Set the Crooked Straight
My story for the Bandslashmania (Turning) Tricks or Treats challenge!
Recipient: Frek
Title: Set the Crooked Straight
Fandom: FOB
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG13
Author: giddygeek
Notes/Summary: Thanks to astolat and dsudis for beta! Frek asked for late night visitations, I went with a little bit of a trick or treat twist.
On Thursday Patrick goes to bed alone and he falls asleep easily, right away. He's never really been bothered by insomnia the way Pete is; he may stay up 36 hours straight while he's writing or traveling, but he's been on the road more nights than not since he was 16. Show his body a horizontal surface and it's fully ready to take advantage.
At five on Friday morning, he grumbles at the chill of the covers being pulled back and blinks his eyes open when the mattress dips; someone's sliding in with him. There's enough light that he can make out shapes, although without his glasses he's pretty useless. Shapes are enough, he recognizes who it is.
He's too tired to be surprised, although it's been a while since he's seen Pete. It's been a busy break. They'd talked last week about the newest batch of lyrics, though, and he's pretty sure Pete hadn't mentioned coming out to Chicago. He definitely hadn't mentioned coming to stay with Patrick.
Patrick's house is pretty much Pete's house if he needs it, no questions asked, but Patrick would normally draw a line about his bed. He says, tired and irritable, "Pete, you know where the guest room is, c'mon."
Pete doesn't reply. He keeps on sliding over to Patrick's side of the bed then right up against Patrick's side, his hip against Patrick's, their shoulders brushing. He sighs silently, just the swell of his chest giving him away, and closes his eyes.
Patrick's not really awake enough for this. He says, "Pete?" and "Aren't you supposed to be in LA?" but when Pete just shakes his head and pulls the blankets higher, Patrick puts it down to Pete being Pete. He sighs too, settles back down; he's exhausted from a long day in his studio with The Cab and Pete is curled up close to him, already out like a light. Questions can always wait for the morning, and sometimes sleep can't wait at all.
~
When he wakes up again, the bed is empty. It wouldn't be weird for Pete to be up before him but it's not even nine Chicago time; it's even earlier LA time. Pete's stayed in LA long enough for that to mean something--he's been there the whole break, almost. So for him to be up on his own at this hour is strange.
Plus there's no Wentz-related pandemonium. No music playing, no dog barking, no braying laughter or loud, one-sided conversations as Pete wanders around with his phone in his hand.
Patrick stumbles from room to room, rubbing his eyes and tripping over nothing; he was in bed for ten hours and feels like he got three minutes sleep.
His tired, cranky search reveals only that the house is empty. He stands in his living room for a while, hands on his hips, then goes back to his room and digs his phone out of a pile of clothes.
Pete has 'Living on the Edge' as his ring back; when it goes to voicemail, Patrick is mid-verse as usual. Pete swears that's why he never picks up the first time Patrick calls.
"Um," Patrick says, coughing. "Hey, I kicked you out to the guest room, not like, out of the house. Where are you? Call me when you get this, okay?"
He takes the phone with him into the bathroom, down to the studio, out to dinner, and leaves it on his night stand when he crawls back into bed that evening.
Pete doesn't call.
~
Patrick wakes up again in the middle of the night, shifting sleepily as Pete lifts the blankets and climbs in with him. He's wearing a t-shirt and Pete's not; his skin is cold when he settles close to Patrick's side, bare arms brushing, Pete inching over bit by bit.
"You could've called," Patrick says, sleepy and irritable, but Pete just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. He turns on his side, back to Patrick, breathing slow like he's already asleep. "Fine," Patrick huffs and he turns his back to Pete, rolling over with a lot of wriggling and fussing with the blankets.
He pretends not to notice when Pete leans back, just a little, so that they're touching from shoulder to hip.
~
His bed and house are empty again when Patrick wakes up. This time, somehow, he's not surprised--just pissed off.
"Fuck, Pete," he bitches at Pete's voicemail as he stumbles around. He woke up late, the guys are going to be there in minutes and he hasn't showered in a couple days, the studio is a disgusting mess, and he's fucking worried about his idiot best friend. Not the best way to start the day. "What the hell? Call me when you get this, or I'm, I don't know. I'll tell the internet you're being a jerk. More of a jerk. Whatever, just call me."
He hangs up and stands there like an idiot, waiting for the phone to ring for a long time before giving up, once again, and getting ready to deal with disaster.
~
Pete finally calls him back in the afternoon. Patrick had gotten involved enough in the music to almost forget that he was waiting; when his phone rings, he's startled. He looks up at, says, "Oh, shit," and leaps up, scrambling across three guys, four guitars, a snare drum, a flute, two trombones and a bugle to snatch his cell off the charger.
"Dude, what the hell were you calling me so early in the morning for," Pete says through a yawn when Patrick answers at the last possible second before the phone would have sent him to voicemail. "You know my ass was still in bed."
"Actually, that's the point," Patrick says, panting. He holds up one finger to Alex, just a minute, then heads out into the hallway. "I woke up this morning and you were long gone. What's up, man?"
Pete's quiet. In the background, Patrick can hear a chirping, friendly voice, clatter; Pete's at Starbucks, probably. He says, "Nothing's up. And I've been gone like, two months. Or you've been gone. Whatever."
