[fic] (many things lacking names); continued
(many things lacking names)
continued, because it was too long for one post!
part one
Apparently, Hemingway likes Patrick, even though Pete doesn't learn this until maybe the fourth or fifth time Patrick's come over to watch a movie. Hemingway's even willing to come within two feet of Pete so he can sniff Patrick's crotch and whine, begging to be petted.
Pete says, "Huh."
"Huh?"
"This is the first time I've seen my dog in three days," Pete says. Hemingway's ignoring him, which, compared to growling at him or running in terror whenever Pete gets home, is a big improvement. Walks have been interesting, to say the least; he's been getting neighbors to do it, and Gabe, sometimes.
Less often, now, because Gabe keeps being busy, but whatever. The twelve year old next door's still willing to do it, and Hemingway likes her plenty.
They're sitting on the couch, the two of them, and Hemingway jumps up to lie down next to Patrick. Pete inches a hand toward the dog's head, but Hemingway pulls his lip up a little, teeth bared. Pete pulls his hand away. He puts it on Patrick's leg instead.
Here, in Pete's book, is the weird thing about Patrick coming over: they really do just sit around and watch movies, and not too long after Patrick will either leave or sit on the stoop blowing bubbles, or pick up some book Pete's left lying around and start reading. What Pete does isn't too different, but involves a lot more of watching Patrick. What Pete isn't doing is getting laid.
Patrick says, "Do you," then stops.
"What?"
Under his hand, Pete can feel Patrick's muscles go tense. He rubs his hand in tiny, hopefully-reassuring circles, then figures maybe the shoulder is a safer place for that kind of thing.
Pete says, "Dude, seriously, I don't get this whole -- I mean, you obviously can talk, what's with you not finishing sentences? What is with you, Patrick Stumph?"
"I," Patrick says. He says, "Everything I say is true. Or it becomes true when nobody's paying attention, or. It's all. I can't lie."
"Okay?" Pete says. "So you're really honest."
Patrick says, "Everything I say becomes true. Just because I say something, that means it is. Anything I say."
"So like, if you said it was raining outside?" It's sunny; the sky is clear.
Patrick winces. "I -- okay. Just to." He says, "It's raining outside."
Pete's watching the sky out the window. It's still clear, still bright and blue. He turns to Patrick, and there's no sign that he's kidding. "Seriously, are you -- I don't know. That's not possible, though, I'm sorry, I really am. I don't know what you've been telling yourself."
Patrick says, "I'm sorry about this, but look. Look again."
When he hesitates, still looking at Patrick, Pete gets that same almost-headache feeling forming, this time at the base of his skull. Pete turns and looks, and the feeling goes away. The sky is bloated with heavy, greasy black clouds. Rain is falling, slick and fast, coating everything. Pete jumps up to close the window, because even though it's barely open water is getting inside. Gusts of wind are pushing it.
"So," Patrick says.
"Christ," Pete says. "You could do fucking anything. You could, like, take over the world. You could make anybody love you. You could be rich. Holy shit, dude."
He leans forward, elbows digging into his upper legs. He holds his face in his hands. Patrick says, or mumbles, "I had this -- and I mean, I can't -- so I had this girlfriend. I really, we were -- I don't know, she was -- anyway, we were having a, uh, this conversation once. And I told her to stop stringing me along. I told her she couldn't possibly be interested in somebody like me," he says. "So she wasn't."
"Christ," Pete says again. "Jesus fucking Christ."
Patrick says, "So I. Yeah."
"Why don't you just tell people you're mute or deaf or something?" Pete says.
Patrick looks at him.
"Oh, right," Pete says. "That'd be a bad idea."
"Yeah."
Pete says, "So wait, when you said I'd get my shadow back."
"I said it," Patrick says, nodding.
Pete says, "How?" and Patrick just shrugs. "Can't you -- haha, it'd be cheating to tell me how, wouldn't it, because that'd mean that'd be the way. No, that's cool, I'm fine with that."
