face was pressed against Patrick’s hair, knocking his hat askew.
They looked fucking happy.
"You know it’s okay, man," Andy said, twisting the bottle of soda between his hands and he shrugged as Patrick frowned at him. "I mean, you and Pete, you know-and since Anna--"
Jesus. Patrick’s face flamed and he slammed the lid of his MacBook down, shoving his chair back. "Fuck off, Hurley."
Andy sighed. "Patrick--"
"No, seriously." Patrick picked up his computer. "Fuck off."
He stormed out, letting the kitchen door slam shut behind him.
Fuck Pete Wentz. Fuck him.
***
Pete stood in the doorway of Patrick’s room, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"Hey," Patrick said and he sat up, his guitar shifting off his stomach with a rattle of strings. The mattress dipped to one side. "You weren’t sleeping, were you?"
"No." Pete leaned against the doorjamb; he rubbed his bare toe against the wood floor. "You’re sounding good. What are you working on?"
Patrick shrugged. "Stuff."
There was a long pause, and Patrick almost thought Pete was going to turn around, back into the room he’d been hiding out in for the past few days, but instead he was next to Patrick’s bed, sitting down with a sigh.
"Joe and Andy’ve been looking in on me," he said.
Patrick grinned. "Yentas."
"Pretty much." Pete stretched out next to him, rolling onto his stomach. "Joe keeps trying to feed me, and Andy keeps asking if I want to talk about anything. It’s fucking weird."
"They’re worried." Patrick balanced the Gibson on his thigh, his knee bent, and strummed his thumb over the strings. D-A, add a D, then G-D-A-no, G-A…much better.
"Yeah." Pete curled around a pillow. "They shouldn’t be. It's not like I'm going to do anything stupid."
"Maybe."
Pete gave Patrick a sharp look. "I’m fine."
"Sure."
"Patrick."
"Don’t start with me, man." Patrick tapped the rhythm out against the bed, his foot pressing into the comforter. "We’ve all known you too long."
Pete didn’t say anything.
Patrick’s fingers slid down the neck of the guitar.
"What is that?" Pete asked, shifting across the bed to sit next to Patrick.
Patrick hummed softly under his breath, the melody blending into the even, steady thrum of guitar strings. He looked up at Pete finally, meeting his curious gaze. "The music for the song you’re going to write about all of this."
"I'm not," Pete started, then he sighed at Patrick's raised eyebrow. "Shut up."
"I’m thinking next single." Patrick tightened one of the frets. "Use that money shot of you in the video."
"Fuck you." Pete looked away, chewing on his bottom lip as he leaned back against the pillows, stared out the window. The setting sun was disappearing into the hills, black against its orange-gold warmth.
Patrick shrugged and kept playing.
***
Pete made it five days before he called her.
It was two o'clock in the morning and Patrick was still staying with Pete, even though Andy and Joe had moved into one of the label's Oakwood apartments.
"It's better, man," Joe had said when Patrick had confronted him about leaving Pete behind. "It's not like we won't be over here all the time, anyway. And you and Pete--you guys need some time, you know?"
He'd just shrugged when Patrick had sputtered and demanded to know what he meant by that.
Patrick'd woken up the next morning to his cell phone screaming since I kissed his loving lips of wine, the thing that bothers me is that I like it fine in Mandy Moore's voice.
Sometimes he hated Troh.
He'd gotten up to piss when he'd heard Pete, whispering at first, and it only took the baby, come on, baby, listen to me for him to freeze outside Pete's door, suddenly afraid it was Jeanae again.
"Fuck it, Zoe," Pete had said then, angry, and Patrick leaned against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
Shit.
That was worse.
"I can't get you out of my head even after this--" There was a long pause and Patrick could hear Pete breathing. "God, you're a fucking cunt."
Patrick pushed Pete's door open further; he was sitting in the windowseat, dark against the moonlight and the glow of his Sidekick lit his cheek. His legs were bare and long and thin.
"Why’d you do it?" Pete asked, leaning his head against the window, and Patrick clenched his fists against his thighs, twisting his thumbs in the worn cotton of his boxers. "Just tell me-"
Silence and Patrick held his breath. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be listening to this. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t…
"Fuck you," Pete snapped and he threw the Sidekick across the room. It skittered over the smooth wood floor, catching finally on Pete's abandoned jeans. Pete sighed. "You might as well stop lurking."
Patrick picked the Sidekick up. "You gotta stop doing that, man."
That earned him a baleful glare before Pete turned back to the window, staring out at the backyard with its wide swimming pool and landscaped sweep of green grass. "I hate this place."
"Maybe you should go home for a while." Patrick sat on the edge of the window seat. "See your mom. Have her make you macaroni. Or something."
Pete pulled his knees up to chest. "I’m not running away, man."
Patrick shrugged. "Nothing wrong with that." He looked out the window. Moonlight glimmered across the smooth surface of the pool. "I did it."
"Did not." Pete nudged his hip. "You needed to get out of there. All that Anna stuff, it was eating your brain, dude. You know that."
"Maybe." Patrick looked at Pete then. "You’re freaking me, you know. I’m worried."
Pete ducked his head, rubbed his thumb over his knee. He frowned. "Yeah. Mikey said. Thanks so much for setting him on me, by the way. Way to be a friend there."
"Fuck you. He's worried too. You’re not eating, you stay in your room most of the day, you don’t sleep, and you’ve been listening to The Cure for the past five days." Patrick ran a hand through his hair. "That’s just not healthy. There’s only so much Robert Smith you can take in one dose, and seriously, I never thought I’d say this but you’re starting to make me hate Disintegration."
"Sorry?" Pete leaned back against the wall, looking at Patrick through a tumble of black bangs. He scowled and bit at his thumbnail.
Neither of them said anything for a moment, then Pete sighed that sigh that Patrick recognized as an exasperated fuck-off.
"Look, I’ll be fine." Pete wrapped his arms around himself. "Just leave me alone, okay? I don’t fucking feel like people right now and I don’t need you or Hurley or Troh making those faces all the time like I'm going to fucking implode again. I don’t need anything. I’m fucking fine."
Patrick nodded, then looked away. "Whatever. If that’s what you want."
"It is."
"Great. Let me know when you get your head out of your ass."
Patrick was out of the room before Pete could stop him. The Sidekick shattered against the doorjamb, barely missing Patrick's right ear. Another $400 down the shitter.
Melodramtic little emo fuck.
Patrick slammed his bedroom door.
***
"He's going to have to go out at some point," Joe said calmly, as if Pete weren't in the room, tipping his chair back onto its back legs as he stared out the window. He tossed the just-messengered-over invitations on the table. "It's been a week. And the label wants us all to go, and Karen says--"
"Fuck Karen." Patrick slammed the fridge door closed and leaned against it, bottle of Coke in one hand. He twisted the cap, the sharp fizz hissing in the silent kitchen. "It's a MTV film premiere, Joe. Reporters everywhere. You know what those bastards are like."
"Vultures. Carrion-eaters," Andy said, not looking up from the day's Jumble. He chewed on his pencil eraser. "M-E-J-A-S-T? Meatsj, teamjs--"
"Jetsam." Joe looked at Andy. "What? I did it earlier."
Andy rolled his eyes and scribbled it into the empty circles, pencil tearing the Times newsprint.
Joe turned back to Patrick. "Look, the label’s been holding them off and you know it. There’s only so much Karen can do with canned statements-"
"Hey, I blogged about it," Pete snapped. "Twice."
"Rambling unpunctuated diatribes informing people to trust goddamn fucking no one don’t really count as damage control, Mulder," Andy said. "Would it kill you to find the shift key?"
Pete flipped him off.
Joe ignored them both. "So he goes out with us, we all walk the carpet with him, and if any of the fuckers get out of hand, we pull him away. No comment and all that shit."
"When has Pete ever been able to say no comment?" Patrick lifted his Coke to his lips. It was sharp and bitter, stinging the roof of his mouth. He didn’t look at Pete. Didn’t want to look at Pete. Hadn’t looked at Pete for two days and if the other two hadn’t shown up this morning with a bag of everything bagels and four cups of Chelsea roast coffee from Noah’s in West Hollywood he’d still be lurking in his room. Fuck Pete.
Pete's chair legs thudded down. "Has anyone thought of asking Pete what Pete wants?"
They all looked at him. He glared at them, the dark circles under his eyes pronounced.
"Okay," Patrick said tightly. "Tell us. What does the great Pete Wentz want?"
He and Pete scowled at each other, Pete's jaw tensing, and Patrick just stood there, waiting. Not giving a damn. What did it matter anyway? Pete wanted him to fuck off. He'd fucked off.
Joe and Andy exchanged a glance.
There was a long silence, and then Pete pushed his chair back and stood up. "Pete wants to fucking go out tonight."
The kitchen door slapped shut behind him, swinging back and forth in its frame.
"Well," Andy said, putting his pencil down and looking at Patrick thoughtfully. "I guess we're going, Agent Scully."
Patrick threw his bottle cap at him.
***
Patrick had crushed on Giuliana DePandi since he was seventeen. Even now whenever Joe and Andy insisted on watching E!News Daily, Patrick would manage to be in the room, half-hidden behind his laptop, glaring at Joe every time he would make a crack about banging her. Which was often, and always egged on by Pete. The bastard.
It was too much to expect that she’d actually be working the carpet, Patrick supposed, standing at the top of the stretch of red, his hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, cap tilted at what he hoped was a rakish angle over his eyebrows. Instead they were stuck with Samantha Harris, waiting eagerly for them a few feet away, her head twisting back and forth between Pete and her cameraman.