"But--" Patrick looks around the hall, sneaks a peek back into his studio. He half expects Pete to slide out from behind a speaker, all loud laughter and cameras and gotcha. "Haha," he says uncertainly. "Real funny. But seriously--are you all right? Where are you?"
Pete's talking, muffled. Patrick can sort of make out his order; he winces. Pete's going to caffienate himself into a coma some day. Then Pete says comes back and says, "Yeah, no, I'm in LA. What the hell are you talking about?"
"LA? I, uh," Patrick says, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair, frowning down at the floor. "Must've dreamed it? I thought, I sort of thought you'd come over last night at like, 3."
Pete's quiet again for a moment and then says, "Oh yeah?" His voice is suddenly teasing, flirtatious. "Did we have crazy monkey sex?" and Patrick can tell he's still in the goddamned Starbucks. Chicago as a joke or LA for real, wherever Pete is, he's making a spectacle of himself. Perez will have a transcript of Pete's side of the conversation in twenty minutes or less. "No, no, don't be embarrassed, Patrick." Pete's getting louder and louder, clearly enjoying himself. "Everyone dreams about me coming over for a late night booty call, you're not alone--"
"I'll hang up on you," Patrick threatens.
"Sooo...what was I wearing?"
"Bye Pete," Patrick says and hangs up as Pete starts laughing, the big, annoying donkey's bray of a laugh that means he's really fucking entertained. Then he puts his phone down and stares at it for a long moment, still confused, and says, "Huh."
Maybe I'm working too hard, he thinks, bewildered, then he shrugs. He heads back into the studio, puts his headphones on, and slides back into the music he's shaping.
~
It happens again a couple nights later. Patrick wakes up because someone's hand is pushed half under him. He's sprawled out on his stomach and when he jerks awake, startled, heart slamming in his chest, it's just Pete, watching him with wide eyes.
"Not funny, ass," he snaps, rolling onto his side, away from Pete's cold hand. "What the fuck kind of joke is this?"
Pete doesn't say a word. He's looking at Patrick and he's so still, curled into himself in a nest of Patrick's sheets and pillows, that Patrick feels the anger just wash away. In its place is concern, worry, what he always feels when Pete is being this kind of ass.
"What's wrong," he asks, frustrated. When Pete shakes his head, refusing to answer, it's all Patrick can do to not punch him in the mouth.
"Fine," he says. "But you're not--okay, whatever, roll over."
Pete looks at him, confused. Patrick sits up, rolls his hands like he's talking to Hemmy. "Over," he says, insistent, and Pete slowly rolls onto his side, back to Patrick.
Patrick looks at him for a moment, the dark shapes of his tattoos and the line of his hip, his skin washed out and pale in the moonlight. Then he sighs and lies down again, this time pressed against Pete's back. "Jesus, you're cold," he mutters, dragging the blankets back up. Pete always sleeps naked or close to it, but March in Illinois is no time to be hanging out in just your shorts.
Pete's surprisingly tense against him for a long moment, but he relaxes when Patrick drapes an arm over his waist, breathing on the back of his neck to help warm him up.
"You're not disappearing on me in the morning," he says, warning, then he yawns. He closes his eyes and settles closer. "Tomorrow we're talking, Pete, okay? No more of this."
Pete nods after a moment and his fingers lace with Patrick's, slowly starting to warm up. Patrick grunts, satisfied, then falls back into a deep, dreamless sleep.
~
He wakes up alone.
~
Pete answers his phone after Patrick's been calling for two hours, at ten minute intervals. He says, "Fuck off," and hangs back up.
Patrick just keeps calling. Normal people would turn off their phones or something; he's betting on Pete's not being a normal person. Three tries later, Pete picks up again and says, "This had better be about some blow, a donkey, and a dead starlet, asshole."
"Fuck you," Patrick says. "Where are you?"
"I'm in LA," Pete says. "I'm in bed. What the fuck is your problem?"
"You being a shitty liar is my problem," Patrick says. He's pacing his bedroom, kicking aside piles of clothes and sneakers. He wants to pound something, preferably Pete's ugly, stupid face. "Who the hell do you think you are, freaking me out like this?" he asks. "Christ, Pete, if something's wrong, could you just tell me, and if nothing's wrong, could you just fucking knock it off?"
Pete laughs. "If something were wrong, would you care?" he asks. "Would you give a fucking shit, Patrick? Would telling you be telling my best friend, or just some dude I see every couple months, some jerk who just works for my label and doesn't give a damn?"
Patrick stops pacing, stands alone in his room in his boxers, t-shirt dangling from his hand, struck. They've always been the guys who hang out the least when they're not on tour or in the studio; in some ways, they've always maintained a careful distance. Anything else would be...risky. He's known that since he was a teenager, tucked under Pete's arm in a crowded club, a cold van, a brightly-lit stage, calling Pete his best friend and knowing that was sort of a lie. They're best friends, and always one inch away from being something else.
But this latest break is the longest they've ever had, the longest they've been apart since they met. Patrick's missed Pete, thought about him a lot, and assumed that out in LA, Pete was maybe happy, sometimes thinking of him and mostly not. He wasn't expecting anything like this, although probably he should've been.
"Pete," he says quietly. "Come on, don't be like that."
