New Story: Semi-Decent Proposals
9:44:45 PM giddygeek: <3<3<3<3<3
9:46:03 PM misspamela: i know
9:46:08 PM msspamela: *heart*
9:46:29 PM giddygeek: get over your rps quibbles and write me a wedding, damnit
9:46:53 PM misspamela: ahahaha
9:47:16 PM misspamela: i am not breaking my RPS seal by writing members of Fall Out Boy getting married.
9:47:18 PM misspamela: No.
So, given the lifespan of my moral quibbles, here's FOB weddingfic. Right on schedule! My first RPS. Giddy, I hope you're happy!
Title: Semi-Decent Proposals
Author: Miss Pamela
Fandom: Bandslash (FOB)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG-13
Length: 3,650 words
Huge beta thanks go to giddygeek and calathea!
Summary: “And if ‘Sugar’ hits the top ten, I’m going to marry you, motherfucker.”
Pete asked Patrick to marry him about twenty minutes after the first time they met. Patrick had just finished singing, the sweat cooling on his palms, trying not to puke because, shit, it was the guy from Arma Angelus, and then --
And then--
Pete wrapped his arms around Patrick, pressed his lips to the corner of Patrick’s mouth, and said, “I’m going to marry this kid!”
(Which Patrick would later find out was Pete’s version of “asking” anything.)
Standing behind Pete, Joe just shrugged and said, “Oh yeah, Pete likes to kiss dudes on the mouth sometimes.” He raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated Hey, what can you do? face.
After a momentary mental struggle of Cool with It/Not Cool, Patrick settled on shoving his hat back on his head and saying, “Just warn a guy, okay?”
Pete kissed him again, this time on the cheek, and laughed. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”
........
The next time Pete asked Patrick to marry him, he had a hundred and three degree fever.
It was the first time one of them had gotten that sick while touring, and everyone was a little freaked out. They didn’t have enough money for a trip to the ER, so there they were, in a shitty Motel 6, trying everything they ever saw in movies to get Pete to fucking feel better.
“That’s it,” Joe declared. “I’m calling my mom. And maybe Pete’s mom.” He bounced off the other twin bed, creaking the springs in A minor.
Patrick nodded absently, accepting a flimsy hotel washcloth from Andy and rubbing it across Pete’s forehead. Water dribbled down Pete’s face, trickling into his mouth. Pete coughed.
“Christ, Hurley!” Patrick yelled. “I’m not giving him a fucking sponge bath! I need a damp cloth. Damp. Not soaked.”
“...want a sponge bath...” Pete muttered and coughed again.
“Dude, shut the hell up.” Andy sat next to Patrick and gently pulled him back by the shoulders. “You’re losing your shit and making it worse. Here.” He shoved his hand deep into the pocket of his jeans, wiggled around for a second, then came up with a couple of wrinkled bills and a condom. Thankfully, the condom was still wrapped. “This was left over from filling up the van. Go get him some fluids, take a walk, and come back when you’re chilled out.”
Patrick’s first reaction was fuck, no, but he realized that Pete probably needed something better than Denver’s finest tap water. He went to move off the bed, but Pete reached out and wrapped his (too hot, too dry) hand loosely around Patrick’s wrist. Patrick froze.
“Don’t go,” Pete whispered. “Please.”
“You need something to drink. And you smell.” Patrick gently pulled his arm free. “Andy’s going to clean you up a bit and I’ll be right back, okay?” He stood and reached for his denim jacket.
Pete somehow managed to flutter his lashes at Andy. “Still want a sponge bath.”
“No fucking way, dude,” Andy grumbled as Patrick slipped out into the fluorescent yellow lights of the motel parking lot.
There was a 7-11 across the street from the motel, glowing brighter than anything had the right to at 2:00 am in Denver. Patrick jogged across the road, shivering, thinking that it was a damned good thing that Pete wasn’t sleeping in the van tonight.
Andy had given him a grand total of three dollars and sixty-five cents, so he grabbed the biggest Gatorade he could find, and had just enough left over for one of those tomato soup things you could just stick in the microwave. The cashier was Patrick’s age, half-sleeping under a baseball cap, his battered Vans up on the counter. “Hey, aren’t you that guy from that band...?” he asked, peering sleepily at Patrick.
“Nope,” Patrick said, quickly, and booked it out the door.
When he got back to the motel, Joe and Andy were standing in the hallway.
“Hey,” Joe held up the van keys and jingled them. “Pete’s mom is wiring us a couple hundred bucks for a doctor and another room, so Pete can rest.” He grimaced. “She says she’s coming out if he’s not better in a few days.”
Patrick winced. He loved Pete’s mom, he did, but nobody wanted their mom on tour. And now that they could take Pete to the doctor, he felt a lot better.
“We’ll be in 327 after we pick up the cash,” Andy said. “See you.”
Patrick nodded goodbye and went back into the room. Pete was still a lump on one of the beds, unmoving except for the rise and fall of the blanket.
