Prufrock and Other Poems (Love Song companion/sequel)
Title: Prufrock and Other Poems
Author: DF
Fandom: Wentzdom (PatD, FOB)
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon, Pete/Patrick
Summary: Brendon and Patrick are writing a song; Ryan and Pete have yet to figure out how they feel about that. (Companion to A Love Song By Any Other Name; I strongly suggest reading that first, although I suppose it's not completely necessary.)
Disclaimer: Never happened (although I wouldn't necessarily be unhappy if it did). Title inspired by TS Eliot, mostly for my own amusement.
Note: This one's definitely for redbrickrose, who at some points was more excited about this than I was. Which is totally a good thing, because it convinced me to keep working on this.
The diner is busy in the middle of the day, kids demanding dessert in loud voices and their parents, even louder, trying to quiet them. There are always at least two people getting up at a given moment and wandering around, dodging waitresses on their way to the bathroom or whatever it is they're looking for. The waitresses just fix smiles on their faces and keep their trays balanced, unloading plates and pouring coffee into mugs as quickly as they can.
Ryan's not sure what Pete likes about this place, but they always seem to end up coming here. Sometimes Ryan wonders if Pete ever brings other people, brings Patrick, but he doesn't ask.
It's comfortable, he thinks, maybe. The balding vinyl booths and the worn patterns on the tabletop and the way everyone's a little bit too self-absorbed to pay attention to them. It's like any other cheap diner in America; he thinks he can appreciate the familiarity.
Pete is fiddling with his water glass, dunking the slice of lemon in and out. "Do you ever," he begins, and Ryan just knows that whatever he asks, it's not going to be the right time. It's going to be something that should, by all rights, be asked in a club, with the lights dim enough to make it just a little more confidential, the music loud enough that they can pretend they never heard each other, later. It's not something for a diner where the sun is shining brightly through the windows, even if nobody is paying attention to them. Whatever, though; Pete has a great sense of atmosphere and a distaste for doing things traditionally, sometimes.
Pete tries again, "Do you ever write lyrics that you don't give him?"
Ryan was right, it's the wrong question at the wrong time; he thinks of the box full of words hidden under his bed like porn, like a guilty secret, and says, "I don't know what you mean." Says, "Everyone's got drafts that aren't good enough to show."
"You're so full of shit, Ross," Pete says, sounding dark and bemused all at the same time.
Ryan says, "Yes."
*
Pete actually goes through a pretty thorough editing process before sending anything to Patrick; he gathers his scraps of paper and journal pages and the occasional receipt or restaurant napkin, from when he's really been in a pinch, and sorts through them, one by one.
He tells himself that there's no specific criteria; he's good at figuring out what's got potential, and some just don't, is all. Not yet, anyway. Maybe later.
He only slips up a few times, early on (trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns, and sometimes he doesn't even know what he's writing), but Patrick never seems to notice.
*
Ryan's getting a little annoyed by all the tapping. "What is up with you and that thing?" he asks finally, staring at Brendon. "It never leaves your side. Who the fuck are you texting so much?"
Brendon pauses and looks at Ryan almost guiltily. Why, Ryan has no idea. "Patrick," he says after a moment.
Ryan blinks. "Really?" Brendon nods, and Ryan considers this. "I didn't know you were that close."
Brendon shrugs. "Kind of, I guess. We hung out a lot when you and Pete were off together." His face is nothing but bright and pleasant and for some reason Ryan feels apologetic.
"Well, that's cool," he says after what was probably an unnecessarily long pause. He thinks maybe he should get used to silence; his notebooks are certainly full of it (whenever he gets words, they're not the right ones.) "Singers banding together?"
Brendon's smirk is wry, a little bitter, for the split second before it turns into a real smile. "Well, you and Pete have your whole Writer's Guild thing, so." He laughs. "I guess we had to find something to pass the time."
"Cool," Ryan says again. Brendon nods and taps out another sentence on his Sidekick.
*
"Patrick," Pete says slowly, like he's testing out the sound of it. "Patrick, Patrick."
Patrick raises his eyebrows. "Yes, Pete?"
Pete's legs are slung over his, knees bent slightly, toes twitching because he's a little itchy under the skin, these days. He wiggles his fingers absently, flexes his thighs, one and then the other.
"Pete?" Patrick repeats, with an edge of something wary.
Pete smiles and brushes his arm with the back of a knuckle, going down past the bottom of Patrick's shirt's sleeve, dragging it back up again once he gets to the inner elbow. Down, up, repeat. His knuckle catches on the edge of the cloth, but he pushes it up, scrunching the sleeve up so he can see a little of pale upper arm, a few freckles. Down, up, repeat.
Patrick's arm twitches and he almost elbows Pete in the ribs. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Pete says finally, but he moves his hand anyway, grabbing a pen and tapping it against his teeth. "Bored."
"Right." Patrick sounds slightly shaky, slightly unconvinced but trying for neutral. Pete taps out a beat against his own mouth, counts down the seconds until Patrick reaches for his cell phone to send a text. (Longer than he expected; Patrick seems content to stay in the moment, for now. It's not until Pete gets bored of counting and levers himself off the couch, walking to the door, that Patrick reaches forward -)
Three hundred and forty two seconds.
*
"So are you two just complaining about us?" he asks another time, grinning obnoxiously to try to make it just a joke.
"Yes," Patrick says blandly. "That's exactly right. We're the coalition of singers bitching about their lyricists."
This is a no, Pete thinks, but he's maybe a little vain enough to want it to be about him.
*
Ryan's notebook:
fucking writer's block
tap tap tap that steady beat is driving me insane
brain main gain vain
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
A word, or two, or more than three
and more than you have given me
so not working
In the margins, there are scribbles, scratch marks, absently drawn hearts filling up the corners and fading into rough sketches of faces and flowers. There's nothing that he can use, nothing that's anything, and he thinks maybe he's just trying too hard at this point. It's useless, by this point; he feels like every time he sits down with a pencil and paper, the words that he wants to write slip farther and farther away.
Pete's the same way, he knows, all his words either not coming out right or not coming out at all. It's like an epidemic or something, like someone stole their words.
(The thing is, Ryan doesn't like to admit, they would probably have more than enough lyrics if they would just stop trying so hard, but both of them are sick of adding to the piles of words that they keep hidden. Enough is fucking enough already, really.)
Brendon, on the other hand, Brendon seems to have no lack of words, just tapping them out minutes after minute. At the weirdest times, too; when he's been sitting quietly for about a half an hour, just listening to music and watching Ryan read; in the morning, just after he wakes up; when they go shopping and are winding down with ice cream in the food court; all the time.
Brendon never talks to his bandmates anymore, Ryan thinks irritatedly, immediately trying to dismiss the thought. It's not true, not completely. Maybe.
Besides, Ryan knows he's been really bitchy recently. Maybe Brendon doesn't want to talk to him.
Then again, Brendon never seemed to have a problem talking to him before. What would make Brendon start directing all his attention, his responses to situations, his early-morning thoughts, all to Patrick?
Well, there's one possibility. "Brendon," Ryan asks hesitantly, steeling himself for the answer. "Do you have a crush on Patrick?"
Brendon stares at him for a moment before bursting out laughing, his ever-present cell phone almost falling off the seat next to him. "No," he says through his giggles. "Definitely not."
Ryan shrugs. He may or may not be a little relieved, but he still doesn't understand the whole texting thing.
Brendon's sidekick beeps; Brendon picks it up, reads the message. He gives Ryan an almost-surreptitious glance before typing out a reply, his fingers so used to this now that they're practically flying over the buttons. He mouths, "I think we have to," as he types, sounding it out while he writes, before pressing send.