Patrick felt nauseated.
"You all right?" Andy bumped his shoulder against Patrick’s.
Patrick sighed and eyed the throng of reporters and boom mikes and cameras. Flashes were already going off; Patrick was fairly certain Jerry O’Donnell or Adam Sandler had just walked past. MTV didn't exactly pull the A-list, after all. "I hate this shit. You know they’re going to eat him alive."
"Man, you worry too much." Andy shook his head. "He’s Pete. He’ll handle it, probably better than you will."
"It’s just-"
Andy cut him off, raising his hand. "Stump, look. You can’t protect him and you’ve got to stop trying, right? He’s a big boy."
Patrick looked over at Pete, rocking back and forth on his heels, his face calm. Patrick could feel his nerves, though, could sense them through the slight, shallow intake of Pete’s breath, the nervous tugging at the zipper of his hoodie, the almost imperceptible slump of his shoulders.
"Yeah. Right."
And then Karen was on them, her assistant Danny fluttering behind, and she was straightening hoodies and fluffing hair. She stopped in front of Pete, eyes narrowed.
"Really, are you trying to give me an ulcer? Because hand to God, Wentz, hand to God, I’ve spent most of the past year desperately trying to convince middle America that, despite what you may say, you are in no way deviant, queer or a slut and then you go around and pull a Tommy Lee on me and the one thing I thank God for is that it was actually with a girl so that I can at least have actual proof of your heterosexuality for the next time you do something like, oh, say, tell a DJ that you’d like to fuck Ryan Philippe. So I repeat, are you trying to give me an ulcer?"
Pete rolled his eyes. "Yeah. It’s my goal in life. And Ryan Philippe’s hot. And single."
"Stop it." Karen snapped her red-tipped fingers and Danny passed a tin of Altoids over her shoulder. Karen shoved it at Pete. "You’re not going to fuck this up, are you?"
Pete sucked on a mint. "No. Hey, did you know you can use these to spark up your blowjobs?"
Karen looked over at Patrick. "Don’t let him say things like that."
"You think I’m going to be able to stop him?" Patrick gave her an incredulous look.
"If anyone could," Karen started and then she sighed and tugged at Patrick’s cap. "Why do you always look like you just climbed out of a Mack truck?"
Patrick swatted her hands away. "No harshing on the hat. We’ve had this discussion."
A headphoned P.A. tapped Karen on the shoulder, murmured something into her ear and Karen clapped her hands. "Here we go. Pete only talks to E!News and Entertainment Tonight--" she gave Pete a sharp look and he shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets "--the rest of you fill in with the others and for God's sake, keep walking, walking, walking. Danny and I will be right behind you. Sound bites, people, not monologues. Joe, be charming. Andy, talk vegan. Patrick, drum up some album quotes--and no, I don't give a damn if it kills you--and Pete-" she sighed "-just don’t mention sex."
"That’s going to be kind of hard," Pete mumbled and she glared at him again before pushing them down the carpet.
"God, I need a martini," Patrick heard her mumble.
The reporters rushed forward, clamoring for Pete, and Patrick closed his eyes.
It was going to be a long, long night.
***
"This is one of those rare moments when I wish I was a) single and b) drugged out of my mind," Andy muttered. "Anything to alleviate the boredom."
Patrick nodded and slouched against the wall. These parties were a waste of time. Joe’d disappeared somewhere-probably outside for a joint or two-and the last time he’d seen Pete he was out on the dance floor with some girl.
He was almost the old Pete again, shrugging off the reporters’ questions earlier with a wry, boyish grin and a hey, we all make mistakes sometimes, right? I just want to make music and get back to enjoying life again, dude. They ate it up, like always and by the end of the week it’d just be another annotation in the Pete Wentz file for them.
Patrick hated them all.
"Danny," Andy said, and Patrick looked up to see their publicist's assistant slump against the wall next to him, a scotch and tonic clutched in his perfectly manicured hand.
"Christ, I fucking hate MTV parties," he muttered into his glass. "If either of you hit on me, I swear to God I’ll tell Whitney to book you for the worst gigs possible on your next tour."
Andy and Patrick exchanged a look. "You’re safe here," Patrick said, raising his Red Bull can to his lips.
"Why the fuck I went into this industry I still can't figure out. It is not worth the Xanax bill." Danny downed the rest of his drink, setting the empty glass on a passing tray. "Scuttlebutt’s going around that your girl’s being courted by a couple of the majors now."
Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Our girl?"
"Zoe Hawethorne." Danny dug in his pocket and pulled out a Chapstick. He smeared it across his mouth. "Not that you heard that from me, right? Want some?" He held out the tube.
"What the hell?" Patrick stared at him and waved away the offer.
"Oh, yeah." Danny smacked his lips and capped the Chapstick. "Endeavor's pitching her tomorrow. There's buzz around her now with that tape, which sucks for Pete, but she’s getting some boost from it. Welcome to Hollywood, boys." His eyes widened. "Fuck. I have to go. Timberlake just saw me-I didn’t return his call after the last time we-“ He broke off and looked at them out of the corner of his eye. “--well, you know, and don’t look at me that way, Patrick, you already know I’m a shit, I’m in publicity for God’s sake. We'll chat later--I've texted Bob some tentative dates for the new year and Karen's talking about a corporate sponsorship, you know."
He squeezed Patrick's arm, air-kissed Andy's cheek and then he was gone in a waft of scotch and Burberry Brit.
Pete'd bought a bottle for Patrick last Christmas; he'd never used it because what the fuck.
He looked at Andy.
"I'm not telling Pete, man," Andy said and he finished off his water.
"Shit." Patrick crushed his Red Bull can in one fist, the sharp fold of aluminium nicking his fingertip. A trickle of blood ran under his nail.
Andy gave him a sympathetic smile.
***
Pete put his fist through the wall when Patrick told him and then walked out of the room.
He didn't speak to anyone the next day.
Patrick didn't blame him.
Entirely.
He just reached for the phone and the Yellow Pages and dialed Sylmar Drywall.
Pete would be Pete.
***
Patrick told the contractor that the hole was from a guitar accident.
The man just nodded, shrugged, and by eight that night, grainy cellphone pics of the wall had shown up on the web with various highly fictionalized accounts of a Fall Out Boy falling-out.
Pete's favorite was that Patrick had thrown a guitar case at him in a fit of jealousy; he left a blog post implying that they'd kissed and made up.
Literally.
Patrick didn't know what was worse--the rabid cry of fangirls insisting Pete wasn't gay (most of them seemed to not give a fuck about him all that much which was kind of all right with him) or the delight of the ones who thought they should just give it up already and take a trip to Massachusetts.
"You’re a shit," he said. Pete just puckered up and made kissing noises.
"Maybe they'll Photoshop you two again," Andy had said, laughing and Joe had perked up, setting aside his joint.
"That was pretty cool," he said, blowing out a huff of smoke. "I want to be Photoshopped tonguing Gisele. Hey, Pete--"
"I'll mention it next blog." Pete didn't look up from his Sidekick.
Patrick was beginning to hate the fucking Internet.
***
By Tuesday Zoe had signed with William Morris. By Thursday she'd given four interviews talking about how broken she was that her privacy had been invaded and what a shit Pete was for doing this to her, and she'd turned down offers from Playboy and Penthouse. By Friday, she'd landed the best-friend role in Reese Witherspoon's next project.
Patrick never really had liked Reese all that much anyway.
"She's fucking insane," Joe said to him, standing at a sidewalk newsstand on Wiltshire, a Malibu Dream Ice Blended from Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf dripping onto the front page of Variety. A faint breeze ruffled the maroon canvas awning above them. "What the hell did Pete see in her anyway?'
Patrick gave him a look.
Joe shrugged and slurped his drink through the straw. "Right." A blob of half-melted whipped cream slid over his finger and splatted against the black and white headshot of Zoe.
"Hey, fucktard, you gonna pay for that?" the lanky boy at the register snapped, and Patrick tossed a five-dollar bill at him.
"Don't fucking show that to Pete," he said, rattling the car keys in his hand. He was itching to get back to the house; he'd almost worked out that third riff in the second chorus in his head.
Joe gave him a baleful look, then folded the paper and shoved it in a trashcan. "I'm not an idiot, man."
"I know." Patrick sighed, then frowned, and Joe thumped the brim of his cap.
"Buck up, emo boy," he said with a grin. "Save it for the tunes."
Patrick flipped him off.
***
Every time YouTube took the video down, it was uploaded again.
Patrick gave up bookmarking the pages. Instead he searched for a standalone file on one of the fansites and downloaded it to his iPod. It was crazy and sick and he knew it.
But at one-thirty in the morning when he was horny as fuck and thinking about Pete, lying across the hall, he didn't care.
He always hated himself afterwards.
He hoped that counted.
***
"So where is he?" Bryar asked, and Patrick sighed, staring at the picture frozen on his iPod screen. He shifted the phone from one ear to the other and buttoned up his jeans. There was no way he was having this conversation with his cock hanging out.
"Out somewhere. Some girl called and invited him to some party down in Venice. I didn't ask."
There was a pause. Never a good sign. "You didn't go with him," Bob said carefully. Too carefully.
"I'm not going to hover over him," Patrick snapped, tired of the whole idea that he should watch over Pete. Christ. It wasn't his goddamn job. "He's a fucking adult. Besides he's feeling better and if he wants to go party, he should. And I have work to do."