"Cool," Patrick says, and there's a sudden drop in temperature. He frowns, letting out a sharp breath. "Yeah, okay, whatever, not as cool. Same fucking temperature it was before."
"That's really, really inconvenient, huh," Pete says, still trying to pull his sleeves down further to guard against the cold. He realizes what he's doing and stops.
Patrick snorts.
"What? What? I keep ruining the mood, don't I." Pete says, "Okay, forget about saying you're deaf-mute. Go back to telling emo stories. I've told you enough; it's your turn for at least three months now."
Patrick doesn't quite smile, but the muscles around his mouth twitch a little like he might at any moment.
--
Pete calls Gabe and tries to tell him -- something. He's not sure what, exactly. "No, so like, I shouldn't tell you, but anyway, so there's this Patrick kid, right?"
"I met him. We're acquainted."
"Okay, so like, just, you saw how fucking adorable he is, Christ, he's awesome. He's really, really awesome."
"Look, I'd love to have you squeal at me about him if it wasn't, you know, eight o'clock on a Saturday? We're going to a show in like ten minutes."
"Oh," Pete says. "Well, like. I was just, you know. I was just saying I really like him and all. I mean, I like like him, but there's this thing, right."
Gabe says, "Oooo, sounds grade school. Pull on his pigtails. It's the key to a little girl's heart."
"You're telling me that doesn't work?"
"Would I lie to you?"
"No," Pete says. "Neither would Patrick. Hah. That's actually, that's kind of the problem."
"How is that -- no. This is not appropriate talk for the evening. I am going to a punk rock show," Gabe says. "I need to think bad-ass thoughts, Pete. Say something bad-ass. I think -- wait, what color is that? I'm sorry, apparently eyeliner's part of the wardrobe for the evening. I gotta go."
"Can I come?"
"What? Uhm. Some other time? Will and I were."
"Oh," Pete says, and he's still wondering how he managed to miss the part where Will and Gabe are apparently BFF now. He doesn't remember this happening. He hopes Patrick didn't say anything, then punches himself in the head for thinking Patrick would ever do something like that.
--
Pete takes Patrick out. He puts a lot of thought into it, going through three different free local papers trying to find interesting things to do that won't involve too much talking. Finally, he finds this random Hula-Hoop contest, sponsored by some rag-tag group of local artists, and Patrick refuses to enter but Pete's adamant. "Come on, come on," Pete says. "This is pretty much the coolest idea in the world."
Pete says, "Don't shake your head at me. Nuh-uh. Come on. We can wear costumes. What? We could. Where would we get them? Hell, I don't know."
Patrick says, "Pete."
Pete rolls his eyes and lifts his camera from where it's hanging around his neck. "You want this? You can take pictures. That non-degrading enough for you?" Pete says, "I'll even wear a grass skirt, you watch me." Pete's already wearing a pair of red velvet pants, an eye-melting hoodie and a Blue's Clues t-shirt.
Patrick says, "Oh, uh-huh." He takes the camera, though, even though he's rolling his eyes.
Pete says, "All for you, Sophia." He sways his hips, humming some Franz Ferdinand song. Then he signs himself up for the hula-hoop tournament, and steals decorations hanging from the wall to make into a hacked together plastic-grass skirt. Patrick's not a photographer, not really, but he takes some pictures along the way.
Pete pulls off his shirts and gets himself a hula-hoop. There's still a moment before things start, and Patrick just looks around, and figures no one's paying attention, so he pulls a feather off of a stuffed bird mounted on the wall and tucks it into this obnoxious red sweatband Pete's got on.
"There." He still hasn't quite figured out the point of all this, just that whoever can keep their hula-hoop off the floor longest, without their hands touching it, they win. He also hasn't quite figured out what the prize is, or, more importantly, what the point is. It's about then that the start of the tournament is announced, and Patrick scampers off to the sidelines so he won't be in anyone's way. The problem with the camera is, it doesn't capture the way Pete's hips move.