Ryan's cellphone rings a couple seconds later; Pete.
"Hey," Ryan says leaning back.
"Hey," Pete says. He sounds depressed. "I think Patrick's in love with someone."
"I think Brendon is too," Ryan says.
"I'm what?" Brendon asks, raising his eyebrows at Ryan and making a ridiculous face.
Ryan half-covers the mouthpiece as he says, "Spending too much time texting." He thinks - he hopes - it comes out wry, but he can't make any promises.
"You don't know my pain," Brendon says, deadpan, as he reaches for his phone again.
*
"You did what?" Patrick demands, frowning.
Pete frowns right back. "I set Ryan up. What? He hasn't dated anyone in ages. He's lonely or something."
Patrick just shakes his head, turns away - oh, there it is. The cell phone makes another appearance. Pete wants to ask if he fucking sleeps with that thing, but he stops himself, not sure why. Patrick would probably make some cutting reply about how it's not like Pete is any different, which totally isn't true. Mostly.
His own phone suddenly buzzes from his pocket, the familiar sounds of The Academy Is... ringing through the air. All the members of Panic at the Disco have The Academy Is... ringtones on Pete's phone, everyone in The Academy Is... are assigned Cobra Starship songs, and so on. Pete thinks it's an awesome system.
His ringtone for Patrick is a Fall Out Boy song, mostly just Patrick singing with a little guitar in the background; sometimes he lets it ring for a really long time because he's just listening to it before he remembers, oh yeah, he can still hear Patrick if he actually answers the phone.
"Hey," he says, picking up the phone. It's Ryan, of course; he doesn't get too many calls from the other members of Panic. "How went the date?"
"Not great," Ryan says, fuzzy through the phone lines. Pete shifts a fraction, closer to Patrick and better reception. "Do you know any girls with actual brains?"
"Hey!" Pete protests, offended. "I wouldn't set you up with someone dumb, Ryan. Give me a little credit." Patrick just rolls his eyes and huffs, and Pete demands, "What?"
"What?" Ryan asks in return.
"Oh, Patrick's just pissed at me because I set you up, for some reason," Pete tells Ryan, giving Patrick a quizzical look. Patrick shrugs and walks away; Pete wants to tell him not to, to stay, but there'd be no reason for it, would there? Would there. He sighs.
"Yeah, Brendon's been weird too," Ryan says. "I think he thinks I'm still not over her, or something, which he knows isn't true."
There is a small silence meant to convey everything they're not saying. Ryan doesn't want to say that he thought the girl was a bitchy moron, and Pete doesn't want to say that Ryan has impossible standards, and Ryan doesn't want to say that, well, it's not like Pete's standards are exactly easier, not like he's been able to keep any sort of relationship going recently, and neither of them want to say - well.
"So, okay," Pete says now. "So what sucked about the date?"
Ryan's quiet for a moment, and Pete sits down on the sofa, sinks down. He can hear music coming from the other room, faintly; he thinks he can even hear the sound of someone typing out an email if he concentrates hard enough. "It just wasn't right," Ryan says finally.
Which isn't really an answer, but Pete thinks he might know what Ryan means anyway. Fuck, they're such fucking girls.
"So you're going to be here soon," he says instead, something else to talk about. Something else to think about.
*
So, Brendon is with Patrick, and Ryan is with his guitar. Alone.
He picks up his Sidekick to call Pete, because he might have told Brendon to go away earlier, but Ryan doesn't actually like being alone. He hadn't wanted Brendon to actually leave, just be quiet. Or quieter, in any case, since apparently Brendon has some sort of physical inability to be quiet - except he has been quieter, recently. Except for all the fucking tapping, but that's not something Ryan's going to dwell on, now; Ryan doesn't like dwelling, sometimes. Now, at least.
As it turns out, he doesn't need to call Pete, because Pete calls him. "Hey, Pete," Ryan says, cell phone at his ear.
"Hey," Pete says, voice just as loud over the phone as it is in real life. "So, Patrick's with your boy -"
"He's not my boy," Ryan mutters, frowning at the phone in lieu of frowning at Pete. It's okay; Pete's got a good imagination. He'll figure it out.
"Right, right," Pete agrees, despite the fact that he doesn't believe it at all. Pete's like that; he doesn't always call others on their bullshit, at least not if he's got bullshit of his own. "So Patrick's with Brendon, who is not your boy at all, and I was wondering if you wanted to brainstorm some lyrics?"
"Yes," Ryan says immediately, despite the fact that he stopped writing when Brendon left, 47 minutes and 19 seconds ago. Or - he glances at the clock - 26 seconds, now. He's just keeping time because he's got nothing better to do.
The clock ticks too loud, he thinks, maybe. Now it's 48 minutes, 3 seconds.
*
"I'm just going to stay at Patrick's tonight," Brendon says over the phone, and Ryan looks at his guitar because Brendon's not there to look at. Guitar, wall, Pete sitting curious on the couch. Notebooks on the floor, empty pizza boxes by the garbage can.
"Okay," Ryan says. It's cool if Brendon stays at Patrick's place. He's glad they're friends. He's glad they're writing a song. It's good - it's great. It's all great. "I'm with Pete, anyway."
"Oh," Brendon says casually. "That's - cool."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "See you tomorrow."
"Okay." There's a pause where they realise that they're each waiting for the other to hang up, so Ryan thumbs the button, tosses his phone down. He tells Pete, "Brendon's staying at Patrick's house tonight."
"Working on the song?" Pete asks, his face blank. Pete does that sometimes, just shuts it off.
Ryan shrugs. "I guess." They gave up working on lyrics a little while ago, but Ryan leans over and picks up his notebook anyway, running his finger over the wire spirals holding it together. Pete picks up his own journal and flips it open.
"Hey," Pete says, "I think I have something."
*
They get lyrics, finally, and when Ryan looks down at the page he genuinely likes it, something he hasn't been able to say about most of his lyrics recently. His head aches, his fingers are smeared with ink and the clock is telling him in bright green lights that it's not even night anymore, it's tomorrow already, but he likes what he's written. Ryan's willing to take what he can get, sometimes.
They look at it when they're finished, the blue scrawl of two different handwritings staggered all over the fresh white page.
"Do you want a copy for the box under your bed?" Pete asks, sounding resigned, and Ryan says, "Yes."
*
"You're writing a song," Ryan says to Brendon, although it was really supposed to come out as more of a question than that.
Brendon looks up quickly. "Um. Yes. Who..."
"Pete told me. Patrick told him."
Brendon raises his eyebrows. "Patrick actually went up to him and told him?" He sounds disbelieving, and Ryan wonders what exactly this is about. It's Pete and Patrick, after all; why wouldn't Patrick have told Pete, eventually? It's not like it's something he'd really need to hide, is it?
Ryan shrugs shortly. "Pete found it a couple weeks ago."
Brendon chews his lip, stops, looks at Ryan. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
Ryan shrugs again, thinks about asking why but doesn't. They could have just been embarrassed, he thinks, but he's not sure he wants to know if they weren't. "Whatever," he says, and walks away. He turns back once in the doorway, stops and watches Brendon take out his cellphone before closing the door behind him.
*
Patrick's been distracted for the past few days, Pete thinks. Patrick's been thinking a lot, disappearing into his room with his laptop to listen to some song that Pete can barely hear through the door. He never eavesdrops, of course, that would totally be a violation of privacy. Sometimes he just happens to be in the hall outside Patrick's room. Whatever, it's not like it hasn't happened before. Sometimes Patrick opens the door and gives Pete a weird look, but Pete always just says that he needs to stay within Patrick's aura of awesomeness. Plus, the carpet is totally comfortable, and anyway, he likes hanging out on the floor with his laptop or notebook.