Bob huffed, and then laughed ruefully. "Yeah, okay. Fair enough." He hesitated. "Look, are you okay, man? Mikey says--"
"Fuck Mikey." Patrick ran a hand over his face. "Sorry."
Bob didn't say anything for a minute and Patrick pushed his glasses up, rubbed at his eyes.
"It's just not always easy, okay?" he mumbled. God, he was fucking pathetic. "I mean, Pete...you know. He's intense."
"I get it." There was a rustle and a sigh on the other end of the line. "Look, we're in town now. Recording. Gerard's rented out the Paramour, but I've got a label apartment if you want to crash there some. Got to have some space, you know. Gee gets...intense, too, at times, and Frank and Mikey..." He trailed off.
Patrick knew what he meant. You only had to be in the room once with those two. He liked Frank; he was good for Mikey, made him happy, and fuck, after Pete, Mikey deserved that. "Yeah. Maybe." He shifted the cell phone to his other ear. "I don't know."
"Think about it, all right?" Bob's voice was even. "Man, there's only so much you can do, and driving yourself crazy about it all isn't going to help."
"I know." Patrick stared up at the ceiling. There was a crack in one corner, hidden in the shadows.
Bob sighed. "Yeah. Okay. Call me if you need to talk. Yeah?"
"Sure," Patrick said and when he hung up he tossed the phone aside, and reached for the iPod.
He hesitated, his thumb hovering over play.
Fuck it.
He dropped the iPod on the bed and went to take a shower.
A cold one.
He had to get over this.
***
Pete had a black eye and a swollen nose when he came in at two a.m., and his t-shirt was spattered with blood.
"What the fuck happened?" Patrick demanded, jerking off his headphones. Neutral Milk Hotel echoed faintly from them, a soft, tinny whisper of drums and guitars.
"Nothing." Pete shrugged out of his leather jacket, throwing it on the couch next to Patrick's laptop. His keys jingled in the pocket. "Just a little thing."
"Who the fuck with?" Patrick was already in the kitchen, grabbing ice from the freezer and wrapping it in a dishtowel. He handed it to Pete.
"Fucking Tom Meighan." Pete pressed the ice against his temple and winced. "I may have implied that Zoe was whore."
Patrick just looked at him. "At some point that will make sense."
"She may have been there. With him." Pete moved the ice to his nose. "Ow."
"Jesus. Are you that stupid?"
"Fuck you, Stump." Pete lifted the ice for a moment and glared at him. "I'm going to bed."
His grand exit would have been a hell of a lot more impressive if he hadn't walked into the wall on the way out.
"Fuck!" Pete rubbed his forehead.
Patrick sighed. "Come on."
He pushed Pete forward, his hand on his shoulder.
"I so fucking hate you," Pete mumbled through the dishcloth.
"Back at you." Patrick shook his head. "Believe me."
They made their way upstairs, and Patrick waited while Pete changed. He looked away from the curve of Pete’s back, from the flash of his ass as Pete slid his jeans off. It wasn’t like Patrick hadn’t seen it all before. But.
Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out the window.
He heard Pete in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, pissing.
"You know what would be great?" Patrick asked, turning around as Pete came out. Pete’s boxers rode low on his hips, his t-shirt--one of Patrick's that Pete had stolen last tour--slid over his stomach as he stretched and Patrick made himself look up.
"What?" Pete fingered his nose and winced.
"If maybe you could write all this shit out instead of-" Patrick broke off. "She’s not worth it, man."
Pete just looked at him, eyes dark and shadowed, and then he shrugged. "Maybe." He fell onto the bed and pulled the comforter up over his shoulder.
"Right." Patrick shifted from foot to foot. "Do you need anything?"
"No."
Patrick sighed. "Okay." He started for the door.
Pete stopped him. "Patrick."
He looked back. Pete was on his back, hair dark and already rumpled against the white pillowcases and Patrick’s stomach twisted.
"You could stay," Pete said and Patrick knew it was a fucking stupid idea, but Pete was looking at him still, with that weirdly hesitant expression that caught Patrick off-guard no matter how many times he saw it.
He shrugged and slid onto the bed. "For a little bit, I guess."
Pete nodded, and he curled into himself, his head brushing Patrick’s arm. Patrick shifted, already hard. This was such a bad idea.
"Stop it," Pete mumbled. "That hurts."
"Your own damn fault." Patrick let his arm drape over the pillow; he held his breath as Pete rolled into him, his back pressed against Patrick’s side.
Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.
"You should see him," Pete said and he yawned.
Patrick didn’t touch him, didn’t run his fingers through Pete’s hair like he desperately wanted-no, needed to. "Not a scratch?"
"Fuck you." Pete kicked at his calf. "And shut up. God, I’m tired."
Patrick grunted and fell silent, turning slightly so he could watch Pete as his breathing evened, deepened.
The moonlight filtered through the windows, spilled over Pete’s face. His lashes were dark against his bruised cheek, his mouth soft and open and Patrick couldn’t stop himself from touching Pete’s jaw, his fingers barely brushing across the skin.
Pete shifted, whispered something Patrick couldn’t hear before turning his head, kissing Patrick’s fingers. Licking them.
Patrick froze. Fuck.
He pulled his hand away, staring at Pete. His eyes were closed, his breath steady.
"Pete?" Patrick whispered. Pete was silent. Sleeping.
Patrick slid out of bed, and his legs shook. He was hard and he could still feel Pete’s mouth on his skin, his tongue sliding hot and wet over his fingertips and it shouldn’t be so damn disturbing. After all, how many times had Pete kissed him on stage?
But this wasn’t on stage.
He barely made it to his room before he had his jeans open and his hand was tingling, aching with the memory of Pete’s lips. He stroked himself, jerking hard once, twice as he stumbled to the bed, and he landed one-handed against the mattress, his fist still pumping his cock as he shivered, Pete on his skin, in his mind, everywhere.
"God," Patrick whispered and his hips bucked, his thighs shook, and he came in sticky, wet jerks before falling against the comforter.
He lay there for a long moment, his heart pounding, face pressed into the smooth fabric. He could smell himself, spunk and sweat, and he closed his eyes.
"Shit," he groaned into the comforter. "Shit, shit, shit."
Shit. He rolled onto his back, and then reached for his iPod.
He didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
***
"What the fuck are you doing?" Patrick shouted, and Pete dropped the iPod. It landed on the bed.
He stared at Patrick. "Maybe I should be asking that?"
Patrick's face was hot, and he snatched his iPod away. Pete looked up at him from the screen, his face twisted, and Patrick clicked it off, hand shaking.
The bedroom was silent.
"I just wanted to talk," Pete said finally.
Patrick didn't look at him.
"You fucking downloaded it." Pete's voice was flat. He sat on the edge of the bed.
Patrick wrapped the headphone cord around the iPod. "Yeah."
"Why?"
"Is it that hard to figure out?" Patrick shoved the iPod into his pocket. "You're not stupid."
Pete stared at him. Patrick looked away. His cheeks burned. Again.
"Fuck you, Patrick," Pete yelled and then he was on his feet, pushing Patrick hard, sending him stumbling backwards. "Fuck you, this fucking changes everything, you goddamn shit--"
Patrick punched Pete in the gut, hard and angry, not giving a damn about the pain that shattered over his knuckles. "Fuck me? Fuck you and your fucking Zoe and your fucking Mikey and fucking all of them," he shouted, and he hit Pete again, just as hard and then they were on the floor, pounding at each other, and he didn't give a fuck that Pete was already bruised up, didn't care about anything at, just hitting him, kicking him, so fucking angry--
Andy pulled him off Pete, shouting something at him that Patrick couldn't make out, didn't want to make out. He lunged forward, but Joe had Pete and he pulled him away as Andy jerked Patrick's arms back.
"Knock it off," Andy snapped at him and Patrick fell back against him, breathing hard. His ribs ached, his jaw hurt, and Pete was glaring at him, blood running down his cheek as he tugged against Joe's grip.
"Get out." Pete's mouth was tight. "Get the fuck out."
Patrick's stomach churned.
"Pete," Joe said warningly.
"No." Patrick shook his head. "He's right. I have to--" He pulled away from Andy who gave him a sideways look. "I'm not going to hit him. I think."
Andy relaxed. "Joe," he said, and Joe nodded, pulling Pete out of the room. Andy looked at Patrick. "Man, what--"
"I'll be out in an hour," Patrick said quietly, and he reached for his bag.
Andy took it from him. "Don't be stupid."
"You've got no idea." Patrick pulled his t-shirts from the dresser. "It's just better, all right? Trust me."
"What happened?" Andy asked, folding his arms over his chest, and when Patrick didn't answer, just kept stuffing his clothes in the bag haphazardly, Andy sighed. "Patrick--"
Patrick stopped, his jeans clenched tight in his fists. His eye was half-swollen. "Just shut up, Andy, all right? Just fucking shut up."
"Fine." Andy held his hands up. "God, the two of you..."
Patrick barely waited until the door closed behind him to throw the goddamned iPod against the wall.
***
Bob answered on the third ring.
"Hey, man," Patrick said, balancing the cell phone on his shoulder as he slung his bag and his laptop case into the back of the taxi. He set his Gibson on top. "Want a roommate for a bit?"
Bob didn't say anything for a moment. "Pete?"
"Yeah." Patrick slammed the car door. "I have to buy a new iPod."
"Okay." Bob hesitated for a minute and Patrick knew he wanted to ask but that he wouldn't. Not yet. "I'll make up the other bed."