Tossing the soup on the other bed, Patrick sat carefully next to him. “Hey,” he whispered. “I got you this.” He pressed the cold bottle into Pete’s hand.
“Yessss,” Pete croaked, sitting up. The blanket fell down, exposing his bare chest. His hair looked like shit, matted against his forehead, and somehow, this worried Patrick more than anything. Pete pressed the bottle to his forehead, rolling it back and forth, before unscrewing the cap and sucking the whole thing down in huge, shuddering gulps.
“Marry me, Patrick Martin Stump,” Pete said, chucking the bottle and flopping back down on the bed. “Seriously, I love you.” He looked better, Patrick thought. Tired and pale, but more aware.
“I’d be a shitty wife.” Pulling the blanket back up over Pete’s shoulders, Patrick squeezed himself onto the bed. Pete rolled onto his side to give him more room.
“No,” Pete murmured. “We’d make music. All the time.”
Patrick fell asleep to that thought, watching headlights angling across the room, like a CD spinning, reflecting, making music, all the time.
.................
Patrick asked Pete to marry him once.
They were driving around Wisconsin, late one night -- no, early one morning-- in Pete’s old car. They’d spent the weekend at Andy’s, hanging out, waiting for the next tour.
And then somewhere, on some shit road in east bumfuck Wisconsin, Patrick was flipping through the radio, and --shit. Shit.
Chords. Chords he knew, chords he wrote and his voice -- his voice. On the radio.
For a second, Patrick thought the world was spinning, like they talked about in stories, but no, it was the car, jerking around and screeching to a halt in a field.
“That’s us.” Pete looked at him, grinned, and punched the ceiling of the car. “That’s us, on the fucking radio in fucking Wisconsin!”
Patrick reached out and jerked the volume up as far as it would go and tumbled out of the car. His stomach churned and something joyous, something amazing bubbled up through his body. He looked at Pete, jumping up and down like a lunatic, playing air guitar, and he thought, This is it. We made it.
The song ended and the DJ said, “And that’s from a new band called ‘Fall Out Boy.’ Judging from the number of calls we just got, you’ll all be sick of that song in a month. It’s a monster!”
And at that, something in Patrick sort of snapped, because, holy shit.
He walked up to Pete, who had stopped bouncing to gape at the radio, put one hand on each of Pete’s shoulders, and moved in, kissing Pete square on the mouth. “We. Are. Amazing.” Patrick held him there for a moment, savoring the taste and feel of Pete, and reminding himself of all the reasons that sleeping with him was a really bad idea.
Pete looked shocked and pleased and suddenly, strangely young. “Damned fucking straight.” He wrapped Patrick in a tight hug. “We’re going places, me and you.”
It was all too much: this field, the song, their music, the hug. Patrick whispered into Pete’s neck, “Let’s get fucking married and rule the world!”
“Yes! We’re going to Vegas!” Pete let go of the hug and dragged him toward the car. “I’ve always, always wanted to be married by Elvis.”
Patrick laughed. “I don’t think we have enough gas money to get to Vegas, song on the radio or not.”
Pete stared at him for a second and shook his head. “Then I’ve got a better idea.” Pete flipped open his phone. “Let’s call Joe.”
“It’s four in the morning.” Patrick checked his watch.
Pete grinned. “Exactly.”
Patrick grinned back. “And he’s staying with his new giiirlfrieeend,” Patrick singsonged.
“Let’s wake that fucker up!” Pete crowed, pushing buttons and grinning madly, Vegas all but forgotten.
...........................
Sometimes, Pete didn’t so much ask Patrick to marry him as threaten him with it. The next time it happened, they were headlining fucking Warped Tour.
Headlining. Warped. Tour.
A hot, writhing sea of bodies crashed and broke against the stage, over and over again, screaming the words to “A Little Less Sixteen Candles.” Patrick squeezed his eyes shut and sang, opening his throat, letting the music tear him open, feeling the vibrations of Andy’s drums shattering the floorboards beneath him. Joe whirled in the corner of Patrick’s vision, the re-entry of his guitar perfectly timed, adding to the perfect sound, the perfect moment. Next to him, all vibrating bass and charisma and -- Jesus, Patrick could feel how much he loved this shit -- Pete was jumping up and down, waving a hand at the crowd as often as he could, sometimes fucking up the bass line to blow another kiss. It didn’t matter. The crowd’s screams covered the slip and Pete pounded back into place, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s neck right on the downbeat.
What a fucking show.
Patrick sometimes thought that he liked making music in the studio more than he liked playing live; there wasn’t anything to distract you in the studio, no rain delays or shitty venues or broken amps. But no plain white walls ever matched up to this. Nothing felt like a thousand kids dancing to your song.
After the show, they stumbled backstage, Patrick’s whole body still shaking, feeling the aftershocks of the music echoing through his body. His skin tingled and buzzed. The roar of the crowd merged with the roaring in his ears as he fumbled to get his earplugs out.