Patrick has emerged from hibernation one day when he gets a text message that makes him laugh out loud, and Pete's looking over his shoulder before either of them even realise he's moved.
"'I heart Andy,'" he reads. "'But I heart Spencer too. We should just steal Bob.' Dude, steal Bob for what?"
"Oh. Um." Patrick makes a face. "Brendon and I were just talking about who we would theoretically get to play the song."
"Theoretically."
"Theoretically." Patrick nods, and Pete drums his fingers on top of Patrick's hat.
"Well, if it's theoretical, why don't you just get the drummer from Rush or something?" Pete suggests.
"Huh." Patrick smiles. "You're right, if it's theoretical we could totally get anyone we want. I mean, maybe not the drummer form Rush, though." He lifts his cellphone up before glancing at Pete, who still hasn't moved. "Dude, you know I hate you reading over my shoulder."
"Right," Pete says, and stays there for a few seconds just to bug him before moving away.
*
The bar is loud enough that it's difficult to hear what everyone else is saying, just a blur of overlapping conversations that don't make sense. Met this girl - splash of water - fucking giraffes, man, giraffes - up all night long - did you fucking see that - yeah, my mom said - not on your fucking life - no, really, giraffes - yeah, I wouldn't mind raising that roof, if you know what I mean - you fucking idiot - god, I can't even do this anymore.
The tables are dark wood, bolted to the floors, a couple sticky smears where spilled beer wasn't properly wiped away. A waitress walks by, tray in one hand. Her other hand grabs the wrist of the guy who tried to slap her ass as she went by, digs in a nail before letting go.
Shut up, just shut up - I'm thinking about moving - the fuck is wrong with you - so I said hi, and she said - oh, man, it was awesome - last night, I just - snapped it up - couldn't you tell - what were you thinking - no, I'm not kidding you, it was - so cold, man, you have no - these shoes - so then they beam him out of the jumper - I'm just ignoring it.
Pete and Ryan have a table by but not in a corner. The chairs are only somewhat comfortable, but Ryan doesn't care enough to complain. His glass of water is dripping condensation onto the table, and whenever he picks up the glass there's a circular puddle left on the wood. When he sets it down, he tries to line the bottom of the glass up with the puddle. He hates creating unnecessary mess.
"Did I tell you I heard the song?" Pete asks, his voice sounding rough. He lifts up his own glass, swallows down half the contents. Water.
"No," Ryan says, drawing absent designs on his glass. He traces the logo, brings the tip of his finger to his face and wipes off the cold drops of water. "How is it?"
"It's good," Pete says, letting his head sink onto his hand, propped on his elbow. "They're going to perform it."
"Think they'll write anything else?" Ryan wonders; it's dark enough and loud enough that he doesn't mind asking.
Pete shrugs. "I don't know." I hope not, he doesn't say, but it's true anyway.
Zebras, too - that's me out of a job - don't be ridiculous - fuck, stop it, that hurts - I can't believe you - I don't get it - so then I said - she said - I said - you said - he said - the fuck - oh my god, that's so - I'm the boss - totally whipped - congratulations to you too - I have to go home now.
*
That night, Ryan wanders in, his head still pounding a little from the loudness of the bar. He sighs as he stumbles and knocks his shoulder against the wall with a mild thump. "Brendon?" he asks quietly, in case Brendon's asleep. He doesn't want to wake him up, not really.
"In here," he hears Brendon say, and orients himself to the sound of Brendon's voice. This way, he thinks, step left, step forward, take off shoes, step forward.
He doesn't even realise what he's doing, really, before he's climbing in next to Brendon. He's too tired to control his actions, maybe. "Hey," he murmurs, settling in. They haven't done this in a while; he can't remember if it's either of their faults.
"Mm," Brendon hums, his arm curling around Ryan. Ryan can feel himself relaxing into the bed and the warmth of Brendon's arm. It could be so easy to just stay here, he thinks.
"You're still going to need me, right?" he asks before he can stop himself, but it's not so bad, maybe. If Brendon ever asks, he can say it was just a dream. He doesn't like being emotional when he's awake.
"Always," Brendon says immediately, but Ryan's not sure Brendon even knows what he's saying, he sounds so tired. "Always always always, Ryan Ross."
Ryan hums. The thing is, he realised earlier tonight, if Brendon starts writing lyrics then there's really no point to Ryan, is there? He's just a guitarist with weird clothes and a good hand for makeup. If Brendon can write lyrics, then he doesn't need Ryan.
And it's not like if Ryan suddenly started writing the music, Ryan thinks stubbornly. It's not, because even if Ryan made every part of the songs, he would still need Brendon to sing them. Always always always, Ryan Ross.
Brendon starts to ask a question, but he yawns and Ryan just says, "Go to sleep." He pulls himself out of Brendon's bed and wanders off to his own. It could be so easy to stay, he thinks, but he doesn't. Can't.
*
Practice sucks.
This may be an exaggeration. It's not like the practices go badly, or anything; everyone manages to pick up their respective parts pretty quickly, and it's a good song, but.
Pete doesn't like not knowing who the song is about, because no matter how much Patrick tries to downplay it he can recognise Patrick, okay? He knows that the song is just as much Patrick as it is Brendon, but he doesn't know who Patrick is talking about. It bothers him.
Brendon's ex-girlfriend, some of Patrick's experiences thrown in. Ryan doesn't know who Brendon's talking about, either, and he's not sure if he minds, if he wants to know, if he's glad for the easy out.
All about a girl. All about a girl. All about a girl. Which just means that everything can stay the same, because Ryan doesn't always like change. He's willing to take what he can get, sometimes, and he doesn't always want to push for what he's not sure he can have.
*
At the end of practice one day, Pete hums, "Well, I never asked for any of this."
A couple days later, Ryan finds himself tapping out a tune on his leg. He knows the words for it, knows - "Give me everything I want, I'll give you three wishes."
"But I'll never let you know," Pete sings under his breath one day, putting his bass away. "So you can't ever say no."
It's just a stupid snatch of tune that's stuck in their heads, just a chorus, the chorus from the song all those nights ago. Ryan's kind of pissed. When something goes in the box under his bed, it's supposed to stay there, for fuck's sake. It's not supposed to play on repeat in the back of his head while Brendon and Patrick are singing, "If I choose to I could lose you," and god, he's just tired of this.
*
"Pete?" Patrick murmurs sleepily. Pete doesn't stop, just keeps walking, slips under Patrick's covers and keeps his cold feet away from Patrick's legs.
Patrick's used to this by now, after the past couple of days, weeks. He turns over and looks at Pete, but doesn't say anything.
Pete doesn't say anything either, doesn't ask who Patrick's singing about, doesn't say that he likes the song, doesn't say that he likes this, doesn't say - anything.
He slips out again after a few minutes, just when his feet are getting warm. Patrick never asks him to stay, so he never does.
*
The performance - well. It's not the specific performance that Pete remembers so much, because sometimes they blur together in his head. He remembers metal strings digging into his fingertips, the pick slipping in his sweaty hold, bouncing on his feet without moving too far across the stage. The other songs are fair game, but during Waiting he stays where he is for the most part, doesn't press himself against Patrick's back and lick into his ear.