Patrick flipped the phone shut and stared blankly out the window as the taxi wound its way down Highland, toward the 101.
Part Two
Author: Femme
Fandom: Bandslash (Fall Out Boy)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: Oh, so very NC-17
Word Count: ~14,700
Summary: “There’s only so much Robert Smith you can take in one dose, and seriously, I never thought I’d say this but you’re starting to make me hate Disintegration."
Disclaimer: Look, so not true. So very, very, very, very, very, very not true. Unless somehow I’ve managed to make a psychic connection with any of the members of Fall Out Boy, which would be cool, but, er, highly unlikely. Just a bit.
Author’s Notes: Many thanks to luciamad and arsenicjade for their beta work. This takes place sometime during the later part of 2006 though I’ve fudged timeline/events a bit BECAUSE I CAN. *g*
The call came at three-sixteen in the morning.
Of course.
Shit.
Patrick rolled over in bed, cursing fucking Pete Wentz to hell and back and fumbling for his phone, and he swore to God if goddamn Trohman didn’t stop setting his goddamn ringtone to Mr. Big Stuff he was going to fucking shove his goddamn body off one of the hairpin curves of Old Topanga Canyon Boulevard that Pete liked to take at fifty mph on Saturday nights.
A half-empty bag of Cheez Doodles-the puffy ones--tumbled off the nightstand, scattering neon orange dust everywhere.
He flipped the phone open, cutting Jean Knight off sharply mid-who do you think.
"Where the fuck are you?" he asked with a groan and a yawn, rubbing his hand over his face. He’d been expecting this call for the past two weeks.
Pete’s between-the-lines were surprisingly easy to read, after all.
"Los Feliz," Pete said, oddly subdued, and Patrick sighed, reaching for the jeans pooled on the floor of Pete’s guestroom.
"I thought that much, asshole." Patrick tucked the phone against his shoulder and pulled the jeans over his hips, buttoning them with one hand while he groped for his glasses. "Where?"
There was a long pause. "At the foot of her driveway," Pete said finally. Patrick could almost hear the break in his voice.
It infuriated him.
"You realize you can call a fucking cab company with that Sidekick of yours, right?" Patrick jerked a t-shirt over his head and nearly dropped the phone. "Or better yet, actually drive your goddamn car for once. Jesusfuck, Pete, it’s the middle of the fucking night--"
"Patrick."
It was just one word, said softly and with that tiny, barely noticeable twist at the end that made Pete sound as if he were twelve and lonely and needed him, and Patrick knew Pete was using it against him, he knew it because that’s what Pete always did and there wasn't any use fighting it--that was just Pete.
"Fuck you, Pete," he said quietly, and he sat on the edge of the bed, his green Chuck Taylors dangling from his hand, laces flopping. "Give me forty-five minutes, and if you even think about going back into that bitch’s house I’m never speaking to you again. Ever. Understood?"
"Yeah," Pete said, and Patrick hung up on him.
***
Patrick hated L.A.
It was too bright, too shiny, too filled with pretty, condescending people.
All reasons Pete liked it.
"It’s all fucked up out here," Pete had said at one interminable Hollywood party he’d dragged Patrick to three months ago-and Patrick had lost track of what cause or benefit they were partying for now, though he was certain it had something to do with AIDS or Africa or vaginas or autism or starving children or animal cruelty or possibly whatever the fuck Sherry Lansing or Tim Robbins or, hell, Tara-fucking-Reid (and, hey, she was funny in Scrubs, you know, at least at first) had deemed an Appropriate Hollywood Concern lately. "That’s the beauty of it, dude. Everyone’s broken somehow and they’re all hiding behind the glitz, pretending to be the perfect pretty people fooling the world into actually wanting to be them. It’s deep in a very shallow way."
"You’re full of shit," Patrick had said over the rim of his Evian. He watched yet another half-naked starlet slip past them, giving Pete a heated look that Patrick was all too used to seeing.
"Yeah, but you know Spin would jump at that quote."
"They’re full of shit too."
Pete laughed, knocked his shoulder against Patrick’s, and the evening had been a bit more bearable.
Until Pete had spent the last two hours sucking face in one of the more private rooms with the half-naked starlet, who called herself Zoe Hawethorne, but had been born just plain Sally Gayle Miller, and, halfway to falling in love in that Pete Wentz way, had never noticed when Patrick left.
Patrick’d never asked how Pete got home that night or any night after that.
He’d never needed to.
Patrick hated Zoe. Maybe even more than L.A.
Maybe.
He didn't know why Pete wanted either of them.
***
The intersection of North Highland and Franklin was empty at three-thirty-six, and the orange-white glow of the streetlights glinted rhythmically across the windshield of Pete’s black Range Rover. Pete had been on a Raconteurs kick lately, and Steady As She Goes had nearly deafened Patrick when he’d started the engine.
At least it’d woken him up, he supposed.
He knew he’d hit Hollywood when the street faded from smooth black to a potholed gray that sent the SUV rattling and shifting across the pavement.
Goddamn L.A. And goddamn Pete for making him come out here. For calling him every day for three weeks and telling him that he needed to get out of Chicago, that he needed a break from the Anna thing, that he’d be better off here. With Pete.
The fuck of it all was that Patrick knew Pete was right. He was always better off with Pete. Bastard shit.
Patrick had just turned onto Western, passing the gates to the American Film Institute on his left as he made the curve that would take him onto Los Feliz towards Griffith Park, when he realized he’d left his hat behind, tossed on the kitchen bar as he searched for Pete’s keys.
He swore and the CD player clicked, switching into the mp3 disc of mashups Mikey Way had sent Pete last week, and Patrick gripped the steering wheel tighter, mouth a grim line. He was going to kill Pete for this. It was goddamn three-he checked the clock, glowing greenish-yellow in the dark-three-forty-nine.
Shit.
It had only taken half an hour total to make a drive that would take at least twice as long mid-day and when he finally turned down Talmadge, the car headlights sweeping over stucco privacy fences and eucalyptus trees as Patrick sang along with Fischerspooner, the Scissor Sisters, Pet Shop Boys, and Edwin Starr (and really, whoever thought of that combination was either fucking brilliant or on serious drugs, he thought), he caught sight of Pete, huddled on the curb, his knees pulled to his chest, brown hoodie tugged down low over his forehead.
"You look like hell," Patrick said through the open window, and Pete just shrugged as he climbed in and buckled his seatbelt.
"Yeah, and I’m still hotter than you." Pete stared out the window and Patrick knew by the tightness of his jaw and the way his hands clenched in the hoodie’s pockets that he was barely holding it together.
Fuck that bitch.
"What the fuck are you listening to?" Pete asked and Patrick let the wheels squeal loudly as he tore down the street, leaving behind a streak of black rubber against the mottled asphalt.
***
They ended up in a back booth at Swinger’s on Beverly with the early-morning breakfast shift of half-drunk club kids and insomniacs, Josephine Baker playing on the jukebox in the corner, and Patrick ordered two coffees and two short stacks of vegan pancakes-and only in L.A. would a greasy spoon cater to vegans, he thought-while Pete stumbled off to the bathroom.
Patrick’d just started in on his second cup of coffee-poured by a cute waitress named Allison who had pink spiked hair, a Bettie Page body, and a lip ring-when Pete slid into the booth across from him. His hair was damp in the front and his eyes were rimmed red, but he gave Allison a too-bright smile, the kind he pasted on for reporters and photo shoots and fan meet and greets.
Patrick wasn’t overly fond of that smile.
"Well," Patrick said finally, setting down his coffee cup as Allison’s green plaid Vans squeaked off toward the kitchen, "are we going to talk about what happened?"
"No." Pete poked at his pancakes and Patrick knew he wouldn’t eat more than half of them. He never did. "We broke up. That’s all."
Patrick let it slide for a moment, taking a bite of his own pancakes. He chewed slowly, watching Pete ignore him in favor of dragging his fork through the syrup. "So you called me at three-thirty in the morning just for a ride."
"Maybe." Pete sighed and put his fork down. "What do you want me to say, man? We broke up and it sucks." He looked up at Pete then, and his eyes were dark. "She could have been the one."
Patrick decided this might not be the best time to remind Pete that he thought that about them all. It was always like this; when Pete fell, it was hard and fast and when it ended, he was inconsolable for a few days, weeks, maybe, and then-well. It was always a wide smile for the reporter and a laugh and a no, dude, we’re just friends, that’s all, we just hung out some, you know as he shrugged it all off.
Literally.
And the bastard usually managed to stay friends with them all, that’s what amazed Patrick. The next thing you knew, Pete’s heartbreak had drifted into an easy friendship and it was no big deal. Case in point Mikey and God, how Patrick resented him sometimes. Even though it was hard to. Mikey was Mikey, for Christ's sake.
Only Jeanae had been able to get under Pete’s skin for good, and that was a subject that they Did Not Talk About.
Ever.
Patrick tapped a rhythm out against the formica tabletop, his fingers finding the beat of the music drifting in the background. "Come on, man," he said finally.
"Just leave it, all right?" Pete set his fork down and he looked tired and drained. "Can we just not talk?"
"Fine." Patrick sighed. "But only if you eat."
Pete hesitated, then picked up his fork again. "Only to keep you off my fucking back," he muttered, sounding more like himself, and Patrick relaxed a little and reached for his coffee cup.
A couple of days and it’d be okay again.
That’s just the way life was with Pete.