Some shitty techno version of 99 Red Balloons plays over the PA system of the little converted warehouse that's hosting the contest, and Pete loses eight minutes in, right as Patrick's getting tired of watching and going to try to buy a peanut butter and banana sandwich.
Pete says, "Hey, do you want to -- we can jet, because I don't think I"m gonna win best costume. Pretty sure that's going to the mermaid, or maybe that drag queen, I don't know. But I mean, you wanna go, we can."
Patrick points at the little stand selling sandwiches.
"You want one? Okay, cool, I'll wait for you. Gonna, you know, put my shirt back on. Public decency and all." Pete's pulling his shirt back on, trying to figure out which way his hoodie is supposed to go since the sleeves have been pulled inside out. What he's not doing is offering to help Patrick. He figures Patrick's got this kind of thing sorted out by now.
(It turns out, Patrick's method of asking for a sandwich is just, "So how much are the sandwiches?" followed by "okay, I'll have one." Why Pete thought it was any more complicated than that, he's not sure.)
--
Two months of sitting around watching movies and going to stupid contests and mediocre shows later, and Pete's getting a little frustrated. Will won't sleep with him anymore, is one thing; he's all it was fun, but I'm gonna be an adult for once, see how that works out. Plus you don't drink, so Gabe's got instant points up on you. He's gone out, tried to pick up chicks, but when it gets to the part where he's supposed to take them back to his place, or where they ask if he wants to come up for coffee, or whatever, he always ends up turning them down.
Pete figures he's making progress, though, because he's convinced Patrick to watch Hook with him.
The nice thing about the movie is that Pete's seen it enough times he doesn't have to pay attention anymore to know exactly what's going on, so he's free to draw patterns on Patrick's leg with his fingernails. He's free to keep one eye on the screen and the other eye on Patrick. It's convenient.
Pete presses his fingers against Patrick's upper arm, and leans forward.
Patrick says, "Oh, hey, look." He points at the TV.
Pete says, "Okay, what? What? Ooh, new season of Supernatural?" and tries not to be too disappointed. "Why don't you un-cancel The OC? That'd be fucking awesome."
Patrick shakes his head, snickers a little, but he just sits and watches TV. He sits curled up at Pete's side and, eventually, takes Pete's hand, but that's it.
And Pete, he's almost alright with that. He's starting to scare himself, because he's really not minding, is almost -- God forbid -- content with what he's got.
--
Will says, "I told you so."
"You did not." Pete shuffles the phone to his other ear, grabbing his iced quad venti breve latte.
"Yes I did. I think I expressly said that Patrick wasn't gonna put out, and you didn't listen. You need to listen to the wisdom of your elders."
"Dude, I'm older than you."
"My order stands: listen to people who know what they're talking about."
Pete says, "You don't know what you're talking about, shut up."
"For once, I do."
Leaving Starbucks to wander the street aimlessly, Pete says, "Okay, okay, okay, just like. I thought we -- we held hands and shit, and I'm sure to someone, somewhere, that was really cute, but still."
Will says, "I've known him longer than you. Good luck, man. That's all I can say, 'cos you're gonna need it."
Pete says, "I know about the, uh, his thing. The weird truth thing he's got."
"Oh," Will says. "See, that's a step in the right direction." He says, "I guess maybe holding hands is a good sign, too."
"You would think."
Will says, "Okay. So, I'm trying to think here. Don't say anything, I know, me thinking's pretty dangerous. Hopefully the world will soldier on." Will says, "My advice is you try an ambush."
"What? What, no. That's basically the worst idea ever, I think. Well, maybe not quite, but maybe if I wanted to get spoken out of existence."
"Or at least get spoken out of liking him," Will says. "Yeah. I don't know. I didn't really put any -- this is a different situation."
"I know, right." Pete says, "So about that. Gabe's being kind of a dick, what's up with that? Did I piss him off?"
"You're Pete Wentz."
"Oh, right," Pete says, then, "Shit, that's harsh, dude."