Pete exhales, a sharp, stuttering sound. Patrick can just picture him sitting in his bed in LA, blankets around his waist, back curved, head down. "No, I know," he says. "I didn't mean that. You know how I am when I haven't had my coffee, Patrick."
"I know," Patrick says. He bites his lip, sits on the edge of his bed. "Listen, come on, man. You can always talk to me. I'll always be here. You know that, right?"
"I do," Pete says, and it's the way he doesn't hesitate at all that gives him away.
Patrick knots his hand in the t-shirt he's still holding, doesn't say anything; can't say anything.
They sit in silence for a moment, then Pete sighs. "When are you coming out here?"
"We'll be done in two weeks, maybe three," Patrick says. "Listen," and part of him thinks Pete's visits were no dream, that no one could dream up something as detailed as the feel of Pete's fingers entwined with theirs, the cool, soft skin, the slightly raised textures of his tattoos. The other part of him thinks, how the fuck do we fix this? and doesn't give a damn if it was a dream or not. He says, "Listen, why don't you come over. You know the guys would love to see you. Your parents. We should record out here anyway. I'd--I think you should come over."
"Too much shit to do," Pete says, and he sounds cold, distant. "Busy busy, you know how it is. But I'm going to email you later, okay? And I'll see you in a couple weeks. Try not to dream about me too much, all right?"
Patrick hesitates. He doesn't want to let Pete blow this off but the only thing harder to do in the world than get Pete Wentz to talk when he doesn't want to is to shut up him when he does.
"All right," Patrick says, reluctant. "Okay. I'll talk to you later, man. And hey--"
"Yeah?"
"Love you," Patrick says, awkward; a decade of Pete's easy, affectionate friendship doesn't keep some things from being a little weird sometimes.
Pete's quiet for a long moment. "Love you too," he says finally, voice softer, warmer, and then he hangs up.
Patrick puts his phone down. He puts his shirt on. He goes down into the basement and buzzes in the guys when they arrive, ready to work. The whole time, his chest and stomach ache just a little, like he's been punched in the gut and never saw it coming.
~
That night he changes the codes on the alarms. He checks all the windows twice, including the one in the basement that's too narrow for a five year old to get through, because Pete is freaked out and tricky and probably has a four year old trained and ready to go.
He falls asleep with the lights on, TV blaring, laptop heavy and warm on his lap, like a pet.
He wakes up and his room is dark, quiet, cool. His laptop isn't on the bed. His hands are up above his head, wrists trapped by skinny, familiar fingers, and a wet mouth is sucking at the skin under his jaw, letting him go so chapped lips can whisper words he can't hear.
Patrick doesn't panic--it's just Pete, feels and smells like Pete, long hair against Patrick's skin and hitching breaths in his ear. He does freak out a little, twisting his wrists, because this is Pete, and Pete's always been careful to never be like this.
"Hey," Patrick says, sleep-rough and breathless. "Hey, come on, what are you doing?"
Pete freezes, then shifts back, weight on his hands, pressing Patrick's wrists deeper into the pillows.
"Let me up," Patrick says, and Pete looks at him for a long time, what feels like an eternity to Patrick. His heart starts slamming in his chest, an awkward, too-fast rhythm that goes out of control when Pete shakes his head, drops to his elbows, and kisses him.
It's not like the fast, playful kisses Pete has given him before; this time, Pete kisses him slowly, his mouth soft and cool, and Patrick freezes for a moment, dazed. Normally he'd be laughing, shoving Pete away, and Pete would be grinning at him and either clinging or dodging punches, whether or not punches were actually being thrown. But this is new, in a way that Patrick's been waiting for, although he didn't realize it. He's been waiting for Pete to kiss him like this, waiting for it to feel like this--he shivers, but his skin is hot, he twists again, but only to push against Pete, not to push Pete away.
And Pete smiles into the kiss, draws back and nips Patrick's lower lip, more what Patrick would expect from him, playful and teasing. But the light pressure of Pete's teeth somehow isn't playful at all.
"Is that what all this has been about?" Patrick whispers, trying to hold Pete's gaze, but Pete's still not saying a fucking word; he shrugs, shakes his head, teeth gleaming in the darkness as he smiles, and that's why Patrick snaps. He jerks at his wrists and Pete must not have been expecting it because he lets go, startled, and Patrick shoves, knocking him over onto his back--
But when Patrick pounces, Pete's gone, as suddenly as if he was never there.
~
In the morning, once he's prowled every square inch of his house and found no signs of Pete or his forced entry at all, Patrick picks up the phone, cancels his sessions with The Cab for a couple days, and books a flight to LA.
He's not crazy--he knows he's not, and screw that being the first sign that he is. Something strange is going on here, and he's going to find out what, or kill Pete trying.
~
He turns the tables on Pete by not calling, not knocking or ringing the bell, sneaks in using his key instead. He creeps in the front door, prepared to sneak down the hall and into Pete's room--it's only ten, California time. Pete's probably sleeping, resting up after a long night spent tearing down Patrick's understanding of the past nine years.
But Pete's lounging on the couch, Hemmy sprawled possessively over him, snoring and getting dog drool on his stomach.