“Dude!” Pete slammed into him, pressing him against the wall. “That was fucking amazing. You are fucking amazing.” He grinned, that stupid dorky grin of his, eyeliner smudged over his eyes, sweat running down his face, and lunged forward, kissing Patrick up against the cold concrete. Patrick could feel Pete’s body buzzing and humming with music, their music, like it always did after a show.
Patrick never minded (looked forward to it, not that he’d admit it to Pete) when Pete kissed him after a show. It felt so right, a physical representation of this thing between them. Music and lyrics, coming together, just for a moment. It didn’t mean anything.
It only lasted a second, of course, until Joe (who somehow managed to catch three feet of air getting off the stage and landed on them like a gangly bird of prey) slammed into them and smacked wet kisses on their foreheads. “Dudes!” he yelled. “Fucking Warped Tour!” He jumped up and down next to them and ran off down the hall.
“I know!” Pete untangled himself from Patrick and grabbed a towel from Dirty, who always had them ready right when the band got off stage. He wiped the sweat from his face and threw the towel at Patrick. “And if ‘Sugar’ hits the top ten, I’m going to marry you, motherfucker.” Pete grinned again, and this time it wasn’t goofy, it was the grin that was going to get him on the cover of a million teenie mags. Patrick would bet money on it.
Then he was gone, off to jump on Andy’s back and give him a noogie.
Patrick held up the towel. “I’m selling this on eBay, asshole!” he yelled to their backs. Pete just flipped him off.
Instead of selling the towel, Patrick kept it stuffed under his bunk for a few weeks, until the My Chem guys came over and complained that their bus smelled funkier than usual.
.........
The last time Pete asked Patrick to marry him, things got weird.
A few weeks into the Honda Civic Tour, Pete walked into the bus with a familiar look on his face. Patrick would know That Look anywhere.
“Ashlee?” he asked, shutting his MacBook with a sigh. Joe looked up from his Nintendo DS, a worried crease forming between his eyes. Andy just stood and went to the kitchen, pulling out tea bags and cups.
“Yeah.” Pete shrugged. “But it’s cool. We’re friends.” Something about the way he said it made Patrick look closer, cataloguing the details that broadcast Pete’s moods. It was second nature to him now, reading Pete. Actually, Patrick didn’t have to make the effort to read him that often anymore; he just knew. But they’d been apart for a long time during the hiatus, and Patrick was never exactly sure about the Ashlee thing. She seemed nice and Pete seemed happy, so Patrick just stayed out of their way.
And now Pete was...okay. He still had The Look, bashed and bruised on the edges, but he looked calm. Slightly amused at himself. It was a new look for Pete, especially post-breakup, and Patrick very nearly chalked it up to maturity.
Except it was Pete, so he wasn’t rushing to make that judgment any time soon.
“Do you think I should just call Perez Hilton now and get it over with?” Pete scrubbed at his eyes with his fist, the sleeve of his hoodie wrapped over his knuckles. “Or maybe I should grab Ashley Olsen and make out with her next time we’re in New York.”
“Mary-Kate’s hotter,” Andy said, bringing Pete his tea.
Patrick moved the MacBook to the table next to him and sat next to Pete. Tucking his legs up, Pete leaned into Patrick’s shoulder, settling his head under Patrick’s chin. Patrick wrapped an arm around Pete and closed his eyes, remembering the years they’d done this, after bad shows and bad girls; after the Sidekick incident and Mikey Way. After the lawsuits and the shitty press and scary fan mail. At the end of the day, it was PatrickandPete and Joe and Andy. And that was okay.
“I mean,” Pete said, continuing a thought that only he had heard. “It’s not like I was going to marry her.” He lifted his head and smiled at Patrick. “I’m saving myself for you.”
“Saving what, exactly?” Patrick snorted. “The tattered remnants of your virginity?”
“No.” Pete sat up, suddenly serious. Genuinely serious. “You think I’m fucking with you, don’t you?”
“Wait, what?” Really, you’d think that nearly seven years of being best friends with Pete fucking Wentz would prepare you for sudden loss of conversational control.
“I,” Pete enunciated slowly, “Am going. To marry you.” He frowned and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “If you’ll have me, of course. I’ve been asking you for years.”
Patrick’s first instinct was that Pete was -- not fucking with him exactly, because hello, like he’d ever marry Pete -- but that he was using Patrick in some elaborate scheme to make himself feel better about Ashlee. And that was not fucking cool.
“Very funny, asshole.” Patrick shoved him off the bunk and onto the floor. “Is Hemingway going to be our best man?” He checked the clock. Three hours until the show. He needed to start drinking some water, get moving a little.... Patrick realized that everyone was looking at him and Pete hadn’t gotten off the ground.
“No.” Pete held out his hand for Patrick to pull him up. “Joe’s our best man, because he introduced us.” Patrick yanked on Pete’s arm harder than was necessary. He was taking this too far. They had a show in a few hours.
“Andy’s cool with that,” Pete added.