He remembers the muted surprise when he realises they've changed the lines, just a jolt where he realises exactly what this song could maybe, possibly, be about now that the words are changed, but it's washed away in the rush of adrenaline and screaming fans and, really, those two girls fainted? What the fuck?
But then it's over, and they move onto another song, and Pete just... Well. What he remembers best from that night isn't the performance, it's after.
Backstage is just like it is backstage at any other venue, just empty spaces and bare walls and fluorescent lights. When they pile off the stage, Patrick turns to look at Pete; his shirt is sticking to his back, sweaty, and his hair is glinting copper under his hat. The ceiling lights are reflecting oddly in his eyes.
A couple feet away, Ryan and Brendon are leaning against the wall, not talking. Brendon's eyes are flickering all over the place, looking at Andy, twirling his drumsticks, Joe, pushing his hair out of his face absently, Patrick, fidgeting in place. Ryan's eyes are focused on the ugly green-beige carpeting under his feet. His fingers scratch gently against the wall.
"So," Pete says, "that was pretty awesome."
"Yeah?" Patrick asks warily, looking up at Pete.
"Yeah," Pete says. "They really seemed to like it." He doesn't mention the changed lyrics, doesn't mention that one look that Patrick gave Pete, just after the last chorus.
"Right," Patrick says.
"Can you believe those two girls fainted?" Ryan asks, smiling slightly, taking Pete's cues.
"Yeah," Brendon says, and laughs. "Ryan, you're staying for the afterparty, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Ryan says, glancing at Brendon's shoulder, his hair.
"I'm going to head back, I think," Brendon tells him, sticking his hands in his pockets. "See you later."
"Bye," Ryan says.
"See you," Pete adds.
Patrick just gives Brendon what could almost be mistaken for a smile. Brendon nods at him and walks out the door. Joe frowns, but carefully looks away, puts his guitar in its case and fastens the snaps with more attention than is really necessary.
Patrick comes to the party, but he leaves early. Pete may or may not get slightly drunk. Ryan may or may not, as well.
*
Everything goes normally for about a week, but it's more the type of normal that's just pretending to be normal. Everyone's a little too careful, trying a little too hard to not say the words on the tips of their tongues.
"So, Pete, Ryan, what do you think about Patrick and Brendon's song?" an interviewer asks, her teeth flashing white behind a really unappealing shade of lipstick, her hair tinted just a shade too bronze.
"I think it's great," Pete says. "I mean, Patrick's a genius, so obviously it would be."
"We're all really proud of it," Ryan adds. "It's an awesome song, and a lot of people seem to like it."
"Are there any plans for another collaboration between the two of you?" she asks Patrick and Brendon now.
"No," Patrick says, and Ryan and Pete shares a look, just blank enough to not get picked up by the cameras.
"Five years," Brendon mutters, and the interviewer asks, "What was that?"
"Nothing," he says, smiling at her charmingly. "Must've been my stomach growling, I didn't eat lunch yet."
"This is why people think we're anorexic," Ryan says, deadpan, and it's almost normal except for that quiet inch of space between them.
*
Things kind of suck. It's not so surprising when it snaps.
*
"Okay," Brendon says, appearing out of nowhere to corner Pete. Pete knows theoretically that Brendon is built like a twig and would never hurt anyone, but he's kind of scared, none the less. "So the thing is, you're kind of a moron."
"What?" Ryan says, looking surprisedly at Patrick.
"You're a moron," Patrick repeats, glowering from under his trucker hat. "Or else you're just an asshole."
"Seriously, do you like doing this to Patrick?" Brendon demands, glaring at Pete. "Because it doesn't seem like you're really enjoying it, either, so I'm kind of confused."
"I'm confused too," Pete says.
"What are you talking about?" Ryan crosses his arms, tries to surreptitiously edge back.
Patrick sighs. "This is ridiculous, okay? Look, who do you think Brendon wrote that song about, anyway?"
"He said it was about his experiences with some girl, okay, I -"
Brendon rolls his eyes. "Oh my god, you are really not this stupid, so I don't know why you're pretending to be. That entire fucking song was a grand gesture, okay? Don't make me lose all my faith in 80's movies."
"I don't -" Ryan tries to say, but Patrick cuts him off before he can try to protest his confusion or innocence or whatever. Ryan's not all that sure what he was planning on saying in the first place.
"Look, I'm not supposed to be telling you this, but Brendon is so -"
"- in love with you. Like, a ridiculous amount. He's been in love with you for years. And I don't know if you actually like him back, although it would suck if you didn't, because Patrick is completely awesome, but you could -"
"- at least tell him, okay? Don't leave him hanging, that's just fucking unfair." Patrick slumps, his rant apparently over. He shakes his head, leans against the wall slightly. "Just... say yes or no, okay?"
"Let him know if he has to start getting over you." Brendon deflates, looking worn out. He rubs the back of his neck absently, shakes his head. "Oh, and if you could not tell him I talked to you -"
"- that would probably be good. I mean, I don't think he wanted me meddling or whatever, but we - he didn't write the song so that everyone could just ignore it." Patrick crosses and uncrosses his arms, tugs the brim of his hat down farther. "It's your turn to do something."
Brendon turns and walks away, his hands in his pockets. Pete watches him go for a moment before pulling his cellphone out of his pocket and dialing a familiar number.
"Hey, Ryan," he says into the phone, leaning against the wall.
Ryan, watching Patrick stride away, holds his phone a little closer to his ear and says, "Hey, Pete. I just got accosted by your lead singer." He's still a little surprised, to be honest, but he can understand it. He can understand using the guise of fighting for someone else to fight for yourself; he's pretty sure that when Patrick said, 'It's not fair to him,' he really meant, 'It's not fair to me.'
Pete sighs and lets his head fall back against the wall. "Yeah, no kidding."
*
"In my defense," Pete says, sitting next to Patrick uninvited, "I've been telling you that I love you for years."
Patrick gives him a look, part confused, part irritated, part resigned, something only Patrick could pull off and Pete could properly interpret. "What are you talking about, Pete?"
"Well," Pete begins, "a little bird told me that I was kind of being an oblivious asshole, but obviously I'm not the only oblivious one in this relationship, because I've been telling you that I love you for years." He waits patiently, crossing his legs and turning to face Patrick properly. Patrick, wary, turns as well. Pete lets their feet touch.
"You were joking," Patrick says slowly, and then he blinks and asks, "Wait, relationship?"
Pete grins. "Okay, there's maybe a couple things I haven't been telling you."
"Why don't you tell them to me," Patrick says slowly, still staring at Pete, "and then you can tell me exactly why you never told me before, and then maybe I can decide whether to hit you or not."
Pete says, "I don't think you're going to hit me." He leans forward quickly, brushes a kiss over Patrick's lips and adds, "Probably."
*
"Brendon," Ryan says, stepping into the room. Brendon looks up at him.
"What, Ryan?" He's been quiet ever since he talked to Pete, just lying down and listening to music, nothing else.
Ryan walks closer to him, sits down. "I've got this song."
"Cool," Brendon says without sitting up. He sighs, rubs a hand over his eyes. "Ryan, I'm kind of tired, could -"
"Actually, I've got a couple songs," Ryan says, setting the worn box down next to Brendon, close enough for him to reach in and pull something out, anything. "I started writing them a couple years ago." When Brendon doesn't react, he adds, "You and Patrick aren't the only ones who can write a song about it, you know. You're just the only ones who actually let other people see them."
Brendon's half-closed eyes open, looking warily, hopefully, out. "Ryan -"
"Don't lose your faith in 80's movies," Ryan says, the hint of a smile beginning to form on his face. His eyes are locked on Brendon's.