"Your shirt’s inside out," Pete said, not looking up from his pancakes. He took a bite, chewed it as he scraped his fork tines over the top pancake, peeling back the toffee-brown skin, prodding a sliver of banana.
Patrick glanced down. The overlock seam of the green ringer hung over his collarbone. "Fuck."
Pete laughed, even if it was just a faint echo of his usual warm bark, and Patrick smiled into his lukewarm coffee.
Yeah. It’d be okay.
***
The tape clips hit YouTube on Wednesday afternoon, East Coast time and less than an hour later were linked on both Perez Hilton’s blog and Egotastic.
Defamer had it fifteen minutes after that and of course Gawker chose that afternoon to run a jump link to the story. By three on the L.A. clock, P.A.s from Entertainment Weekly and E!News had already called Island and Bob and the Wentz house in Wilmette. Pete’s mom hung up on them.
And then called Pete.
It was the Sidekick photos all over again.
"Jesus, Pete," Patrick said, as Pete threw the Sidekick across the room when it buzzed yet again, "do you ever think with something besides your dick?"
"Fuck you." Pete was curled on the couch, bare feet tucked beneath him, arms wrapped tight around his thin chest. He was wearing his old CBGB t-shirt, and it rode up just enough to leave a stretch of pale-golden skin showing above his hipbone.
Patrick refused to look at it.
Instead he collapsed on the couch next to Pete, letting his head drop back against the beige chenille.
"I didn’t know she was taping," Pete said sullenly and he chewed on his thumbnail. "I mean, fuck. Three goddamn months, man. Aren’t guys supposed to be the jerks in relationships?"
Patrick glared at Pete. "Have you ever noticed you have really craptastic taste in women?"
"Not all of them." Pete pushed his foot against Patrick’s hip, shoving him into the couch arm.
Patrick caught Pete’s foot and pulled it onto his lap, digging his fingernails in hard enough for Pete to flinch. "This one. She had to leak it, you know."
Pete shrugged and went back to chewing his thumbnail. "Yeah. Maybe I shouldn’t have called her a motherfucking cunt when we broke up."
"Nothing wrong with speaking the truth."
Pete gave him a faint smile.
"Anyway, at least everyone’s already seen your dick," Patrick said and Pete just gave him a look. "What? It’s true."
"And now they know how I give head," Pete snapped.
"And get it."
Pete slammed his heel hard into Patrick’s gut, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Patrick saw those damn floaty things drift across his eyes as he blinked hard against the sharp pain. Fuck, the bastard’s bony little feet hurt.
"Thanks, man," Pete snapped. "Way to cheer me up." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end before it flopped back over his eyes. "I don’t even want to see the Net."
"Jesus," Patrick wheezed, and he rubbed his stomach, sincerely hoping that Pete hadn’t, you know, burst his spleen or anything. "Look, man, fuck them all, okay? It doesn’t matter what they say-"
Pete pulled away, stood up. "It always matters," he said quietly. "You know that. It always does. We just say we don’t give a fuck."
"Pete-"
"I’m going upstairs," Pete said, and he looked so damn young, shoulders hunched, fists shoved into his pockets, pulling his jeans dangerously low. That was the thing about Pete, Patrick thought. Their ages be damned; Patrick always felt five years older than Pete. Sometimes it was fucking exhausting, all of this.
Pete was already halfway up the stairs when Patrick turned, arm over the back of the couch. "You know this will be okay," he said quietly, eyes fixed on Pete’s face and Pete hesitated, hand on the banister.
"Maybe," Pete said, and he gave Patrick a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Maybe."
Hemingway padded into the living room just as Patrick heard Pete’s bedroom door snick shut. The bulldog nuzzled Patrick’s bare feet, his nose cold and wet and he whined until Patrick picked him up, setting him on the couch next to him and scratching behind his ear.
"It’s going to be a bumpy ride, Hemmy," Patrick murmured and Hemmingway barked softly, burrowing into Patrick’s side.
***
"How’s he doing?" Mikey asked, and his voice crackled across the cell phone connection.
"Okay, I guess," Patrick said, lowering his voice, and darting a glance at the closed studio door. He shifted the Gibson SG in his lap. Pete was supposedly upstairs sleeping-Andy had dosed him with some weird vervain and lavender concoction about half an hour after his plane had arrived tonight--but he had a tendency to wander the house at odd hours and Patrick didn’t really think Andy’s version of a sleeping pill was going to work. Not on Pete.
Mikey didn’t say anything for a moment. "He’s not eating is he?" he asked finally and Patrick could tell he already knew the answer.
"You know Pete," he said with a sigh. His fingers strummed lightly over the guitar strings. "He’s working out though. A lot. When he comes out of his room."
"Adrenaline."
"Yeah."
And control, Patrick wanted to add, but he didn’t because it didn’t need to be said. Not to Mikey. But it hung there between the two of them, heavy and slightly uncomfortable as things sometimes could be between them when it came to Pete. Instead he asked, "what are we going to do?" even though he knew there wasn’t really an answer to that.
There was a pause and the line cracked again. "Mikey?" Patrick asked, and he was almost certain he’d lost the connection when Mikey sighed. Patrick gripped the phone tighter.
"It’s you he needs, you know," Mikey said softly. "I mean, last time, I could do it because-" He drifted off and sighed again and Patrick could almost see him sprawled across the ratty couch in the apartment he shared with Frank. "Look, it’s you this time, Patrick. I don’t know if you need him more or he needs you more, but I don’t think it matters."
"What the fuck are you talking about, man?" Patrick pushed his hat back on his head and rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead. A twist of nervousness churned his stomach. Fuck, he’d been careful. He knew he had. He’d gotten damn good at hiding things. You had to around Pete.
"Come on. You know. Don’t talk shit, okay?" There was a rustle over the phone line, a murmur of voices in the background and a whispered fuck, Frank, just wait a fucking minute. Patrick recognized Iero's laugh. "I have to go, but call me, yeah? We'll be in town in a few days to record and we’re worried over here."
Patrick was left staring at his phone, the call disconnecting on the screen.
Sometimes Mikey saw too much.
Patrick threw the phone across the room.
***
Patrick sat at the kitchen table, hunched over his MacBook Pro, headphones on. A cold mug of coffee sat at his elbow, forgotten and undrinkable, along with a few scraps of peanut-butter-smeared toast and orange peels. He was supposed to be working on some beats for Travis, but instead he was watching the clip. Again.
He sucked as a best friend. He knew he did. He shouldn’t even know where the fucking clip was, much less hit watch again, but he couldn’t stop himself and he refused to think of what it might mean that he immediately pushed the slider past the grainy image of Pete’s back between Zoe’s long white legs.
Fucking bitch.
And then Pete arched on his screen, his skin warm and gold against the white sheets, fingers grabbing at the pillow beneath his shoulders as Zoe kissed down his stomach, her blonde hair tumbling over his hip. It was a shitty video; the quality sucked, but it didn’t matter because the look on Pete’s shadowed face-Christ.
This was crazy.
And hot.
Shit.
He scrambled to shut Firefox, face red, when Andy came in, shirtless, boxers hanging off his hips, and headed straight for the Fridgidaire.
"Hey, man," Andy mumbled sleepily, and he scratched his balls as he drank from the two-liter of Mountain Dew.
Patrick grunted and shifted in his chair. He was half-hard and, fuck, Andy sat at the table and looked at him, blinking from behind smudged glasses.
"What?" Patrick asked, snapping the word out more tensely than he’d intended.
"Joe called," Andy said mildly. "He’s coming back out today."
Patrick slid his headphones off. "He doesn’t have to; he's got another week off. And Pete’s…" Patrick hesitated. It wasn't that Pete was okay. But he wasn’t like he had been after the Ativan or the wang photos-and Christ, how he’d yelled at Pete for both of those--shattered a mirror, even, after Pete had joined them in Europe post-hospital. "You know."
Andy shrugged. "None of us have to. Doesn’t mean we don’t want to. It’s Pete."
"Yeah." Patrick dipped his head, staring down at his keyboard. He tapped his thumb restlessly against the apple key and sighed. "Well, it’s good he’ll be here, I guess."
He knew it was shit of him, really, it was, but he kind of didn’t want Andy and Joe here. He kind of wanted it to be just him. And Pete.
Fuck Mikey Way.
Andy was watching him, and the morning sun filtered through the ivy-draped windows, sending light and shadows moving across his shoulders, over the swirls of red and green and blue ink that spiraled down his arms.
"You want to talk?" Andy asked finally and Patrick gave him an incredulous look.
"About what?"
Andy shrugged. "I don’t know. Pete?"
"There’s nothing to talk about." Patrick fired up Garage Band, watching as the guitar icon bounced in his dock. He’d finally replaced the desktop of him and Anna a few months ago with a picture of him and the boys that Dirty had taken in the bus on the last tour. They were all sprawled across the sofa, and he was shoved up against Troh on one side and Andy on the other, and Pete was sitting behind him, draped over his shoulder, his legs around Patrick’s hips.
Red Bull cans were everywhere and Andy was shirtless, as usual, and Joe had that slightly glazed, amused-with-the-world look in his eye that meant he’d slipped off at some point before with Dirty and Charlie for a smoke.
And there was Pete.
Pete’s arm was around Patrick’s neck, pulling him back into him, and his face was pressed against Patrick’s hair, knocking his hat askew.
They looked fucking happy.