“It’s an institution.” Andy shrugged as if that explained everything, which it kind of did. “But don’t get me wrong; I’m happy for you guys.” He put his earbuds in, grabbed a set of drumsticks from the table, and started air-drumming.
Patrick looked to Joe for help, but Joe was deeply involved in his DS. He kicked his legs out. “Come on, run you fuckers, run...run...yeah!” He glanced up quickly. “Wedding, yeah. Pete asked me a while ago. He’s got rings and everything.”
And somehow, that nailed it. If it were a joke, Joe would be singing “Here Comes the Bride” and dumping rice on their heads. Joe sucked at pranks that required a straight face.
“Can I talk to you?” Patrick asked, not waiting for an answer. He grabbed Pete by the scruff of his hoodie and hauled him into the dressing room, slamming the door shut behind them. He crossed his arms and shook his head slightly to unclench his jaw. “You have rings?”
“Yeah, they’re in here, actually.” Pete dropped to his knees and started rooting around on the floor, under boxes and bags, pushing aside three precariously stacked piles of sneakers to come up with a small black box Patrick hadn’t seen before. It was partially collaged with squares of paper, lined paper -- lyrics, Patrick realized. He’d recognize that slant of Pete’s writing anywhere.
“Here.” Pete pushed the box at him. “Check it out.”
Patrick opened the box to find....two red plastic rings nestled on top of crumpled tissue. Frowning, Patrick picked one up. “Holy shit! Are those--?”
Pete bounced on his heels. “Yep. Limited-edition Tony the Tiger rings.”
“Not the ones from the 1986 misprints?” Patrick remembered these from when he was little. Whoa.
“Rad, huh?” Pete picked up the other ring and held it up to the light. “I paid like four hundred bucks for these things on eBay.”
Patrick was stunned. And touched. And still really, really confused. “Why are you doing this?”
“You seriously don’t get it?” Pete took the ring from Patrick, set it gently down in the box, next to the other one, whirled around, hip-checked Patrick into the wall, and slammed up against him, one hand covering Patrick’s mouth.
“Listen,” he said, like Patrick had any choice. “You’re brilliant. You’re amazing. You’re smart and not crazy and you haven’t let this fame thing change you. You’re a musical fucking genius, and you’re going to be the biggest producer in the goddamned world, sipping bottles of bub with Justin Timberlake in your golden mansion while I end up on Dancing with the Stars.”
Patrick tried to shake his head, but Pete spread his legs and braced himself tighter against him. “I will. I’m not stupid. I’m doing the young Hollywood thing while I can, and that’s going to fade. I know it; you know it.” He let go of Patrick’s mouth and laid his head on Patrick’s shoulder, pressing his face into his neck. “But I’m not willing to let this fade. Let us fade. We’re amazing together.” Pete laughed a little, short and broken. “And I’m so fucking in love with you.”
Patrick reached over and thumped Pete gently on his head, his heart pounding. He thought about the girls they could never keep: Anna, Jeanae, Ashlee. They either hated the fame or loved it too much; none of them knew Chicago and L.A. They didn’t know what it was like to make music together. “And you think that marrying me, of all insane things, is the only way to keep me?” He wrapped his arms around Pete. “We’re better than that.”
“Yeah, but,” Pete looked up at him, grinning, dark and wicked. “It’s the only way you’ll let me into your pants.”
Patrick burst out laughing. “Okay, yeah, that’s probably true.”
“You’re too smart to just sleep with me.” Pete nipped at Patrick’s neck, just like onstage, except no, this time it was different. “I’ll have to make an honest man out of you first.”
“Damned straight.” Patrick grinned. “And can you imagine what Jay-Z would get us for a wedding present?”
Pete stood up straight, eyes wide. “Dude. Can you imagine what Beyonce would wear?”
Patrick contemplated that. “Nice.”
“And we have to do it, just to hear Joe’s speech.” Pete grabbed Patrick’s hand and fumbled for the rings.
“We’ll have Travie get him extra stoned first. It’ll be better that way.” Patrick frowned. “Gym Class is playing the reception, right?”
“No, dude, Panic.” Pete’s hand hovered above Patrick’s, poised to slide the ring on. “Come on, we want spectacle! Pageantry! MTV News!”
“We want people to dance and no, no MTV News, are you crazy?” Patrick snatched his hand away.
Sharp pounding echoed through the room. Patrick jumped as the door behind him shook. “Guys, we have an interview?” Joe called through the door. “And I like, need my pants. Just toss them out if you’re naked.”
“Oh, Christ.” Patrick rolled his eyes and smacked Pete in the chest, hard, before walking out the door.
“This conversation isn’t over!” Pete called.
"It is for now!" Patrick closed the door on him and smiled.
...............
New York - Fall Out Boy, who played the PNC Arts Center last night, were seen out and about in the city’s finest comic book and record shops today. When asked if gf Ashlee Simpson would be joining him on tour, bassist Pete Wentz flashed what looked to be a toy plastic ring on his left hand and said, “We’re just friends. She’s taking some time in L.A.” Singer Patrick Stump added, “The band is focusing on the music right now.”