Without looking away from Ryan, Brendon reaches into the box.
Author: DF
Fandom: Wentzdom (PatD, FOB)
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon, Pete/Patrick
Summary: Brendon and Patrick are writing a song; Ryan and Pete have yet to figure out how they feel about that. (Companion to A Love Song By Any Other Name; I strongly suggest reading that first, although I suppose it's not completely necessary.)
Disclaimer: Never happened (although I wouldn't necessarily be unhappy if it did). Title inspired by TS Eliot, mostly for my own amusement.
Note: This one's definitely for redbrickrose, who at some points was more excited about this than I was. Which is totally a good thing, because it convinced me to keep working on this.
The diner is busy in the middle of the day, kids demanding dessert in loud voices and their parents, even louder, trying to quiet them. There are always at least two people getting up at a given moment and wandering around, dodging waitresses on their way to the bathroom or whatever it is they're looking for. The waitresses just fix smiles on their faces and keep their trays balanced, unloading plates and pouring coffee into mugs as quickly as they can.
Ryan's not sure what Pete likes about this place, but they always seem to end up coming here. Sometimes Ryan wonders if Pete ever brings other people, brings Patrick, but he doesn't ask.
It's comfortable, he thinks, maybe. The balding vinyl booths and the worn patterns on the tabletop and the way everyone's a little bit too self-absorbed to pay attention to them. It's like any other cheap diner in America; he thinks he can appreciate the familiarity.
Pete is fiddling with his water glass, dunking the slice of lemon in and out. "Do you ever," he begins, and Ryan just knows that whatever he asks, it's not going to be the right time. It's going to be something that should, by all rights, be asked in a club, with the lights dim enough to make it just a little more confidential, the music loud enough that they can pretend they never heard each other, later. It's not something for a diner where the sun is shining brightly through the windows, even if nobody is paying attention to them. Whatever, though; Pete has a great sense of atmosphere and a distaste for doing things traditionally, sometimes.
Pete tries again, "Do you ever write lyrics that you don't give him?"
Ryan was right, it's the wrong question at the wrong time; he thinks of the box full of words hidden under his bed like porn, like a guilty secret, and says, "I don't know what you mean." Says, "Everyone's got drafts that aren't good enough to show."
"You're so full of shit, Ross," Pete says, sounding dark and bemused all at the same time.
Ryan says, "Yes."
*
Pete actually goes through a pretty thorough editing process before sending anything to Patrick; he gathers his scraps of paper and journal pages and the occasional receipt or restaurant napkin, from when he's really been in a pinch, and sorts through them, one by one.
He tells himself that there's no specific criteria; he's good at figuring out what's got potential, and some just don't, is all. Not yet, anyway. Maybe later.
He only slips up a few times, early on (trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns, and sometimes he doesn't even know what he's writing), but Patrick never seems to notice.
*
Ryan's getting a little annoyed by all the tapping. "What is up with you and that thing?" he asks finally, staring at Brendon. "It never leaves your side. Who the fuck are you texting so much?"
Brendon pauses and looks at Ryan almost guiltily. Why, Ryan has no idea. "Patrick," he says after a moment.
Ryan blinks. "Really?" Brendon nods, and Ryan considers this. "I didn't know you were that close."
Brendon shrugs. "Kind of, I guess. We hung out a lot when you and Pete were off together." His face is nothing but bright and pleasant and for some reason Ryan feels apologetic.
"Well, that's cool," he says after what was probably an unnecessarily long pause. He thinks maybe he should get used to silence; his notebooks are certainly full of it (whenever he gets words, they're not the right ones.) "Singers banding together?"
Brendon's smirk is wry, a little bitter, for the split second before it turns into a real smile. "Well, you and Pete have your whole Writer's Guild thing, so." He laughs. "I guess we had to find something to pass the time."
"Cool," Ryan says again. Brendon nods and taps out another sentence on his Sidekick.
*
"Patrick," Pete says slowly, like he's testing out the sound of it. "Patrick, Patrick."
Patrick raises his eyebrows. "Yes, Pete?"
Pete's legs are slung over his, knees bent slightly, toes twitching because he's a little itchy under the skin, these days. He wiggles his fingers absently, flexes his thighs, one and then the other.
"Pete?" Patrick repeats, with an edge of something wary.
Pete smiles and brushes his arm with the back of a knuckle, going down past the bottom of Patrick's shirt's sleeve, dragging it back up again once he gets to the inner elbow. Down, up, repeat. His knuckle catches on the edge of the cloth, but he pushes it up, scrunching the sleeve up so he can see a little of pale upper arm, a few freckles. Down, up, repeat.
Patrick's arm twitches and he almost elbows Pete in the ribs. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Pete says finally, but he moves his hand anyway, grabbing a pen and tapping it against his teeth. "Bored."
"Right." Patrick sounds slightly shaky, slightly unconvinced but trying for neutral. Pete taps out a beat against his own mouth, counts down the seconds until Patrick reaches for his cell phone to send a text. (Longer than he expected; Patrick seems content to stay in the moment, for now. It's not until Pete gets bored of counting and levers himself off the couch, walking to the door, that Patrick reaches forward -)
Three hundred and forty two seconds.
*
"So are you two just complaining about us?" he asks another time, grinning obnoxiously to try to make it just a joke.
"Yes," Patrick says blandly. "That's exactly right. We're the coalition of singers bitching about their lyricists."
This is a no, Pete thinks, but he's maybe a little vain enough to want it to be about him.
*
Ryan's notebook:
fucking writer's block
tap tap tap that steady beat is driving me insane
brain main gain vain
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
A word, or two, or more than three
and more than you have given me
so not working
In the margins, there are scribbles, scratch marks, absently drawn hearts filling up the corners and fading into rough sketches of faces and flowers. There's nothing that he can use, nothing that's anything, and he thinks maybe he's just trying too hard at this point. It's useless, by this point; he feels like every time he sits down with a pencil and paper, the words that he wants to write slip farther and farther away.
Pete's the same way, he knows, all his words either not coming out right or not coming out at all. It's like an epidemic or something, like someone stole their words.
(The thing is, Ryan doesn't like to admit, they would probably have more than enough lyrics if they would just stop trying so hard, but both of them are sick of adding to the piles of words that they keep hidden. Enough is fucking enough already, really.)
Brendon, on the other hand, Brendon seems to have no lack of words, just tapping them out minutes after minute. At the weirdest times, too; when he's been sitting quietly for about a half an hour, just listening to music and watching Ryan read; in the morning, just after he wakes up; when they go shopping and are winding down with ice cream in the food court; all the time.
Brendon never talks to his bandmates anymore, Ryan thinks irritatedly, immediately trying to dismiss the thought. It's not true, not completely. Maybe.
Besides, Ryan knows he's been really bitchy recently. Maybe Brendon doesn't want to talk to him.
Then again, Brendon never seemed to have a problem talking to him before. What would make Brendon start directing all his attention, his responses to situations, his early-morning thoughts, all to Patrick?
Well, there's one possibility. "Brendon," Ryan asks hesitantly, steeling himself for the answer. "Do you have a crush on Patrick?"
Brendon stares at him for a moment before bursting out laughing, his ever-present cell phone almost falling off the seat next to him. "No," he says through his giggles. "Definitely not."
Ryan shrugs. He may or may not be a little relieved, but he still doesn't understand the whole texting thing.
Brendon's sidekick beeps; Brendon picks it up, reads the message. He gives Ryan an almost-surreptitious glance before typing out a reply, his fingers so used to this now that they're practically flying over the buttons. He mouths, "I think we have to," as he types, sounding it out while he writes, before pressing send.