"Kidding. I don't know, you've known him longer than I have. He seems kinda. Distractable?"
"You're wise," Pete says.
"I know, it's true. I can't help it. I was blessed with the gift of being awesome and, uh, like, knowing shit."
"Right."
"Shut up." Will says, "Look, just. Do right by him, okay? If you, I don't know. Just don't fuck with the kid, he doesn't need that. If you're just gonna get distracted and forget about him next pretty girl you see on the street, fucking don't, okay."
Pete says, "Ooh, Bill Beckett's defensive."
Will says, "For once, I'm serious. I know it's hard to believe. The illustrious Bill Beckett, trying to help his friends? Oh, horror of horrors! Seriously, I'll murder you and then kill you just for good measure."
"You're the best friend a guy could have."
"I know, I know." Will says, "Hey, so I would have warned you about it, but uh, he kind of told me I couldn't tell anybody."
"Oh," Pete says.
Will says, "I tried. It's out of my jurisdiction. I haven't taken the bar exam in this district yet."
"What are you talking about?"
"It was funny. What I just said, it was humor."
"No it wasn't."
"Well," Will says, "It was like kissing cousins with funny. They're very closely related."
--
Pete says, "So I've seen you sing at shows and stuff."
Their own nameless little side project isn't quite off the ground; they've played one show, just the two of them, in somebody's loft space. Pete couldn't talk for a day after because he forgot how to scream without tearing his throat completely raw. The pair of them were mostly ignored in favor of alcohol, though one girl did flirt with Pete for a while afterwards. This was a few days ago, now. The Academy has played a few more times, though, and even though Pete's been in the crowd he's been paying attention. Pete says, "So like, I don't know, can you?"
Patrick shrugs. "Do you pay attention to the parts I sing along with?"
Pete tilts his head to the side, frowning. He makes faces. He rolls his shoulders. "Uh, no."
"'Is it serious? I'm afraid it is. Am I gonna die? Well, son, death is gonna catch up to all one day,'" Patrick sings. "Obviously. 'Hold your head high, heavy heart,' and. Eh."
"Oh, shit," Pete says.
"What?"
"You can sing. I don't know what the fuck Will was talking about." One side of Pete's mouth goes up in a tooth-baring smile.
"What?"
"He just, I don't know, he was all weird about it. Probably he just -- okay, I can see why he'd be worried. Never mind."
"Hey." Patrick frowns, then curls up against Pete.
"Hi," Pete says. He puts a hand to the back of Patrick's neck, and from there can't resist petting his back. "No, really, will you sing for me? Just once, at a show. I can do drums. Can you play guitar?"
Patrick nods against Pete's chest, where he's resting his head.
"Was that a yes to the show or the guitar?"
"Guitar." Patrick says, "Seriously, you only want -- for -- oh, sh -- I, okay, wait. Don't -- or, uh."
Pete says, "Shit." He only laughs because he's nervous. He's nervous because Patrick's nervous, because he can feel how close Patrick is to saying some things that really, really aren't true. Some things that shouldn't be true.
Patrick says, "With, uh, with me, you'll," he says. "Do you like safety? Because."
"I know, I know," Pete says. "I kind of got that part. Blah blah blah, it's not safe. You can go ahead and say that one, seriously."
Patrick shakes his head.
Pete says, "Look, if you really don't want to. I'd say 'what could it hurt to try,' but I think I already know."
Patrick's breath catches. He holds it, for a while, and Pete just sits there rubbing his back. "I'll try," Patrick says.
Pete says, "Just one song. I've got something, you know. We can work on the music part of it, but I'll find the -- can I get up? Sorry, sorry, I just want to," and he gets to his feet, disappears into his bedroom. He rummages through things -- boxes he's never unpacked, dresser drawers. He flops down on his stomach and wriggles under his bed to look there, and finally emerges victorious with a spiral-bound notebook. On the cover is a picture of the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers, original series. He says, "This is it, right in here!"
By then, Patrick's sitting pressed up against the arm of the small couch, his chin on his knees.