9:46:03 PM misspamela: i know
9:46:08 PM msspamela: *heart*
9:46:29 PM giddygeek: get over your rps quibbles and write me a wedding, damnit
9:46:53 PM misspamela: ahahaha
9:47:16 PM misspamela: i am not breaking my RPS seal by writing members of Fall Out Boy getting married.
9:47:18 PM misspamela: No.
So, given the lifespan of my moral quibbles, here's FOB weddingfic. Right on schedule! My first RPS. Giddy, I hope you're happy!
Title: Semi-Decent Proposals
Author: Miss Pamela
Fandom: Bandslash (FOB)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG-13
Length: 3,650 words
Huge beta thanks go to giddygeek and calathea!
Summary: “And if ‘Sugar’ hits the top ten, I’m going to marry you, motherfucker.”
Pete asked Patrick to marry him about twenty minutes after the first time they met. Patrick had just finished singing, the sweat cooling on his palms, trying not to puke because, shit, it was the guy from Arma Angelus, and then --
And then--
Pete wrapped his arms around Patrick, pressed his lips to the corner of Patrick’s mouth, and said, “I’m going to marry this kid!”
(Which Patrick would later find out was Pete’s version of “asking” anything.)
Standing behind Pete, Joe just shrugged and said, “Oh yeah, Pete likes to kiss dudes on the mouth sometimes.” He raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated Hey, what can you do? face.
After a momentary mental struggle of Cool with It/Not Cool, Patrick settled on shoving his hat back on his head and saying, “Just warn a guy, okay?”
Pete kissed him again, this time on the cheek, and laughed. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”
........
The next time Pete asked Patrick to marry him, he had a hundred and three degree fever.
It was the first time one of them had gotten that sick while touring, and everyone was a little freaked out. They didn’t have enough money for a trip to the ER, so there they were, in a shitty Motel 6, trying everything they ever saw in movies to get Pete to fucking feel better.
“That’s it,” Joe declared. “I’m calling my mom. And maybe Pete’s mom.” He bounced off the other twin bed, creaking the springs in A minor.
Patrick nodded absently, accepting a flimsy hotel washcloth from Andy and rubbing it across Pete’s forehead. Water dribbled down Pete’s face, trickling into his mouth. Pete coughed.
“Christ, Hurley!” Patrick yelled. “I’m not giving him a fucking sponge bath! I need a damp cloth. Damp. Not soaked.”
“...want a sponge bath...” Pete muttered and coughed again.
“Dude, shut the hell up.” Andy sat next to Patrick and gently pulled him back by the shoulders. “You’re losing your shit and making it worse. Here.” He shoved his hand deep into the pocket of his jeans, wiggled around for a second, then came up with a couple of wrinkled bills and a condom. Thankfully, the condom was still wrapped. “This was left over from filling up the van. Go get him some fluids, take a walk, and come back when you’re chilled out.”
Patrick’s first reaction was fuck, no, but he realized that Pete probably needed something better than Denver’s finest tap water. He went to move off the bed, but Pete reached out and wrapped his (too hot, too dry) hand loosely around Patrick’s wrist. Patrick froze.
“Don’t go,” Pete whispered. “Please.”
“You need something to drink. And you smell.” Patrick gently pulled his arm free. “Andy’s going to clean you up a bit and I’ll be right back, okay?” He stood and reached for his denim jacket.
Pete somehow managed to flutter his lashes at Andy. “Still want a sponge bath.”
“No fucking way, dude,” Andy grumbled as Patrick slipped out into the fluorescent yellow lights of the motel parking lot.
There was a 7-11 across the street from the motel, glowing brighter than anything had the right to at 2:00 am in Denver. Patrick jogged across the road, shivering, thinking that it was a damned good thing that Pete wasn’t sleeping in the van tonight.
Andy had given him a grand total of three dollars and sixty-five cents, so he grabbed the biggest Gatorade he could find, and had just enough left over for one of those tomato soup things you could just stick in the microwave. The cashier was Patrick’s age, half-sleeping under a baseball cap, his battered Vans up on the counter. “Hey, aren’t you that guy from that band...?” he asked, peering sleepily at Patrick.
“Nope,” Patrick said, quickly, and booked it out the door.
When he got back to the motel, Joe and Andy were standing in the hallway.
“Hey,” Joe held up the van keys and jingled them. “Pete’s mom is wiring us a couple hundred bucks for a doctor and another room, so Pete can rest.” He grimaced. “She says she’s coming out if he’s not better in a few days.”
Patrick winced. He loved Pete’s mom, he did, but nobody wanted their mom on tour. And now that they could take Pete to the doctor, he felt a lot better.
“We’ll be in 327 after we pick up the cash,” Andy said. “See you.”
Patrick nodded goodbye and went back into the room. Pete was still a lump on one of the beds, unmoving except for the rise and fall of the blanket.