"You know it’s okay, man," Andy said, twisting the bottle of soda between his hands and he shrugged as Patrick frowned at him. "I mean, you and Pete, you know-and since Anna--"
Jesus. Patrick’s face flamed and he slammed the lid of his MacBook down, shoving his chair back. "Fuck off, Hurley."
Andy sighed. "Patrick--"
"No, seriously." Patrick picked up his computer. "Fuck off."
He stormed out, letting the kitchen door slam shut behind him.
Fuck Pete Wentz. Fuck him.
***
Pete stood in the doorway of Patrick’s room, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"Hey," Patrick said and he sat up, his guitar shifting off his stomach with a rattle of strings. The mattress dipped to one side. "You weren’t sleeping, were you?"
"No." Pete leaned against the doorjamb; he rubbed his bare toe against the wood floor. "You’re sounding good. What are you working on?"
Patrick shrugged. "Stuff."
There was a long pause, and Patrick almost thought Pete was going to turn around, back into the room he’d been hiding out in for the past few days, but instead he was next to Patrick’s bed, sitting down with a sigh.
"Joe and Andy’ve been looking in on me," he said.
Patrick grinned. "Yentas."
"Pretty much." Pete stretched out next to him, rolling onto his stomach. "Joe keeps trying to feed me, and Andy keeps asking if I want to talk about anything. It’s fucking weird."
"They’re worried." Patrick balanced the Gibson on his thigh, his knee bent, and strummed his thumb over the strings. D-A, add a D, then G-D-A-no, G-A…much better.
"Yeah." Pete curled around a pillow. "They shouldn’t be. It's not like I'm going to do anything stupid."
"Maybe."
Pete gave Patrick a sharp look. "I’m fine."
"Sure."
"Patrick."
"Don’t start with me, man." Patrick tapped the rhythm out against the bed, his foot pressing into the comforter. "We’ve all known you too long."
Pete didn’t say anything.
Patrick’s fingers slid down the neck of the guitar.
"What is that?" Pete asked, shifting across the bed to sit next to Patrick.
Patrick hummed softly under his breath, the melody blending into the even, steady thrum of guitar strings. He looked up at Pete finally, meeting his curious gaze. "The music for the song you’re going to write about all of this."
"I'm not," Pete started, then he sighed at Patrick's raised eyebrow. "Shut up."
"I’m thinking next single." Patrick tightened one of the frets. "Use that money shot of you in the video."
"Fuck you." Pete looked away, chewing on his bottom lip as he leaned back against the pillows, stared out the window. The setting sun was disappearing into the hills, black against its orange-gold warmth.
Patrick shrugged and kept playing.
***
Pete made it five days before he called her.
It was two o'clock in the morning and Patrick was still staying with Pete, even though Andy and Joe had moved into one of the label's Oakwood apartments.
"It's better, man," Joe had said when Patrick had confronted him about leaving Pete behind. "It's not like we won't be over here all the time, anyway. And you and Pete--you guys need some time, you know?"
He'd just shrugged when Patrick had sputtered and demanded to know what he meant by that.
Patrick'd woken up the next morning to his cell phone screaming since I kissed his loving lips of wine, the thing that bothers me is that I like it fine in Mandy Moore's voice.
Sometimes he hated Troh.
He'd gotten up to piss when he'd heard Pete, whispering at first, and it only took the baby, come on, baby, listen to me for him to freeze outside Pete's door, suddenly afraid it was Jeanae again.
"Fuck it, Zoe," Pete had said then, angry, and Patrick leaned against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
Shit.
That was worse.
"I can't get you out of my head even after this--" There was a long pause and Patrick could hear Pete breathing. "God, you're a fucking cunt."
Patrick pushed Pete's door open further; he was sitting in the windowseat, dark against the moonlight and the glow of his Sidekick lit his cheek. His legs were bare and long and thin.
"Why’d you do it?" Pete asked, leaning his head against the window, and Patrick clenched his fists against his thighs, twisting his thumbs in the worn cotton of his boxers. "Just tell me-"
Silence and Patrick held his breath. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be listening to this. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t…
"Fuck you," Pete snapped and he threw the Sidekick across the room. It skittered over the smooth wood floor, catching finally on Pete's abandoned jeans. Pete sighed. "You might as well stop lurking."
Patrick picked the Sidekick up. "You gotta stop doing that, man."
That earned him a baleful glare before Pete turned back to the window, staring out at the backyard with its wide swimming pool and landscaped sweep of green grass. "I hate this place."
"Maybe you should go home for a while." Patrick sat on the edge of the window seat. "See your mom. Have her make you macaroni. Or something."
Pete pulled his knees up to chest. "I’m not running away, man."
Patrick shrugged. "Nothing wrong with that." He looked out the window. Moonlight glimmered across the smooth surface of the pool. "I did it."
"Did not." Pete nudged his hip. "You needed to get out of there. All that Anna stuff, it was eating your brain, dude. You know that."
"Maybe." Patrick looked at Pete then. "You’re freaking me, you know. I’m worried."
Pete ducked his head, rubbed his thumb over his knee. He frowned. "Yeah. Mikey said. Thanks so much for setting him on me, by the way. Way to be a friend there."
"Fuck you. He's worried too. You’re not eating, you stay in your room most of the day, you don’t sleep, and you’ve been listening to The Cure for the past five days." Patrick ran a hand through his hair. "That’s just not healthy. There’s only so much Robert Smith you can take in one dose, and seriously, I never thought I’d say this but you’re starting to make me hate Disintegration."
"Sorry?" Pete leaned back against the wall, looking at Patrick through a tumble of black bangs. He scowled and bit at his thumbnail.
Neither of them said anything for a moment, then Pete sighed that sigh that Patrick recognized as an exasperated fuck-off.
"Look, I’ll be fine." Pete wrapped his arms around himself. "Just leave me alone, okay? I don’t fucking feel like people right now and I don’t need you or Hurley or Troh making those faces all the time like I'm going to fucking implode again. I don’t need anything. I’m fucking fine."
Patrick nodded, then looked away. "Whatever. If that’s what you want."
"It is."
"Great. Let me know when you get your head out of your ass."
Patrick was out of the room before Pete could stop him. The Sidekick shattered against the doorjamb, barely missing Patrick's right ear. Another $400 down the shitter.
Melodramtic little emo fuck.
Patrick slammed his bedroom door.
***
"He's going to have to go out at some point," Joe said calmly, as if Pete weren't in the room, tipping his chair back onto its back legs as he stared out the window. He tossed the just-messengered-over invitations on the table. "It's been a week. And the label wants us all to go, and Karen says--"
"Fuck Karen." Patrick slammed the fridge door closed and leaned against it, bottle of Coke in one hand. He twisted the cap, the sharp fizz hissing in the silent kitchen. "It's a MTV film premiere, Joe. Reporters everywhere. You know what those bastards are like."
"Vultures. Carrion-eaters," Andy said, not looking up from the day's Jumble. He chewed on his pencil eraser. "M-E-J-A-S-T? Meatsj, teamjs--"
"Jetsam." Joe looked at Andy. "What? I did it earlier."
Andy rolled his eyes and scribbled it into the empty circles, pencil tearing the Times newsprint.
Joe turned back to Patrick. "Look, the label’s been holding them off and you know it. There’s only so much Karen can do with canned statements-"
"Hey, I blogged about it," Pete snapped. "Twice."
"Rambling unpunctuated diatribes informing people to trust goddamn fucking no one don’t really count as damage control, Mulder," Andy said. "Would it kill you to find the shift key?"
Pete flipped him off.
Joe ignored them both. "So he goes out with us, we all walk the carpet with him, and if any of the fuckers get out of hand, we pull him away. No comment and all that shit."
"When has Pete ever been able to say no comment?" Patrick lifted his Coke to his lips. It was sharp and bitter, stinging the roof of his mouth. He didn’t look at Pete. Didn’t want to look at Pete. Hadn’t looked at Pete for two days and if the other two hadn’t shown up this morning with a bag of everything bagels and four cups of Chelsea roast coffee from Noah’s in West Hollywood he’d still be lurking in his room. Fuck Pete.
Pete's chair legs thudded down. "Has anyone thought of asking Pete what Pete wants?"
They all looked at him. He glared at them, the dark circles under his eyes pronounced.
"Okay," Patrick said tightly. "Tell us. What does the great Pete Wentz want?"
He and Pete scowled at each other, Pete's jaw tensing, and Patrick just stood there, waiting. Not giving a damn. What did it matter anyway? Pete wanted him to fuck off. He'd fucked off.
Joe and Andy exchanged a glance.
There was a long silence, and then Pete pushed his chair back and stood up. "Pete wants to fucking go out tonight."
The kitchen door slapped shut behind him, swinging back and forth in its frame.
"Well," Andy said, putting his pencil down and looking at Patrick thoughtfully. "I guess we're going, Agent Scully."
Patrick threw his bottle cap at him.
***
Patrick had crushed on Giuliana DePandi since he was seventeen. Even now whenever Joe and Andy insisted on watching E!News Daily, Patrick would manage to be in the room, half-hidden behind his laptop, glaring at Joe every time he would make a crack about banging her. Which was often, and always egged on by Pete. The bastard.
It was too much to expect that she’d actually be working the carpet, Patrick supposed, standing at the top of the stretch of red, his hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, cap tilted at what he hoped was a rakish angle over his eyebrows. Instead they were stuck with Samantha Harris, waiting eagerly for them a few feet away, her head twisting back and forth between Pete and her cameraman.
Patrick felt nauseated.