Ryan's cellphone rings a couple seconds later; Pete.
"Hey," Ryan says leaning back.
"Hey," Pete says. He sounds depressed. "I think Patrick's in love with someone."
"I think Brendon is too," Ryan says.
"I'm what?" Brendon asks, raising his eyebrows at Ryan and making a ridiculous face.
Ryan half-covers the mouthpiece as he says, "Spending too much time texting." He thinks - he hopes - it comes out wry, but he can't make any promises.
"You don't know my pain," Brendon says, deadpan, as he reaches for his phone again.
*
"You did what?" Patrick demands, frowning.
Pete frowns right back. "I set Ryan up. What? He hasn't dated anyone in ages. He's lonely or something."
Patrick just shakes his head, turns away - oh, there it is. The cell phone makes another appearance. Pete wants to ask if he fucking sleeps with that thing, but he stops himself, not sure why. Patrick would probably make some cutting reply about how it's not like Pete is any different, which totally isn't true. Mostly.
His own phone suddenly buzzes from his pocket, the familiar sounds of The Academy Is... ringing through the air. All the members of Panic at the Disco have The Academy Is... ringtones on Pete's phone, everyone in The Academy Is... are assigned Cobra Starship songs, and so on. Pete thinks it's an awesome system.
His ringtone for Patrick is a Fall Out Boy song, mostly just Patrick singing with a little guitar in the background; sometimes he lets it ring for a really long time because he's just listening to it before he remembers, oh yeah, he can still hear Patrick if he actually answers the phone.
"Hey," he says, picking up the phone. It's Ryan, of course; he doesn't get too many calls from the other members of Panic. "How went the date?"
"Not great," Ryan says, fuzzy through the phone lines. Pete shifts a fraction, closer to Patrick and better reception. "Do you know any girls with actual brains?"
"Hey!" Pete protests, offended. "I wouldn't set you up with someone dumb, Ryan. Give me a little credit." Patrick just rolls his eyes and huffs, and Pete demands, "What?"
"What?" Ryan asks in return.
"Oh, Patrick's just pissed at me because I set you up, for some reason," Pete tells Ryan, giving Patrick a quizzical look. Patrick shrugs and walks away; Pete wants to tell him not to, to stay, but there'd be no reason for it, would there? Would there. He sighs.
"Yeah, Brendon's been weird too," Ryan says. "I think he thinks I'm still not over her, or something, which he knows isn't true."
There is a small silence meant to convey everything they're not saying. Ryan doesn't want to say that he thought the girl was a bitchy moron, and Pete doesn't want to say that Ryan has impossible standards, and Ryan doesn't want to say that, well, it's not like Pete's standards are exactly easier, not like he's been able to keep any sort of relationship going recently, and neither of them want to say - well.
"So, okay," Pete says now. "So what sucked about the date?"
Ryan's quiet for a moment, and Pete sits down on the sofa, sinks down. He can hear music coming from the other room, faintly; he thinks he can even hear the sound of someone typing out an email if he concentrates hard enough. "It just wasn't right," Ryan says finally.
Which isn't really an answer, but Pete thinks he might know what Ryan means anyway. Fuck, they're such fucking girls.
"So you're going to be here soon," he says instead, something else to talk about. Something else to think about.
*
So, Brendon is with Patrick, and Ryan is with his guitar. Alone.
He picks up his Sidekick to call Pete, because he might have told Brendon to go away earlier, but Ryan doesn't actually like being alone. He hadn't wanted Brendon to actually leave, just be quiet. Or quieter, in any case, since apparently Brendon has some sort of physical inability to be quiet - except he has been quieter, recently. Except for all the fucking tapping, but that's not something Ryan's going to dwell on, now; Ryan doesn't like dwelling, sometimes. Now, at least.
As it turns out, he doesn't need to call Pete, because Pete calls him. "Hey, Pete," Ryan says, cell phone at his ear.
"Hey," Pete says, voice just as loud over the phone as it is in real life. "So, Patrick's with your boy -"
"He's not my boy," Ryan mutters, frowning at the phone in lieu of frowning at Pete. It's okay; Pete's got a good imagination. He'll figure it out.
"Right, right," Pete agrees, despite the fact that he doesn't believe it at all. Pete's like that; he doesn't always call others on their bullshit, at least not if he's got bullshit of his own. "So Patrick's with Brendon, who is not your boy at all, and I was wondering if you wanted to brainstorm some lyrics?"
"Yes," Ryan says immediately, despite the fact that he stopped writing when Brendon left, 47 minutes and 19 seconds ago. Or - he glances at the clock - 26 seconds, now. He's just keeping time because he's got nothing better to do.
The clock ticks too loud, he thinks, maybe. Now it's 48 minutes, 3 seconds.
*
"I'm just going to stay at Patrick's tonight," Brendon says over the phone, and Ryan looks at his guitar because Brendon's not there to look at. Guitar, wall, Pete sitting curious on the couch. Notebooks on the floor, empty pizza boxes by the garbage can.
"Okay," Ryan says. It's cool if Brendon stays at Patrick's place. He's glad they're friends. He's glad they're writing a song. It's good - it's great. It's all great. "I'm with Pete, anyway."
"Oh," Brendon says casually. "That's - cool."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "See you tomorrow."
"Okay." There's a pause where they realise that they're each waiting for the other to hang up, so Ryan thumbs the button, tosses his phone down. He tells Pete, "Brendon's staying at Patrick's house tonight."
"Working on the song?" Pete asks, his face blank. Pete does that sometimes, just shuts it off.
Ryan shrugs. "I guess." They gave up working on lyrics a little while ago, but Ryan leans over and picks up his notebook anyway, running his finger over the wire spirals holding it together. Pete picks up his own journal and flips it open.
"Hey," Pete says, "I think I have something."
*
They get lyrics, finally, and when Ryan looks down at the page he genuinely likes it, something he hasn't been able to say about most of his lyrics recently. His head aches, his fingers are smeared with ink and the clock is telling him in bright green lights that it's not even night anymore, it's tomorrow already, but he likes what he's written. Ryan's willing to take what he can get, sometimes.
They look at it when they're finished, the blue scrawl of two different handwritings staggered all over the fresh white page.
"Do you want a copy for the box under your bed?" Pete asks, sounding resigned, and Ryan says, "Yes."
*
"You're writing a song," Ryan says to Brendon, although it was really supposed to come out as more of a question than that.
Brendon looks up quickly. "Um. Yes. Who..."
"Pete told me. Patrick told him."
Brendon raises his eyebrows. "Patrick actually went up to him and told him?" He sounds disbelieving, and Ryan wonders what exactly this is about. It's Pete and Patrick, after all; why wouldn't Patrick have told Pete, eventually? It's not like it's something he'd really need to hide, is it?
Ryan shrugs shortly. "Pete found it a couple weeks ago."
Brendon chews his lip, stops, looks at Ryan. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
Ryan shrugs again, thinks about asking why but doesn't. They could have just been embarrassed, he thinks, but he's not sure he wants to know if they weren't. "Whatever," he says, and walks away. He turns back once in the doorway, stops and watches Brendon take out his cellphone before closing the door behind him.
*
Patrick's been distracted for the past few days, Pete thinks. Patrick's been thinking a lot, disappearing into his room with his laptop to listen to some song that Pete can barely hear through the door. He never eavesdrops, of course, that would totally be a violation of privacy. Sometimes he just happens to be in the hall outside Patrick's room. Whatever, it's not like it hasn't happened before. Sometimes Patrick opens the door and gives Pete a weird look, but Pete always just says that he needs to stay within Patrick's aura of awesomeness. Plus, the carpet is totally comfortable, and anyway, he likes hanging out on the floor with his laptop or notebook.