Tossing the soup on the other bed, Patrick sat carefully next to him. “Hey,” he whispered. “I got you this.” He pressed the cold bottle into Pete’s hand.
“Yessss,” Pete croaked, sitting up. The blanket fell down, exposing his bare chest. His hair looked like shit, matted against his forehead, and somehow, this worried Patrick more than anything. Pete pressed the bottle to his forehead, rolling it back and forth, before unscrewing the cap and sucking the whole thing down in huge, shuddering gulps.
“Marry me, Patrick Martin Stump,” Pete said, chucking the bottle and flopping back down on the bed. “Seriously, I love you.” He looked better, Patrick thought. Tired and pale, but more aware.
“I’d be a shitty wife.” Pulling the blanket back up over Pete’s shoulders, Patrick squeezed himself onto the bed. Pete rolled onto his side to give him more room.
“No,” Pete murmured. “We’d make music. All the time.”
Patrick fell asleep to that thought, watching headlights angling across the room, like a CD spinning, reflecting, making music, all the time.
.................
Patrick asked Pete to marry him once.
They were driving around Wisconsin, late one night -- no, early one morning-- in Pete’s old car. They’d spent the weekend at Andy’s, hanging out, waiting for the next tour.
And then somewhere, on some shit road in east bumfuck Wisconsin, Patrick was flipping through the radio, and --shit. Shit.
Chords. Chords he knew, chords he wrote and his voice -- his voice. On the radio.
For a second, Patrick thought the world was spinning, like they talked about in stories, but no, it was the car, jerking around and screeching to a halt in a field.
“That’s us.” Pete looked at him, grinned, and punched the ceiling of the car. “That’s us, on the fucking radio in fucking Wisconsin!”
Patrick reached out and jerked the volume up as far as it would go and tumbled out of the car. His stomach churned and something joyous, something amazing bubbled up through his body. He looked at Pete, jumping up and down like a lunatic, playing air guitar, and he thought, This is it. We made it.
The song ended and the DJ said, “And that’s from a new band called ‘Fall Out Boy.’ Judging from the number of calls we just got, you’ll all be sick of that song in a month. It’s a monster!”
And at that, something in Patrick sort of snapped, because, holy shit.
He walked up to Pete, who had stopped bouncing to gape at the radio, put one hand on each of Pete’s shoulders, and moved in, kissing Pete square on the mouth. “We. Are. Amazing.” Patrick held him there for a moment, savoring the taste and feel of Pete, and reminding himself of all the reasons that sleeping with him was a really bad idea.
Pete looked shocked and pleased and suddenly, strangely young. “Damned fucking straight.” He wrapped Patrick in a tight hug. “We’re going places, me and you.”
It was all too much: this field, the song, their music, the hug. Patrick whispered into Pete’s neck, “Let’s get fucking married and rule the world!”
“Yes! We’re going to Vegas!” Pete let go of the hug and dragged him toward the car. “I’ve always, always wanted to be married by Elvis.”
Patrick laughed. “I don’t think we have enough gas money to get to Vegas, song on the radio or not.”
Pete stared at him for a second and shook his head. “Then I’ve got a better idea.” Pete flipped open his phone. “Let’s call Joe.”
“It’s four in the morning.” Patrick checked his watch.
Pete grinned. “Exactly.”
Patrick grinned back. “And he’s staying with his new giiirlfrieeend,” Patrick singsonged.
“Let’s wake that fucker up!” Pete crowed, pushing buttons and grinning madly, Vegas all but forgotten.
...........................
Sometimes, Pete didn’t so much ask Patrick to marry him as threaten him with it. The next time it happened, they were headlining fucking Warped Tour.
Headlining. Warped. Tour.
A hot, writhing sea of bodies crashed and broke against the stage, over and over again, screaming the words to “A Little Less Sixteen Candles.” Patrick squeezed his eyes shut and sang, opening his throat, letting the music tear him open, feeling the vibrations of Andy’s drums shattering the floorboards beneath him. Joe whirled in the corner of Patrick’s vision, the re-entry of his guitar perfectly timed, adding to the perfect sound, the perfect moment. Next to him, all vibrating bass and charisma and -- Jesus, Patrick could feel how much he loved this shit -- Pete was jumping up and down, waving a hand at the crowd as often as he could, sometimes fucking up the bass line to blow another kiss. It didn’t matter. The crowd’s screams covered the slip and Pete pounded back into place, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s neck right on the downbeat.
What a fucking show.
Patrick sometimes thought that he liked making music in the studio more than he liked playing live; there wasn’t anything to distract you in the studio, no rain delays or shitty venues or broken amps. But no plain white walls ever matched up to this. Nothing felt like a thousand kids dancing to your song.
After the show, they stumbled backstage, Patrick’s whole body still shaking, feeling the aftershocks of the music echoing through his body. His skin tingled and buzzed. The roar of the crowd merged with the roaring in his ears as he fumbled to get his earplugs out.