Pete looks up when Patrick stops creeping so fast that he almost trips himself, and for a moment his face is unguarded, completely open; he smiles, and it's pretty much pure joy.
Patrick smiles back automatically, then remembers that he's mad at Pete. His smile fades and Pete's fades with it. He says, "Uh, hey Patrick," uncertainly, and Hemmy wakes up, leaps off his chest with a ferocious bark and a scrabble of nails that leaves Pete wincing.
Then the dog realizes who's there and bolts across the floor, hitting Patrick's legs like a cannonball. Patrick oofs, staggers back, gives in to Hemmy's whining and scratches behind his ears, even as he glares at Pete. "You mind telling me what's going on?" he asks. Hemmy flops down on his feet, overjoyed by the sound of his voice.
"You've--completely lost your shit?" Pete asks, wary.
Patrick huffs, steps over the dog, stomps across the room and pokes Pete in the chest. "Start explaining yourself."
"Wow," Pete says, eyes wide. "You know, I have drugs if you need them, and I think you do."
"I don't need anything but answers!" Patrick leans over Pete, hands braced behind his head on the couch, and gets right in his face. "About why you didn't just talk to me," he says, and Pete's wide eyes are on his, tired, surprised, then tracking down to the mark under his jaw, and he says, "Oh."
"Oh?"
"Jesus," Pete says, looking back into his eyes again. "Okay, no, listen. For real, I totally thought I was dreaming you, until you surprised me last night."
"Pete." Patrick closes his eyes. Sometimes the urge to kick the crap out of Pete still comes over him, as intense as it'd been back in the days when they'd regularly gotten into scraps, when they'd sometimes decked each other over stupid shit like toothpaste, lyrics, and who was wearing whose underwear. Pete, damn him, lives to provoke that kind of feeling--any kind of feeling.
"I am totally for real on this one," Pete says. "Hey, look at me," and Patrick does, reluctantly meeting Pete's gaze again. Pete smiles at him a little and says, "I just. I really missed you."
He looks sincere. Miserable, tired, and sincere.
"You missed me," Patrick says, and Pete nods. "Okay. You missed me. So what, you flew halfway across the country four nights in two weeks, freaked me out, slept with me, freaked me out, lied to me, kissed me, and freaked me out?"
"Well, I would have done all that, but I didn't need to fly, right," Pete says, voice surprisingly small. "I just dreamed I was with you, and I guess I was."
"You were...dreaming," Patrick says, and then he has to sit down hard by Pete's hip and stare at him. Pete shifts to give him room, knocking a stack of laundry off the couch; Hemmy pounces on a rolled-up pair of socks and bolts, growling happily. Patrick says, "Are you serious?"
"Well. Maybe? I don't know. I've just been reading about things," Pete says, then winces. "A lot. On the internet. I thought it'd be cool to try. And I, uh, I really missed you."
"Yeah, I got that part," Patrick says. "What with the--but you know what, that can't--you liar. You were totally solid. Like, flesh. Maybe cooler and kind of pale, but still you. Not a ghost."
"More like a zombie?" Pete asks, cheering up a little, clearly impressed with himself. "I was wondering if that might happen. Not that I thought it'd work, just. You know."
Patrick stares at him, then covers his face with his hands. Other bands don't have these problems, he's pretty sure. Maybe Cobra Starship except fuck, the idea of Gabe with the ability to go wherever he wants if he wants it bad enough, that's just terrifying. "Like that, yeah, only you know, not dead," he says, voice muffled by his hands. "Thankfully. Jesus, I'd have spewed all over you."
"And I'd totally have tried to lick your brain," Pete admits. "So it's good that I was just, you know. A little off, and not a zombie."
Patrick drops his hands and stares, incredulous. "Jesus, Pete, you're fucking gross."
"You'd totally have let me!" Pete insists and rather than admit he might be right, that apparently he'll let Pete get away with anything, Patrick slumps over his skinny hip, pressing into him, and watches Hemmy shred Pete's socks.
"Hey." Pete reaches out and digs his knuckles lightly against Patrick's arm, then curls his fingers around it. He says, "Patrick," and Patrick looks at him from the corner of his eye, watches Pete watching him. "Now that we're both here and awake and, you know, not undead...."
"What."
"Can I touch you now?" Pete asks, hesitant and bold all at once. His skin is warm against Patrick's, so different from the cool, silent Pete of the night before, it's almost unreal. Almost too real? Patrick licks his lips, considering it, considering Pete, and says, "Okay."
~
The couch smells like dog but Patrick lets Pete push him down into the cushions and settle over him, hip to hip, hands wrapping lightly over Patrick's wrists, his thumbs careful against the faint bruises there.
"I don't want to do this again," Pete says, eyes and voice serious. "No--no, don't be a jerk. I don't want to do this," his grip tightening just a little. "I don't, don't, don't want to miss you like that again, Patrick."
"I won't let you," Patrick says. He isn't the one who feels this way, who ever feels like this, ferocious and protective and determined, but he's feeling it anyway. It's in his voice, he can hear it. Pete maybe hears it too and believes it; must believe it, because he smiles. He laces his fingers through Patrick's then leans down to kiss him--that same gentle kiss that surprised Patrick so much the night before, that leaves him hard, aching and happy.