Patrick has emerged from hibernation one day when he gets a text message that makes him laugh out loud, and Pete's looking over his shoulder before either of them even realise he's moved.
"'I heart Andy,'" he reads. "'But I heart Spencer too. We should just steal Bob.' Dude, steal Bob for what?"
"Oh. Um." Patrick makes a face. "Brendon and I were just talking about who we would theoretically get to play the song."
"Theoretically."
"Theoretically." Patrick nods, and Pete drums his fingers on top of Patrick's hat.
"Well, if it's theoretical, why don't you just get the drummer from Rush or something?" Pete suggests.
"Huh." Patrick smiles. "You're right, if it's theoretical we could totally get anyone we want. I mean, maybe not the drummer form Rush, though." He lifts his cellphone up before glancing at Pete, who still hasn't moved. "Dude, you know I hate you reading over my shoulder."
"Right," Pete says, and stays there for a few seconds just to bug him before moving away.
*
The bar is loud enough that it's difficult to hear what everyone else is saying, just a blur of overlapping conversations that don't make sense. Met this girl - splash of water - fucking giraffes, man, giraffes - up all night long - did you fucking see that - yeah, my mom said - not on your fucking life - no, really, giraffes - yeah, I wouldn't mind raising that roof, if you know what I mean - you fucking idiot - god, I can't even do this anymore.
The tables are dark wood, bolted to the floors, a couple sticky smears where spilled beer wasn't properly wiped away. A waitress walks by, tray in one hand. Her other hand grabs the wrist of the guy who tried to slap her ass as she went by, digs in a nail before letting go.
Shut up, just shut up - I'm thinking about moving - the fuck is wrong with you - so I said hi, and she said - oh, man, it was awesome - last night, I just - snapped it up - couldn't you tell - what were you thinking - no, I'm not kidding you, it was - so cold, man, you have no - these shoes - so then they beam him out of the jumper - I'm just ignoring it.
Pete and Ryan have a table by but not in a corner. The chairs are only somewhat comfortable, but Ryan doesn't care enough to complain. His glass of water is dripping condensation onto the table, and whenever he picks up the glass there's a circular puddle left on the wood. When he sets it down, he tries to line the bottom of the glass up with the puddle. He hates creating unnecessary mess.
"Did I tell you I heard the song?" Pete asks, his voice sounding rough. He lifts up his own glass, swallows down half the contents. Water.
"No," Ryan says, drawing absent designs on his glass. He traces the logo, brings the tip of his finger to his face and wipes off the cold drops of water. "How is it?"
"It's good," Pete says, letting his head sink onto his hand, propped on his elbow. "They're going to perform it."
"Think they'll write anything else?" Ryan wonders; it's dark enough and loud enough that he doesn't mind asking.
Pete shrugs. "I don't know." I hope not, he doesn't say, but it's true anyway.
Zebras, too - that's me out of a job - don't be ridiculous - fuck, stop it, that hurts - I can't believe you - I don't get it - so then I said - she said - I said - you said - he said - the fuck - oh my god, that's so - I'm the boss - totally whipped - congratulations to you too - I have to go home now.
*
That night, Ryan wanders in, his head still pounding a little from the loudness of the bar. He sighs as he stumbles and knocks his shoulder against the wall with a mild thump. "Brendon?" he asks quietly, in case Brendon's asleep. He doesn't want to wake him up, not really.
"In here," he hears Brendon say, and orients himself to the sound of Brendon's voice. This way, he thinks, step left, step forward, take off shoes, step forward.
He doesn't even realise what he's doing, really, before he's climbing in next to Brendon. He's too tired to control his actions, maybe. "Hey," he murmurs, settling in. They haven't done this in a while; he can't remember if it's either of their faults.
"Mm," Brendon hums, his arm curling around Ryan. Ryan can feel himself relaxing into the bed and the warmth of Brendon's arm. It could be so easy to just stay here, he thinks.
"You're still going to need me, right?" he asks before he can stop himself, but it's not so bad, maybe. If Brendon ever asks, he can say it was just a dream. He doesn't like being emotional when he's awake.
"Always," Brendon says immediately, but Ryan's not sure Brendon even knows what he's saying, he sounds so tired. "Always always always, Ryan Ross."
Ryan hums. The thing is, he realised earlier tonight, if Brendon starts writing lyrics then there's really no point to Ryan, is there? He's just a guitarist with weird clothes and a good hand for makeup. If Brendon can write lyrics, then he doesn't need Ryan.
And it's not like if Ryan suddenly started writing the music, Ryan thinks stubbornly. It's not, because even if Ryan made every part of the songs, he would still need Brendon to sing them. Always always always, Ryan Ross.
Brendon starts to ask a question, but he yawns and Ryan just says, "Go to sleep." He pulls himself out of Brendon's bed and wanders off to his own. It could be so easy to stay, he thinks, but he doesn't. Can't.
*
Practice sucks.
This may be an exaggeration. It's not like the practices go badly, or anything; everyone manages to pick up their respective parts pretty quickly, and it's a good song, but.
Pete doesn't like not knowing who the song is about, because no matter how much Patrick tries to downplay it he can recognise Patrick, okay? He knows that the song is just as much Patrick as it is Brendon, but he doesn't know who Patrick is talking about. It bothers him.
Brendon's ex-girlfriend, some of Patrick's experiences thrown in. Ryan doesn't know who Brendon's talking about, either, and he's not sure if he minds, if he wants to know, if he's glad for the easy out.
All about a girl. All about a girl. All about a girl. Which just means that everything can stay the same, because Ryan doesn't always like change. He's willing to take what he can get, sometimes, and he doesn't always want to push for what he's not sure he can have.
*
At the end of practice one day, Pete hums, "Well, I never asked for any of this."
A couple days later, Ryan finds himself tapping out a tune on his leg. He knows the words for it, knows - "Give me everything I want, I'll give you three wishes."
"But I'll never let you know," Pete sings under his breath one day, putting his bass away. "So you can't ever say no."
It's just a stupid snatch of tune that's stuck in their heads, just a chorus, the chorus from the song all those nights ago. Ryan's kind of pissed. When something goes in the box under his bed, it's supposed to stay there, for fuck's sake. It's not supposed to play on repeat in the back of his head while Brendon and Patrick are singing, "If I choose to I could lose you," and god, he's just tired of this.
*
"Pete?" Patrick murmurs sleepily. Pete doesn't stop, just keeps walking, slips under Patrick's covers and keeps his cold feet away from Patrick's legs.
Patrick's used to this by now, after the past couple of days, weeks. He turns over and looks at Pete, but doesn't say anything.
Pete doesn't say anything either, doesn't ask who Patrick's singing about, doesn't say that he likes the song, doesn't say that he likes this, doesn't say - anything.
He slips out again after a few minutes, just when his feet are getting warm. Patrick never asks him to stay, so he never does.
*
The performance - well. It's not the specific performance that Pete remembers so much, because sometimes they blur together in his head. He remembers metal strings digging into his fingertips, the pick slipping in his sweaty hold, bouncing on his feet without moving too far across the stage. The other songs are fair game, but during Waiting he stays where he is for the most part, doesn't press himself against Patrick's back and lick into his ear.
He remembers the muted surprise when he realises they've changed the lines, just a jolt where he realises exactly what this song could maybe, possibly, be about now that the words are changed, but it's washed away in the rush of adrenaline and screaming fans and, really, those two girls fainted? What the fuck?