“Dude!” Pete slammed into him, pressing him against the wall. “That was fucking amazing. You are fucking amazing.” He grinned, that stupid dorky grin of his, eyeliner smudged over his eyes, sweat running down his face, and lunged forward, kissing Patrick up against the cold concrete. Patrick could feel Pete’s body buzzing and humming with music, their music, like it always did after a show.
Patrick never minded (looked forward to it, not that he’d admit it to Pete) when Pete kissed him after a show. It felt so right, a physical representation of this thing between them. Music and lyrics, coming together, just for a moment. It didn’t mean anything.
It only lasted a second, of course, until Joe (who somehow managed to catch three feet of air getting off the stage and landed on them like a gangly bird of prey) slammed into them and smacked wet kisses on their foreheads. “Dudes!” he yelled. “Fucking Warped Tour!” He jumped up and down next to them and ran off down the hall.
“I know!” Pete untangled himself from Patrick and grabbed a towel from Dirty, who always had them ready right when the band got off stage. He wiped the sweat from his face and threw the towel at Patrick. “And if ‘Sugar’ hits the top ten, I’m going to marry you, motherfucker.” Pete grinned again, and this time it wasn’t goofy, it was the grin that was going to get him on the cover of a million teenie mags. Patrick would bet money on it.
Then he was gone, off to jump on Andy’s back and give him a noogie.
Patrick held up the towel. “I’m selling this on eBay, asshole!” he yelled to their backs. Pete just flipped him off.
Instead of selling the towel, Patrick kept it stuffed under his bunk for a few weeks, until the My Chem guys came over and complained that their bus smelled funkier than usual.
.........
The last time Pete asked Patrick to marry him, things got weird.
A few weeks into the Honda Civic Tour, Pete walked into the bus with a familiar look on his face. Patrick would know That Look anywhere.
“Ashlee?” he asked, shutting his MacBook with a sigh. Joe looked up from his Nintendo DS, a worried crease forming between his eyes. Andy just stood and went to the kitchen, pulling out tea bags and cups.
“Yeah.” Pete shrugged. “But it’s cool. We’re friends.” Something about the way he said it made Patrick look closer, cataloguing the details that broadcast Pete’s moods. It was second nature to him now, reading Pete. Actually, Patrick didn’t have to make the effort to read him that often anymore; he just knew. But they’d been apart for a long time during the hiatus, and Patrick was never exactly sure about the Ashlee thing. She seemed nice and Pete seemed happy, so Patrick just stayed out of their way.
And now Pete was...okay. He still had The Look, bashed and bruised on the edges, but he looked calm. Slightly amused at himself. It was a new look for Pete, especially post-breakup, and Patrick very nearly chalked it up to maturity.
Except it was Pete, so he wasn’t rushing to make that judgment any time soon.
“Do you think I should just call Perez Hilton now and get it over with?” Pete scrubbed at his eyes with his fist, the sleeve of his hoodie wrapped over his knuckles. “Or maybe I should grab Ashley Olsen and make out with her next time we’re in New York.”
“Mary-Kate’s hotter,” Andy said, bringing Pete his tea.
Patrick moved the MacBook to the table next to him and sat next to Pete. Tucking his legs up, Pete leaned into Patrick’s shoulder, settling his head under Patrick’s chin. Patrick wrapped an arm around Pete and closed his eyes, remembering the years they’d done this, after bad shows and bad girls; after the Sidekick incident and Mikey Way. After the lawsuits and the shitty press and scary fan mail. At the end of the day, it was PatrickandPete and Joe and Andy. And that was okay.
“I mean,” Pete said, continuing a thought that only he had heard. “It’s not like I was going to marry her.” He lifted his head and smiled at Patrick. “I’m saving myself for you.”
“Saving what, exactly?” Patrick snorted. “The tattered remnants of your virginity?”
“No.” Pete sat up, suddenly serious. Genuinely serious. “You think I’m fucking with you, don’t you?”
“Wait, what?” Really, you’d think that nearly seven years of being best friends with Pete fucking Wentz would prepare you for sudden loss of conversational control.
“I,” Pete enunciated slowly, “Am going. To marry you.” He frowned and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “If you’ll have me, of course. I’ve been asking you for years.”
Patrick’s first instinct was that Pete was -- not fucking with him exactly, because hello, like he’d ever marry Pete -- but that he was using Patrick in some elaborate scheme to make himself feel better about Ashlee. And that was not fucking cool.
“Very funny, asshole.” Patrick shoved him off the bunk and onto the floor. “Is Hemingway going to be our best man?” He checked the clock. Three hours until the show. He needed to start drinking some water, get moving a little.... Patrick realized that everyone was looking at him and Pete hadn’t gotten off the ground.
“No.” Pete held out his hand for Patrick to pull him up. “Joe’s our best man, because he introduced us.” Patrick yanked on Pete’s arm harder than was necessary. He was taking this too far. They had a show in a few hours.
“Andy’s cool with that,” Pete added.
“It’s an institution.” Andy shrugged as if that explained everything, which it kind of did. “But don’t get me wrong; I’m happy for you guys.” He put his earbuds in, grabbed a set of drumsticks from the table, and started air-drumming.