"This felt different when I was dreaming about it," Pete whispers, and Patrick smiles and says, "I know."
Recipient: Frek
Title: Set the Crooked Straight
Fandom: FOB
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG13
Author: giddygeek
Notes/Summary: Thanks to astolat and dsudis for beta! Frek asked for late night visitations, I went with a little bit of a trick or treat twist.
On Thursday Patrick goes to bed alone and he falls asleep easily, right away. He's never really been bothered by insomnia the way Pete is; he may stay up 36 hours straight while he's writing or traveling, but he's been on the road more nights than not since he was 16. Show his body a horizontal surface and it's fully ready to take advantage.
At five on Friday morning, he grumbles at the chill of the covers being pulled back and blinks his eyes open when the mattress dips; someone's sliding in with him. There's enough light that he can make out shapes, although without his glasses he's pretty useless. Shapes are enough, he recognizes who it is.
He's too tired to be surprised, although it's been a while since he's seen Pete. It's been a busy break. They'd talked last week about the newest batch of lyrics, though, and he's pretty sure Pete hadn't mentioned coming out to Chicago. He definitely hadn't mentioned coming to stay with Patrick.
Patrick's house is pretty much Pete's house if he needs it, no questions asked, but Patrick would normally draw a line about his bed. He says, tired and irritable, "Pete, you know where the guest room is, c'mon."
Pete doesn't reply. He keeps on sliding over to Patrick's side of the bed then right up against Patrick's side, his hip against Patrick's, their shoulders brushing. He sighs silently, just the swell of his chest giving him away, and closes his eyes.
Patrick's not really awake enough for this. He says, "Pete?" and "Aren't you supposed to be in LA?" but when Pete just shakes his head and pulls the blankets higher, Patrick puts it down to Pete being Pete. He sighs too, settles back down; he's exhausted from a long day in his studio with The Cab and Pete is curled up close to him, already out like a light. Questions can always wait for the morning, and sometimes sleep can't wait at all.
~
When he wakes up again, the bed is empty. It wouldn't be weird for Pete to be up before him but it's not even nine Chicago time; it's even earlier LA time. Pete's stayed in LA long enough for that to mean something--he's been there the whole break, almost. So for him to be up on his own at this hour is strange.
Plus there's no Wentz-related pandemonium. No music playing, no dog barking, no braying laughter or loud, one-sided conversations as Pete wanders around with his phone in his hand.
Patrick stumbles from room to room, rubbing his eyes and tripping over nothing; he was in bed for ten hours and feels like he got three minutes sleep.
His tired, cranky search reveals only that the house is empty. He stands in his living room for a while, hands on his hips, then goes back to his room and digs his phone out of a pile of clothes.
Pete has 'Living on the Edge' as his ring back; when it goes to voicemail, Patrick is mid-verse as usual. Pete swears that's why he never picks up the first time Patrick calls.
"Um," Patrick says, coughing. "Hey, I kicked you out to the guest room, not like, out of the house. Where are you? Call me when you get this, okay?"
He takes the phone with him into the bathroom, down to the studio, out to dinner, and leaves it on his night stand when he crawls back into bed that evening.
Pete doesn't call.
~
Patrick wakes up again in the middle of the night, shifting sleepily as Pete lifts the blankets and climbs in with him. He's wearing a t-shirt and Pete's not; his skin is cold when he settles close to Patrick's side, bare arms brushing, Pete inching over bit by bit.
"You could've called," Patrick says, sleepy and irritable, but Pete just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. He turns on his side, back to Patrick, breathing slow like he's already asleep. "Fine," Patrick huffs and he turns his back to Pete, rolling over with a lot of wriggling and fussing with the blankets.
He pretends not to notice when Pete leans back, just a little, so that they're touching from shoulder to hip.
~
His bed and house are empty again when Patrick wakes up. This time, somehow, he's not surprised--just pissed off.
"Fuck, Pete," he bitches at Pete's voicemail as he stumbles around. He woke up late, the guys are going to be there in minutes and he hasn't showered in a couple days, the studio is a disgusting mess, and he's fucking worried about his idiot best friend. Not the best way to start the day. "What the hell? Call me when you get this, or I'm, I don't know. I'll tell the internet you're being a jerk. More of a jerk. Whatever, just call me."
He hangs up and stands there like an idiot, waiting for the phone to ring for a long time before giving up, once again, and getting ready to deal with disaster.
~
Pete finally calls him back in the afternoon. Patrick had gotten involved enough in the music to almost forget that he was waiting; when his phone rings, he's startled. He looks up at, says, "Oh, shit," and leaps up, scrambling across three guys, four guitars, a snare drum, a flute, two trombones and a bugle to snatch his cell off the charger.
"Dude, what the hell were you calling me so early in the morning for," Pete says through a yawn when Patrick answers at the last possible second before the phone would have sent him to voicemail. "You know my ass was still in bed."
"Actually, that's the point," Patrick says, panting. He holds up one finger to Alex, just a minute, then heads out into the hallway. "I woke up this morning and you were long gone. What's up, man?"
Pete's quiet. In the background, Patrick can hear a chirping, friendly voice, clatter; Pete's at Starbucks, probably. He says, "Nothing's up. And I've been gone like, two months. Or you've been gone. Whatever."