"You all right?" Andy bumped his shoulder against Patrick’s.
Patrick sighed and eyed the throng of reporters and boom mikes and cameras. Flashes were already going off; Patrick was fairly certain Jerry O’Donnell or Adam Sandler had just walked past. MTV didn't exactly pull the A-list, after all. "I hate this shit. You know they’re going to eat him alive."
"Man, you worry too much." Andy shook his head. "He’s Pete. He’ll handle it, probably better than you will."
"It’s just-"
Andy cut him off, raising his hand. "Stump, look. You can’t protect him and you’ve got to stop trying, right? He’s a big boy."
Patrick looked over at Pete, rocking back and forth on his heels, his face calm. Patrick could feel his nerves, though, could sense them through the slight, shallow intake of Pete’s breath, the nervous tugging at the zipper of his hoodie, the almost imperceptible slump of his shoulders.
"Yeah. Right."
And then Karen was on them, her assistant Danny fluttering behind, and she was straightening hoodies and fluffing hair. She stopped in front of Pete, eyes narrowed.
"Really, are you trying to give me an ulcer? Because hand to God, Wentz, hand to God, I’ve spent most of the past year desperately trying to convince middle America that, despite what you may say, you are in no way deviant, queer or a slut and then you go around and pull a Tommy Lee on me and the one thing I thank God for is that it was actually with a girl so that I can at least have actual proof of your heterosexuality for the next time you do something like, oh, say, tell a DJ that you’d like to fuck Ryan Philippe. So I repeat, are you trying to give me an ulcer?"
Pete rolled his eyes. "Yeah. It’s my goal in life. And Ryan Philippe’s hot. And single."
"Stop it." Karen snapped her red-tipped fingers and Danny passed a tin of Altoids over her shoulder. Karen shoved it at Pete. "You’re not going to fuck this up, are you?"
Pete sucked on a mint. "No. Hey, did you know you can use these to spark up your blowjobs?"
Karen looked over at Patrick. "Don’t let him say things like that."
"You think I’m going to be able to stop him?" Patrick gave her an incredulous look.
"If anyone could," Karen started and then she sighed and tugged at Patrick’s cap. "Why do you always look like you just climbed out of a Mack truck?"
Patrick swatted her hands away. "No harshing on the hat. We’ve had this discussion."
A headphoned P.A. tapped Karen on the shoulder, murmured something into her ear and Karen clapped her hands. "Here we go. Pete only talks to E!News and Entertainment Tonight--" she gave Pete a sharp look and he shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets "--the rest of you fill in with the others and for God's sake, keep walking, walking, walking. Danny and I will be right behind you. Sound bites, people, not monologues. Joe, be charming. Andy, talk vegan. Patrick, drum up some album quotes--and no, I don't give a damn if it kills you--and Pete-" she sighed "-just don’t mention sex."
"That’s going to be kind of hard," Pete mumbled and she glared at him again before pushing them down the carpet.
"God, I need a martini," Patrick heard her mumble.
The reporters rushed forward, clamoring for Pete, and Patrick closed his eyes.
It was going to be a long, long night.
***
"This is one of those rare moments when I wish I was a) single and b) drugged out of my mind," Andy muttered. "Anything to alleviate the boredom."
Patrick nodded and slouched against the wall. These parties were a waste of time. Joe’d disappeared somewhere-probably outside for a joint or two-and the last time he’d seen Pete he was out on the dance floor with some girl.
He was almost the old Pete again, shrugging off the reporters’ questions earlier with a wry, boyish grin and a hey, we all make mistakes sometimes, right? I just want to make music and get back to enjoying life again, dude. They ate it up, like always and by the end of the week it’d just be another annotation in the Pete Wentz file for them.
Patrick hated them all.
"Danny," Andy said, and Patrick looked up to see their publicist's assistant slump against the wall next to him, a scotch and tonic clutched in his perfectly manicured hand.
"Christ, I fucking hate MTV parties," he muttered into his glass. "If either of you hit on me, I swear to God I’ll tell Whitney to book you for the worst gigs possible on your next tour."
Andy and Patrick exchanged a look. "You’re safe here," Patrick said, raising his Red Bull can to his lips.
"Why the fuck I went into this industry I still can't figure out. It is not worth the Xanax bill." Danny downed the rest of his drink, setting the empty glass on a passing tray. "Scuttlebutt’s going around that your girl’s being courted by a couple of the majors now."
Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Our girl?"
"Zoe Hawethorne." Danny dug in his pocket and pulled out a Chapstick. He smeared it across his mouth. "Not that you heard that from me, right? Want some?" He held out the tube.
"What the hell?" Patrick stared at him and waved away the offer.
"Oh, yeah." Danny smacked his lips and capped the Chapstick. "Endeavor's pitching her tomorrow. There's buzz around her now with that tape, which sucks for Pete, but she’s getting some boost from it. Welcome to Hollywood, boys." His eyes widened. "Fuck. I have to go. Timberlake just saw me-I didn’t return his call after the last time we-“ He broke off and looked at them out of the corner of his eye. “--well, you know, and don’t look at me that way, Patrick, you already know I’m a shit, I’m in publicity for God’s sake. We'll chat later--I've texted Bob some tentative dates for the new year and Karen's talking about a corporate sponsorship, you know."
He squeezed Patrick's arm, air-kissed Andy's cheek and then he was gone in a waft of scotch and Burberry Brit.
Pete'd bought a bottle for Patrick last Christmas; he'd never used it because what the fuck.
He looked at Andy.
"I'm not telling Pete, man," Andy said and he finished off his water.
"Shit." Patrick crushed his Red Bull can in one fist, the sharp fold of aluminium nicking his fingertip. A trickle of blood ran under his nail.
Andy gave him a sympathetic smile.
***
Pete put his fist through the wall when Patrick told him and then walked out of the room.
He didn't speak to anyone the next day.
Patrick didn't blame him.
Entirely.
He just reached for the phone and the Yellow Pages and dialed Sylmar Drywall.
Pete would be Pete.
***
Patrick told the contractor that the hole was from a guitar accident.
The man just nodded, shrugged, and by eight that night, grainy cellphone pics of the wall had shown up on the web with various highly fictionalized accounts of a Fall Out Boy falling-out.
Pete's favorite was that Patrick had thrown a guitar case at him in a fit of jealousy; he left a blog post implying that they'd kissed and made up.
Literally.
Patrick didn't know what was worse--the rabid cry of fangirls insisting Pete wasn't gay (most of them seemed to not give a fuck about him all that much which was kind of all right with him) or the delight of the ones who thought they should just give it up already and take a trip to Massachusetts.
"You’re a shit," he said. Pete just puckered up and made kissing noises.
"Maybe they'll Photoshop you two again," Andy had said, laughing and Joe had perked up, setting aside his joint.
"That was pretty cool," he said, blowing out a huff of smoke. "I want to be Photoshopped tonguing Gisele. Hey, Pete--"
"I'll mention it next blog." Pete didn't look up from his Sidekick.
Patrick was beginning to hate the fucking Internet.
***
By Tuesday Zoe had signed with William Morris. By Thursday she'd given four interviews talking about how broken she was that her privacy had been invaded and what a shit Pete was for doing this to her, and she'd turned down offers from Playboy and Penthouse. By Friday, she'd landed the best-friend role in Reese Witherspoon's next project.
Patrick never really had liked Reese all that much anyway.
"She's fucking insane," Joe said to him, standing at a sidewalk newsstand on Wiltshire, a Malibu Dream Ice Blended from Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf dripping onto the front page of Variety. A faint breeze ruffled the maroon canvas awning above them. "What the hell did Pete see in her anyway?'
Patrick gave him a look.
Joe shrugged and slurped his drink through the straw. "Right." A blob of half-melted whipped cream slid over his finger and splatted against the black and white headshot of Zoe.
"Hey, fucktard, you gonna pay for that?" the lanky boy at the register snapped, and Patrick tossed a five-dollar bill at him.
"Don't fucking show that to Pete," he said, rattling the car keys in his hand. He was itching to get back to the house; he'd almost worked out that third riff in the second chorus in his head.
Joe gave him a baleful look, then folded the paper and shoved it in a trashcan. "I'm not an idiot, man."
"I know." Patrick sighed, then frowned, and Joe thumped the brim of his cap.
"Buck up, emo boy," he said with a grin. "Save it for the tunes."
Patrick flipped him off.
***
Every time YouTube took the video down, it was uploaded again.
Patrick gave up bookmarking the pages. Instead he searched for a standalone file on one of the fansites and downloaded it to his iPod. It was crazy and sick and he knew it.
But at one-thirty in the morning when he was horny as fuck and thinking about Pete, lying across the hall, he didn't care.
He always hated himself afterwards.
He hoped that counted.
***
"So where is he?" Bryar asked, and Patrick sighed, staring at the picture frozen on his iPod screen. He shifted the phone from one ear to the other and buttoned up his jeans. There was no way he was having this conversation with his cock hanging out.
"Out somewhere. Some girl called and invited him to some party down in Venice. I didn't ask."
There was a pause. Never a good sign. "You didn't go with him," Bob said carefully. Too carefully.
"I'm not going to hover over him," Patrick snapped, tired of the whole idea that he should watch over Pete. Christ. It wasn't his goddamn job. "He's a fucking adult. Besides he's feeling better and if he wants to go party, he should. And I have work to do."
Bob huffed, and then laughed ruefully. "Yeah, okay. Fair enough." He hesitated. "Look, are you okay, man? Mikey says--"
"Fuck Mikey." Patrick ran a hand over his face. "Sorry."