Patrick looked to Joe for help, but Joe was deeply involved in his DS. He kicked his legs out. “Come on, run you fuckers, run...run...yeah!” He glanced up quickly. “Wedding, yeah. Pete asked me a while ago. He’s got rings and everything.”
And somehow, that nailed it. If it were a joke, Joe would be singing “Here Comes the Bride” and dumping rice on their heads. Joe sucked at pranks that required a straight face.
“Can I talk to you?” Patrick asked, not waiting for an answer. He grabbed Pete by the scruff of his hoodie and hauled him into the dressing room, slamming the door shut behind them. He crossed his arms and shook his head slightly to unclench his jaw. “You have rings?”
“Yeah, they’re in here, actually.” Pete dropped to his knees and started rooting around on the floor, under boxes and bags, pushing aside three precariously stacked piles of sneakers to come up with a small black box Patrick hadn’t seen before. It was partially collaged with squares of paper, lined paper -- lyrics, Patrick realized. He’d recognize that slant of Pete’s writing anywhere.
“Here.” Pete pushed the box at him. “Check it out.”
Patrick opened the box to find....two red plastic rings nestled on top of crumpled tissue. Frowning, Patrick picked one up. “Holy shit! Are those--?”
Pete bounced on his heels. “Yep. Limited-edition Tony the Tiger rings.”
“Not the ones from the 1986 misprints?” Patrick remembered these from when he was little. Whoa.
“Rad, huh?” Pete picked up the other ring and held it up to the light. “I paid like four hundred bucks for these things on eBay.”
Patrick was stunned. And touched. And still really, really confused. “Why are you doing this?”
“You seriously don’t get it?” Pete took the ring from Patrick, set it gently down in the box, next to the other one, whirled around, hip-checked Patrick into the wall, and slammed up against him, one hand covering Patrick’s mouth.
“Listen,” he said, like Patrick had any choice. “You’re brilliant. You’re amazing. You’re smart and not crazy and you haven’t let this fame thing change you. You’re a musical fucking genius, and you’re going to be the biggest producer in the goddamned world, sipping bottles of bub with Justin Timberlake in your golden mansion while I end up on Dancing with the Stars.”
Patrick tried to shake his head, but Pete spread his legs and braced himself tighter against him. “I will. I’m not stupid. I’m doing the young Hollywood thing while I can, and that’s going to fade. I know it; you know it.” He let go of Patrick’s mouth and laid his head on Patrick’s shoulder, pressing his face into his neck. “But I’m not willing to let this fade. Let us fade. We’re amazing together.” Pete laughed a little, short and broken. “And I’m so fucking in love with you.”
Patrick reached over and thumped Pete gently on his head, his heart pounding. He thought about the girls they could never keep: Anna, Jeanae, Ashlee. They either hated the fame or loved it too much; none of them knew Chicago and L.A. They didn’t know what it was like to make music together. “And you think that marrying me, of all insane things, is the only way to keep me?” He wrapped his arms around Pete. “We’re better than that.”
“Yeah, but,” Pete looked up at him, grinning, dark and wicked. “It’s the only way you’ll let me into your pants.”
Patrick burst out laughing. “Okay, yeah, that’s probably true.”
“You’re too smart to just sleep with me.” Pete nipped at Patrick’s neck, just like onstage, except no, this time it was different. “I’ll have to make an honest man out of you first.”
“Damned straight.” Patrick grinned. “And can you imagine what Jay-Z would get us for a wedding present?”
Pete stood up straight, eyes wide. “Dude. Can you imagine what Beyonce would wear?”
Patrick contemplated that. “Nice.”
“And we have to do it, just to hear Joe’s speech.” Pete grabbed Patrick’s hand and fumbled for the rings.
“We’ll have Travie get him extra stoned first. It’ll be better that way.” Patrick frowned. “Gym Class is playing the reception, right?”
“No, dude, Panic.” Pete’s hand hovered above Patrick’s, poised to slide the ring on. “Come on, we want spectacle! Pageantry! MTV News!”
“We want people to dance and no, no MTV News, are you crazy?” Patrick snatched his hand away.
Sharp pounding echoed through the room. Patrick jumped as the door behind him shook. “Guys, we have an interview?” Joe called through the door. “And I like, need my pants. Just toss them out if you’re naked.”
“Oh, Christ.” Patrick rolled his eyes and smacked Pete in the chest, hard, before walking out the door.
“This conversation isn’t over!” Pete called.
"It is for now!" Patrick closed the door on him and smiled.
...............
New York - Fall Out Boy, who played the PNC Arts Center last night, were seen out and about in the city’s finest comic book and record shops today. When asked if gf Ashlee Simpson would be joining him on tour, bassist Pete Wentz flashed what looked to be a toy plastic ring on his left hand and said, “We’re just friends. She’s taking some time in L.A.” Singer Patrick Stump added, “The band is focusing on the music right now.”