"But--" Patrick looks around the hall, sneaks a peek back into his studio. He half expects Pete to slide out from behind a speaker, all loud laughter and cameras and gotcha. "Haha," he says uncertainly. "Real funny. But seriously--are you all right? Where are you?"
Pete's talking, muffled. Patrick can sort of make out his order; he winces. Pete's going to caffienate himself into a coma some day. Then Pete says comes back and says, "Yeah, no, I'm in LA. What the hell are you talking about?"
"LA? I, uh," Patrick says, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair, frowning down at the floor. "Must've dreamed it? I thought, I sort of thought you'd come over last night at like, 3."
Pete's quiet again for a moment and then says, "Oh yeah?" His voice is suddenly teasing, flirtatious. "Did we have crazy monkey sex?" and Patrick can tell he's still in the goddamned Starbucks. Chicago as a joke or LA for real, wherever Pete is, he's making a spectacle of himself. Perez will have a transcript of Pete's side of the conversation in twenty minutes or less. "No, no, don't be embarrassed, Patrick." Pete's getting louder and louder, clearly enjoying himself. "Everyone dreams about me coming over for a late night booty call, you're not alone--"
"I'll hang up on you," Patrick threatens.
"Sooo...what was I wearing?"
"Bye Pete," Patrick says and hangs up as Pete starts laughing, the big, annoying donkey's bray of a laugh that means he's really fucking entertained. Then he puts his phone down and stares at it for a long moment, still confused, and says, "Huh."
Maybe I'm working too hard, he thinks, bewildered, then he shrugs. He heads back into the studio, puts his headphones on, and slides back into the music he's shaping.
~
It happens again a couple nights later. Patrick wakes up because someone's hand is pushed half under him. He's sprawled out on his stomach and when he jerks awake, startled, heart slamming in his chest, it's just Pete, watching him with wide eyes.
"Not funny, ass," he snaps, rolling onto his side, away from Pete's cold hand. "What the fuck kind of joke is this?"
Pete doesn't say a word. He's looking at Patrick and he's so still, curled into himself in a nest of Patrick's sheets and pillows, that Patrick feels the anger just wash away. In its place is concern, worry, what he always feels when Pete is being this kind of ass.
"What's wrong," he asks, frustrated. When Pete shakes his head, refusing to answer, it's all Patrick can do to not punch him in the mouth.
"Fine," he says. "But you're not--okay, whatever, roll over."
Pete looks at him, confused. Patrick sits up, rolls his hands like he's talking to Hemmy. "Over," he says, insistent, and Pete slowly rolls onto his side, back to Patrick.
Patrick looks at him for a moment, the dark shapes of his tattoos and the line of his hip, his skin washed out and pale in the moonlight. Then he sighs and lies down again, this time pressed against Pete's back. "Jesus, you're cold," he mutters, dragging the blankets back up. Pete always sleeps naked or close to it, but March in Illinois is no time to be hanging out in just your shorts.
Pete's surprisingly tense against him for a long moment, but he relaxes when Patrick drapes an arm over his waist, breathing on the back of his neck to help warm him up.
"You're not disappearing on me in the morning," he says, warning, then he yawns. He closes his eyes and settles closer. "Tomorrow we're talking, Pete, okay? No more of this."
Pete nods after a moment and his fingers lace with Patrick's, slowly starting to warm up. Patrick grunts, satisfied, then falls back into a deep, dreamless sleep.
~
He wakes up alone.
~
Pete answers his phone after Patrick's been calling for two hours, at ten minute intervals. He says, "Fuck off," and hangs back up.
Patrick just keeps calling. Normal people would turn off their phones or something; he's betting on Pete's not being a normal person. Three tries later, Pete picks up again and says, "This had better be about some blow, a donkey, and a dead starlet, asshole."
"Fuck you," Patrick says. "Where are you?"
"I'm in LA," Pete says. "I'm in bed. What the fuck is your problem?"
"You being a shitty liar is my problem," Patrick says. He's pacing his bedroom, kicking aside piles of clothes and sneakers. He wants to pound something, preferably Pete's ugly, stupid face. "Who the hell do you think you are, freaking me out like this?" he asks. "Christ, Pete, if something's wrong, could you just tell me, and if nothing's wrong, could you just fucking knock it off?"
Pete laughs. "If something were wrong, would you care?" he asks. "Would you give a fucking shit, Patrick? Would telling you be telling my best friend, or just some dude I see every couple months, some jerk who just works for my label and doesn't give a damn?"
Patrick stops pacing, stands alone in his room in his boxers, t-shirt dangling from his hand, struck. They've always been the guys who hang out the least when they're not on tour or in the studio; in some ways, they've always maintained a careful distance. Anything else would be...risky. He's known that since he was a teenager, tucked under Pete's arm in a crowded club, a cold van, a brightly-lit stage, calling Pete his best friend and knowing that was sort of a lie. They're best friends, and always one inch away from being something else.
But this latest break is the longest they've ever had, the longest they've been apart since they met. Patrick's missed Pete, thought about him a lot, and assumed that out in LA, Pete was maybe happy, sometimes thinking of him and mostly not. He wasn't expecting anything like this, although probably he should've been.
"Pete," he says quietly. "Come on, don't be like that."