Bob didn't say anything for a minute and Patrick pushed his glasses up, rubbed at his eyes.
"It's just not always easy, okay?" he mumbled. God, he was fucking pathetic. "I mean, Pete...you know. He's intense."
"I get it." There was a rustle and a sigh on the other end of the line. "Look, we're in town now. Recording. Gerard's rented out the Paramour, but I've got a label apartment if you want to crash there some. Got to have some space, you know. Gee gets...intense, too, at times, and Frank and Mikey..." He trailed off.
Patrick knew what he meant. You only had to be in the room once with those two. He liked Frank; he was good for Mikey, made him happy, and fuck, after Pete, Mikey deserved that. "Yeah. Maybe." He shifted the cell phone to his other ear. "I don't know."
"Think about it, all right?" Bob's voice was even. "Man, there's only so much you can do, and driving yourself crazy about it all isn't going to help."
"I know." Patrick stared up at the ceiling. There was a crack in one corner, hidden in the shadows.
Bob sighed. "Yeah. Okay. Call me if you need to talk. Yeah?"
"Sure," Patrick said and when he hung up he tossed the phone aside, and reached for the iPod.
He hesitated, his thumb hovering over play.
Fuck it.
He dropped the iPod on the bed and went to take a shower.
A cold one.
He had to get over this.
***
Pete had a black eye and a swollen nose when he came in at two a.m., and his t-shirt was spattered with blood.
"What the fuck happened?" Patrick demanded, jerking off his headphones. Neutral Milk Hotel echoed faintly from them, a soft, tinny whisper of drums and guitars.
"Nothing." Pete shrugged out of his leather jacket, throwing it on the couch next to Patrick's laptop. His keys jingled in the pocket. "Just a little thing."
"Who the fuck with?" Patrick was already in the kitchen, grabbing ice from the freezer and wrapping it in a dishtowel. He handed it to Pete.
"Fucking Tom Meighan." Pete pressed the ice against his temple and winced. "I may have implied that Zoe was whore."
Patrick just looked at him. "At some point that will make sense."
"She may have been there. With him." Pete moved the ice to his nose. "Ow."
"Jesus. Are you that stupid?"
"Fuck you, Stump." Pete lifted the ice for a moment and glared at him. "I'm going to bed."
His grand exit would have been a hell of a lot more impressive if he hadn't walked into the wall on the way out.
"Fuck!" Pete rubbed his forehead.
Patrick sighed. "Come on."
He pushed Pete forward, his hand on his shoulder.
"I so fucking hate you," Pete mumbled through the dishcloth.
"Back at you." Patrick shook his head. "Believe me."
They made their way upstairs, and Patrick waited while Pete changed. He looked away from the curve of Pete’s back, from the flash of his ass as Pete slid his jeans off. It wasn’t like Patrick hadn’t seen it all before. But.
Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out the window.
He heard Pete in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, pissing.
"You know what would be great?" Patrick asked, turning around as Pete came out. Pete’s boxers rode low on his hips, his t-shirt--one of Patrick's that Pete had stolen last tour--slid over his stomach as he stretched and Patrick made himself look up.
"What?" Pete fingered his nose and winced.
"If maybe you could write all this shit out instead of-" Patrick broke off. "She’s not worth it, man."
Pete just looked at him, eyes dark and shadowed, and then he shrugged. "Maybe." He fell onto the bed and pulled the comforter up over his shoulder.
"Right." Patrick shifted from foot to foot. "Do you need anything?"
"No."
Patrick sighed. "Okay." He started for the door.
Pete stopped him. "Patrick."
He looked back. Pete was on his back, hair dark and already rumpled against the white pillowcases and Patrick’s stomach twisted.
"You could stay," Pete said and Patrick knew it was a fucking stupid idea, but Pete was looking at him still, with that weirdly hesitant expression that caught Patrick off-guard no matter how many times he saw it.
He shrugged and slid onto the bed. "For a little bit, I guess."
Pete nodded, and he curled into himself, his head brushing Patrick’s arm. Patrick shifted, already hard. This was such a bad idea.
"Stop it," Pete mumbled. "That hurts."
"Your own damn fault." Patrick let his arm drape over the pillow; he held his breath as Pete rolled into him, his back pressed against Patrick’s side.
Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.
"You should see him," Pete said and he yawned.
Patrick didn’t touch him, didn’t run his fingers through Pete’s hair like he desperately wanted-no, needed to. "Not a scratch?"
"Fuck you." Pete kicked at his calf. "And shut up. God, I’m tired."
Patrick grunted and fell silent, turning slightly so he could watch Pete as his breathing evened, deepened.
The moonlight filtered through the windows, spilled over Pete’s face. His lashes were dark against his bruised cheek, his mouth soft and open and Patrick couldn’t stop himself from touching Pete’s jaw, his fingers barely brushing across the skin.
Pete shifted, whispered something Patrick couldn’t hear before turning his head, kissing Patrick’s fingers. Licking them.
Patrick froze. Fuck.
He pulled his hand away, staring at Pete. His eyes were closed, his breath steady.
"Pete?" Patrick whispered. Pete was silent. Sleeping.
Patrick slid out of bed, and his legs shook. He was hard and he could still feel Pete’s mouth on his skin, his tongue sliding hot and wet over his fingertips and it shouldn’t be so damn disturbing. After all, how many times had Pete kissed him on stage?
But this wasn’t on stage.
He barely made it to his room before he had his jeans open and his hand was tingling, aching with the memory of Pete’s lips. He stroked himself, jerking hard once, twice as he stumbled to the bed, and he landed one-handed against the mattress, his fist still pumping his cock as he shivered, Pete on his skin, in his mind, everywhere.
"God," Patrick whispered and his hips bucked, his thighs shook, and he came in sticky, wet jerks before falling against the comforter.
He lay there for a long moment, his heart pounding, face pressed into the smooth fabric. He could smell himself, spunk and sweat, and he closed his eyes.
"Shit," he groaned into the comforter. "Shit, shit, shit."
Shit. He rolled onto his back, and then reached for his iPod.
He didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
***
"What the fuck are you doing?" Patrick shouted, and Pete dropped the iPod. It landed on the bed.
He stared at Patrick. "Maybe I should be asking that?"
Patrick's face was hot, and he snatched his iPod away. Pete looked up at him from the screen, his face twisted, and Patrick clicked it off, hand shaking.
The bedroom was silent.
"I just wanted to talk," Pete said finally.
Patrick didn't look at him.
"You fucking downloaded it." Pete's voice was flat. He sat on the edge of the bed.
Patrick wrapped the headphone cord around the iPod. "Yeah."
"Why?"
"Is it that hard to figure out?" Patrick shoved the iPod into his pocket. "You're not stupid."
Pete stared at him. Patrick looked away. His cheeks burned. Again.
"Fuck you, Patrick," Pete yelled and then he was on his feet, pushing Patrick hard, sending him stumbling backwards. "Fuck you, this fucking changes everything, you goddamn shit--"
Patrick punched Pete in the gut, hard and angry, not giving a damn about the pain that shattered over his knuckles. "Fuck me? Fuck you and your fucking Zoe and your fucking Mikey and fucking all of them," he shouted, and he hit Pete again, just as hard and then they were on the floor, pounding at each other, and he didn't give a fuck that Pete was already bruised up, didn't care about anything at, just hitting him, kicking him, so fucking angry--
Andy pulled him off Pete, shouting something at him that Patrick couldn't make out, didn't want to make out. He lunged forward, but Joe had Pete and he pulled him away as Andy jerked Patrick's arms back.
"Knock it off," Andy snapped at him and Patrick fell back against him, breathing hard. His ribs ached, his jaw hurt, and Pete was glaring at him, blood running down his cheek as he tugged against Joe's grip.
"Get out." Pete's mouth was tight. "Get the fuck out."
Patrick's stomach churned.
"Pete," Joe said warningly.
"No." Patrick shook his head. "He's right. I have to--" He pulled away from Andy who gave him a sideways look. "I'm not going to hit him. I think."
Andy relaxed. "Joe," he said, and Joe nodded, pulling Pete out of the room. Andy looked at Patrick. "Man, what--"
"I'll be out in an hour," Patrick said quietly, and he reached for his bag.
Andy took it from him. "Don't be stupid."
"You've got no idea." Patrick pulled his t-shirts from the dresser. "It's just better, all right? Trust me."
"What happened?" Andy asked, folding his arms over his chest, and when Patrick didn't answer, just kept stuffing his clothes in the bag haphazardly, Andy sighed. "Patrick--"
Patrick stopped, his jeans clenched tight in his fists. His eye was half-swollen. "Just shut up, Andy, all right? Just fucking shut up."
"Fine." Andy held his hands up. "God, the two of you..."
Patrick barely waited until the door closed behind him to throw the goddamned iPod against the wall.
***
Bob answered on the third ring.
"Hey, man," Patrick said, balancing the cell phone on his shoulder as he slung his bag and his laptop case into the back of the taxi. He set his Gibson on top. "Want a roommate for a bit?"
Bob didn't say anything for a moment. "Pete?"
"Yeah." Patrick slammed the car door. "I have to buy a new iPod."
"Okay." Bob hesitated for a minute and Patrick knew he wanted to ask but that he wouldn't. Not yet. "I'll make up the other bed."
Patrick flipped the phone shut and stared blankly out the window as the taxi wound its way down Highland, toward the 101.
Part Two