But then it's over, and they move onto another song, and Pete just... Well. What he remembers best from that night isn't the performance, it's after.
Backstage is just like it is backstage at any other venue, just empty spaces and bare walls and fluorescent lights. When they pile off the stage, Patrick turns to look at Pete; his shirt is sticking to his back, sweaty, and his hair is glinting copper under his hat. The ceiling lights are reflecting oddly in his eyes.
A couple feet away, Ryan and Brendon are leaning against the wall, not talking. Brendon's eyes are flickering all over the place, looking at Andy, twirling his drumsticks, Joe, pushing his hair out of his face absently, Patrick, fidgeting in place. Ryan's eyes are focused on the ugly green-beige carpeting under his feet. His fingers scratch gently against the wall.
"So," Pete says, "that was pretty awesome."
"Yeah?" Patrick asks warily, looking up at Pete.
"Yeah," Pete says. "They really seemed to like it." He doesn't mention the changed lyrics, doesn't mention that one look that Patrick gave Pete, just after the last chorus.
"Right," Patrick says.
"Can you believe those two girls fainted?" Ryan asks, smiling slightly, taking Pete's cues.
"Yeah," Brendon says, and laughs. "Ryan, you're staying for the afterparty, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Ryan says, glancing at Brendon's shoulder, his hair.
"I'm going to head back, I think," Brendon tells him, sticking his hands in his pockets. "See you later."
"Bye," Ryan says.
"See you," Pete adds.
Patrick just gives Brendon what could almost be mistaken for a smile. Brendon nods at him and walks out the door. Joe frowns, but carefully looks away, puts his guitar in its case and fastens the snaps with more attention than is really necessary.
Patrick comes to the party, but he leaves early. Pete may or may not get slightly drunk. Ryan may or may not, as well.
*
Everything goes normally for about a week, but it's more the type of normal that's just pretending to be normal. Everyone's a little too careful, trying a little too hard to not say the words on the tips of their tongues.
"So, Pete, Ryan, what do you think about Patrick and Brendon's song?" an interviewer asks, her teeth flashing white behind a really unappealing shade of lipstick, her hair tinted just a shade too bronze.
"I think it's great," Pete says. "I mean, Patrick's a genius, so obviously it would be."
"We're all really proud of it," Ryan adds. "It's an awesome song, and a lot of people seem to like it."
"Are there any plans for another collaboration between the two of you?" she asks Patrick and Brendon now.
"No," Patrick says, and Ryan and Pete shares a look, just blank enough to not get picked up by the cameras.
"Five years," Brendon mutters, and the interviewer asks, "What was that?"
"Nothing," he says, smiling at her charmingly. "Must've been my stomach growling, I didn't eat lunch yet."
"This is why people think we're anorexic," Ryan says, deadpan, and it's almost normal except for that quiet inch of space between them.
*
Things kind of suck. It's not so surprising when it snaps.
*
"Okay," Brendon says, appearing out of nowhere to corner Pete. Pete knows theoretically that Brendon is built like a twig and would never hurt anyone, but he's kind of scared, none the less. "So the thing is, you're kind of a moron."
"What?" Ryan says, looking surprisedly at Patrick.
"You're a moron," Patrick repeats, glowering from under his trucker hat. "Or else you're just an asshole."
"Seriously, do you like doing this to Patrick?" Brendon demands, glaring at Pete. "Because it doesn't seem like you're really enjoying it, either, so I'm kind of confused."
"I'm confused too," Pete says.
"What are you talking about?" Ryan crosses his arms, tries to surreptitiously edge back.
Patrick sighs. "This is ridiculous, okay? Look, who do you think Brendon wrote that song about, anyway?"
"He said it was about his experiences with some girl, okay, I -"
Brendon rolls his eyes. "Oh my god, you are really not this stupid, so I don't know why you're pretending to be. That entire fucking song was a grand gesture, okay? Don't make me lose all my faith in 80's movies."
"I don't -" Ryan tries to say, but Patrick cuts him off before he can try to protest his confusion or innocence or whatever. Ryan's not all that sure what he was planning on saying in the first place.
"Look, I'm not supposed to be telling you this, but Brendon is so -"
"- in love with you. Like, a ridiculous amount. He's been in love with you for years. And I don't know if you actually like him back, although it would suck if you didn't, because Patrick is completely awesome, but you could -"
"- at least tell him, okay? Don't leave him hanging, that's just fucking unfair." Patrick slumps, his rant apparently over. He shakes his head, leans against the wall slightly. "Just... say yes or no, okay?"
"Let him know if he has to start getting over you." Brendon deflates, looking worn out. He rubs the back of his neck absently, shakes his head. "Oh, and if you could not tell him I talked to you -"
"- that would probably be good. I mean, I don't think he wanted me meddling or whatever, but we - he didn't write the song so that everyone could just ignore it." Patrick crosses and uncrosses his arms, tugs the brim of his hat down farther. "It's your turn to do something."
Brendon turns and walks away, his hands in his pockets. Pete watches him go for a moment before pulling his cellphone out of his pocket and dialing a familiar number.
"Hey, Ryan," he says into the phone, leaning against the wall.
Ryan, watching Patrick stride away, holds his phone a little closer to his ear and says, "Hey, Pete. I just got accosted by your lead singer." He's still a little surprised, to be honest, but he can understand it. He can understand using the guise of fighting for someone else to fight for yourself; he's pretty sure that when Patrick said, 'It's not fair to him,' he really meant, 'It's not fair to me.'
Pete sighs and lets his head fall back against the wall. "Yeah, no kidding."
*
"In my defense," Pete says, sitting next to Patrick uninvited, "I've been telling you that I love you for years."
Patrick gives him a look, part confused, part irritated, part resigned, something only Patrick could pull off and Pete could properly interpret. "What are you talking about, Pete?"
"Well," Pete begins, "a little bird told me that I was kind of being an oblivious asshole, but obviously I'm not the only oblivious one in this relationship, because I've been telling you that I love you for years." He waits patiently, crossing his legs and turning to face Patrick properly. Patrick, wary, turns as well. Pete lets their feet touch.
"You were joking," Patrick says slowly, and then he blinks and asks, "Wait, relationship?"
Pete grins. "Okay, there's maybe a couple things I haven't been telling you."
"Why don't you tell them to me," Patrick says slowly, still staring at Pete, "and then you can tell me exactly why you never told me before, and then maybe I can decide whether to hit you or not."
Pete says, "I don't think you're going to hit me." He leans forward quickly, brushes a kiss over Patrick's lips and adds, "Probably."
*
"Brendon," Ryan says, stepping into the room. Brendon looks up at him.
"What, Ryan?" He's been quiet ever since he talked to Pete, just lying down and listening to music, nothing else.
Ryan walks closer to him, sits down. "I've got this song."
"Cool," Brendon says without sitting up. He sighs, rubs a hand over his eyes. "Ryan, I'm kind of tired, could -"
"Actually, I've got a couple songs," Ryan says, setting the worn box down next to Brendon, close enough for him to reach in and pull something out, anything. "I started writing them a couple years ago." When Brendon doesn't react, he adds, "You and Patrick aren't the only ones who can write a song about it, you know. You're just the only ones who actually let other people see them."
Brendon's half-closed eyes open, looking warily, hopefully, out. "Ryan -"
"Don't lose your faith in 80's movies," Ryan says, the hint of a smile beginning to form on his face. His eyes are locked on Brendon's.
Without looking away from Ryan, Brendon reaches into the box.