Pete exhales, a sharp, stuttering sound. Patrick can just picture him sitting in his bed in LA, blankets around his waist, back curved, head down. "No, I know," he says. "I didn't mean that. You know how I am when I haven't had my coffee, Patrick."
"I know," Patrick says. He bites his lip, sits on the edge of his bed. "Listen, come on, man. You can always talk to me. I'll always be here. You know that, right?"
"I do," Pete says, and it's the way he doesn't hesitate at all that gives him away.
Patrick knots his hand in the t-shirt he's still holding, doesn't say anything; can't say anything.
They sit in silence for a moment, then Pete sighs. "When are you coming out here?"
"We'll be done in two weeks, maybe three," Patrick says. "Listen," and part of him thinks Pete's visits were no dream, that no one could dream up something as detailed as the feel of Pete's fingers entwined with theirs, the cool, soft skin, the slightly raised textures of his tattoos. The other part of him thinks, how the fuck do we fix this? and doesn't give a damn if it was a dream or not. He says, "Listen, why don't you come over. You know the guys would love to see you. Your parents. We should record out here anyway. I'd--I think you should come over."
"Too much shit to do," Pete says, and he sounds cold, distant. "Busy busy, you know how it is. But I'm going to email you later, okay? And I'll see you in a couple weeks. Try not to dream about me too much, all right?"
Patrick hesitates. He doesn't want to let Pete blow this off but the only thing harder to do in the world than get Pete Wentz to talk when he doesn't want to is to shut up him when he does.
"All right," Patrick says, reluctant. "Okay. I'll talk to you later, man. And hey--"
"Yeah?"
"Love you," Patrick says, awkward; a decade of Pete's easy, affectionate friendship doesn't keep some things from being a little weird sometimes.
Pete's quiet for a long moment. "Love you too," he says finally, voice softer, warmer, and then he hangs up.
Patrick puts his phone down. He puts his shirt on. He goes down into the basement and buzzes in the guys when they arrive, ready to work. The whole time, his chest and stomach ache just a little, like he's been punched in the gut and never saw it coming.
~
That night he changes the codes on the alarms. He checks all the windows twice, including the one in the basement that's too narrow for a five year old to get through, because Pete is freaked out and tricky and probably has a four year old trained and ready to go.
He falls asleep with the lights on, TV blaring, laptop heavy and warm on his lap, like a pet.
He wakes up and his room is dark, quiet, cool. His laptop isn't on the bed. His hands are up above his head, wrists trapped by skinny, familiar fingers, and a wet mouth is sucking at the skin under his jaw, letting him go so chapped lips can whisper words he can't hear.
Patrick doesn't panic--it's just Pete, feels and smells like Pete, long hair against Patrick's skin and hitching breaths in his ear. He does freak out a little, twisting his wrists, because this is Pete, and Pete's always been careful to never be like this.
"Hey," Patrick says, sleep-rough and breathless. "Hey, come on, what are you doing?"
Pete freezes, then shifts back, weight on his hands, pressing Patrick's wrists deeper into the pillows.
"Let me up," Patrick says, and Pete looks at him for a long time, what feels like an eternity to Patrick. His heart starts slamming in his chest, an awkward, too-fast rhythm that goes out of control when Pete shakes his head, drops to his elbows, and kisses him.
It's not like the fast, playful kisses Pete has given him before; this time, Pete kisses him slowly, his mouth soft and cool, and Patrick freezes for a moment, dazed. Normally he'd be laughing, shoving Pete away, and Pete would be grinning at him and either clinging or dodging punches, whether or not punches were actually being thrown. But this is new, in a way that Patrick's been waiting for, although he didn't realize it. He's been waiting for Pete to kiss him like this, waiting for it to feel like this--he shivers, but his skin is hot, he twists again, but only to push against Pete, not to push Pete away.
And Pete smiles into the kiss, draws back and nips Patrick's lower lip, more what Patrick would expect from him, playful and teasing. But the light pressure of Pete's teeth somehow isn't playful at all.
"Is that what all this has been about?" Patrick whispers, trying to hold Pete's gaze, but Pete's still not saying a fucking word; he shrugs, shakes his head, teeth gleaming in the darkness as he smiles, and that's why Patrick snaps. He jerks at his wrists and Pete must not have been expecting it because he lets go, startled, and Patrick shoves, knocking him over onto his back--
But when Patrick pounces, Pete's gone, as suddenly as if he was never there.
~
In the morning, once he's prowled every square inch of his house and found no signs of Pete or his forced entry at all, Patrick picks up the phone, cancels his sessions with The Cab for a couple days, and books a flight to LA.
He's not crazy--he knows he's not, and screw that being the first sign that he is. Something strange is going on here, and he's going to find out what, or kill Pete trying.
~
He turns the tables on Pete by not calling, not knocking or ringing the bell, sneaks in using his key instead. He creeps in the front door, prepared to sneak down the hall and into Pete's room--it's only ten, California time. Pete's probably sleeping, resting up after a long night spent tearing down Patrick's understanding of the past nine years.
But Pete's lounging on the couch, Hemmy sprawled possessively over him, snoring and getting dog drool on his stomach.
Pete looks up when Patrick stops creeping so fast that he almost trips himself, and for a moment his face is unguarded, completely open; he smiles, and it's pretty much pure joy.
Patrick smiles back automatically, then remembers that he's mad at Pete. His smile fades and Pete's fades with it. He says, "Uh, hey Patrick," uncertainly, and Hemmy wakes up, leaps off his chest with a ferocious bark and a scrabble of nails that leaves Pete wincing.
Then the dog realizes who's there and bolts across the floor, hitting Patrick's legs like a cannonball. Patrick oofs, staggers back, gives in to Hemmy's whining and scratches behind his ears, even as he glares at Pete. "You mind telling me what's going on?" he asks. Hemmy flops down on his feet, overjoyed by the sound of his voice.
"You've--completely lost your shit?" Pete asks, wary.
Patrick huffs, steps over the dog, stomps across the room and pokes Pete in the chest. "Start explaining yourself."
"Wow," Pete says, eyes wide. "You know, I have drugs if you need them, and I think you do."
"I don't need anything but answers!" Patrick leans over Pete, hands braced behind his head on the couch, and gets right in his face. "About why you didn't just talk to me," he says, and Pete's wide eyes are on his, tired, surprised, then tracking down to the mark under his jaw, and he says, "Oh."
"Oh?"
"Jesus," Pete says, looking back into his eyes again. "Okay, no, listen. For real, I totally thought I was dreaming you, until you surprised me last night."
"Pete." Patrick closes his eyes. Sometimes the urge to kick the crap out of Pete still comes over him, as intense as it'd been back in the days when they'd regularly gotten into scraps, when they'd sometimes decked each other over stupid shit like toothpaste, lyrics, and who was wearing whose underwear. Pete, damn him, lives to provoke that kind of feeling--any kind of feeling.
"I am totally for real on this one," Pete says. "Hey, look at me," and Patrick does, reluctantly meeting Pete's gaze again. Pete smiles at him a little and says, "I just. I really missed you."
He looks sincere. Miserable, tired, and sincere.
"You missed me," Patrick says, and Pete nods. "Okay. You missed me. So what, you flew halfway across the country four nights in two weeks, freaked me out, slept with me, freaked me out, lied to me, kissed me, and freaked me out?"
"Well, I would have done all that, but I didn't need to fly, right," Pete says, voice surprisingly small. "I just dreamed I was with you, and I guess I was."
"You were...dreaming," Patrick says, and then he has to sit down hard by Pete's hip and stare at him. Pete shifts to give him room, knocking a stack of laundry off the couch; Hemmy pounces on a rolled-up pair of socks and bolts, growling happily. Patrick says, "Are you serious?"
"Well. Maybe? I don't know. I've just been reading about things," Pete says, then winces. "A lot. On the internet. I thought it'd be cool to try. And I, uh, I really missed you."
"Yeah, I got that part," Patrick says. "What with the--but you know what, that can't--you liar. You were totally solid. Like, flesh. Maybe cooler and kind of pale, but still you. Not a ghost."
"More like a zombie?" Pete asks, cheering up a little, clearly impressed with himself. "I was wondering if that might happen. Not that I thought it'd work, just. You know."
Patrick stares at him, then covers his face with his hands. Other bands don't have these problems, he's pretty sure. Maybe Cobra Starship except fuck, the idea of Gabe with the ability to go wherever he wants if he wants it bad enough, that's just terrifying. "Like that, yeah, only you know, not dead," he says, voice muffled by his hands. "Thankfully. Jesus, I'd have spewed all over you."
"And I'd totally have tried to lick your brain," Pete admits. "So it's good that I was just, you know. A little off, and not a zombie."
Patrick drops his hands and stares, incredulous. "Jesus, Pete, you're fucking gross."
"You'd totally have let me!" Pete insists and rather than admit he might be right, that apparently he'll let Pete get away with anything, Patrick slumps over his skinny hip, pressing into him, and watches Hemmy shred Pete's socks.
"Hey." Pete reaches out and digs his knuckles lightly against Patrick's arm, then curls his fingers around it. He says, "Patrick," and Patrick looks at him from the corner of his eye, watches Pete watching him. "Now that we're both here and awake and, you know, not undead...."
"What."
"Can I touch you now?" Pete asks, hesitant and bold all at once. His skin is warm against Patrick's, so different from the cool, silent Pete of the night before, it's almost unreal. Almost too real? Patrick licks his lips, considering it, considering Pete, and says, "Okay."
~
The couch smells like dog but Patrick lets Pete push him down into the cushions and settle over him, hip to hip, hands wrapping lightly over Patrick's wrists, his thumbs careful against the faint bruises there.
"I don't want to do this again," Pete says, eyes and voice serious. "No--no, don't be a jerk. I don't want to do this," his grip tightening just a little. "I don't, don't, don't want to miss you like that again, Patrick."
"I won't let you," Patrick says. He isn't the one who feels this way, who ever feels like this, ferocious and protective and determined, but he's feeling it anyway. It's in his voice, he can hear it. Pete maybe hears it too and believes it; must believe it, because he smiles. He laces his fingers through Patrick's then leans down to kiss him--that same gentle kiss that surprised Patrick so much the night before, that leaves him hard, aching and happy.
"This felt different when I was dreaming about it," Pete whispers, and Patrick smiles and says, "I know."