Pete frowns, and shoves one hand in a pocket. The only reason he doesn't do both is because he's holding on to the notebook. He rocks forward on the balls of his feet a few times, thinking, then grabs an acoustic from where it's leaning against the wall. He sits down, as far as he can from Patrick on the tiny couch, and starts to play a few chords. He really isn't any good, and it's symplistic and unmelodic. "My heart is on my --"
Patrick snorts, and grabs the guitar from him. He holds it by the neck and reaches the other hand out for the notebook.
"What, you don't like my singing? I'm a virtuoso. I should be on American mothertrucking Idol."
Patrick rolls his eyes, using his foot to poke at the Summer League vinyl Pete's left sitting on the coffee table. He grins.
"What, me? Good at singing as Brendon Urie? I know, I know."
Patrick just laughs and starts flipping through the notebook. He's got the guitar across his lap still, and the notebook sort of resting on top of it. "Hey, have you got a pen?"
"Yeah, sure," Pete says. Digging around in his pocket for a second, he manages to find a hot pink gel pen. When Patrick starts marking things up in his notebook, though, he says, "Hey, wait, no! What are you doing?"
Patrick ignores him, making little editing marks and occasionally scribbling down an entire word, at one point circling about five lines and drawing a big wiggly arrow to somewhere else on the page. Every now and then Patrick will shift the notebook a little and pick up the guitar to tap out a few chords. Pete sits and tries not to look. He keeps almost glancing at the notebook out of the corner of one eye but manages to stop himself. For a while he hums the Jeopardy theme, but Patrick kicks him for that one.
Finally, Patrick hands the notebook back. Pete looks at it. Pete says, "Oh. Oh, you're right. Wow. This is kind of a lot better, isn't it."
In the months they've known each other, Pete's never seen Patrick looking quite so smug. The gesture he makes isn't quite a nod, just the slightest inclination of his head.
"You gonna practice now?" Pete says.
Patrick shakes his head.
"When?" No answer is forthcoming. "You gonna wait until the show?" That gets an affirmative, in the form of Patrick's hand squeezing Pete's knee instead of a nod. "Scared?" More assent. "So am I, don't worry. We can be all fearful and shit together, and spazz out like morons and then you can act like you're not gonna do it then end up doing it anyway because you just can't resist my boyish charm."
"Intro?" Patrick says, and Pete's about to ask him what he's talking about when Patrick starts playing the guitar again.
Pete says, "Well, shit." Pete says, "Got it in one. That's gotta be it, pretty much."
Patrick keeps playing, humming a tune soft under his breath as he does, and Pete leans in close just to catch the sound. "Jesus Christ, Stumph," he half-whispers. "Jesus Christ."
Patrick raises one shoulder and cocks his head to the side.
"No, it's good," Pete says. "Really, really good. We should, I'll see if I can con anybody else into playing. Yeah, I know I said I had people. I might. If they're not busy."
Patrick says, "Okay." He thumps his palm against the strings for no good reason.
Pete says, "Hey, hey." He doesn't give Patrick a chance to do anything before kissing him. It's just on the corner of the mouth, close-mouthed and quick.
Sighing, Patrick sits back against the sofa, tilts his head toward the ceiling and closes his eyes.
Pete says, "Don't worry. I know the risks. You can talk me out of existence, for all I care. It'd be worth it. I've got the facts and I'm voting yes." Patrick opens one eye just a crack. Pete says, "Come on, I'm allowed at least one cheap reference. I live in Brooklyn. I can act like a hipster if I want to."
Patrick says, "You're so ..."
"Yeah, yeah, but that's cool. I'm a shadowless freak, you've practically got superpowers; pretty sure it evens out somewhere in there." Pete says, "I know what's at stake and I think you should just try. You'll never know if you don't."
Pete says, "Come on."
Patrick says, "I already said I would."
Again, Pete says, "Hey, hey," and again he kisses Patrick, but this time his aim is better, or Patrick doesn't move, or something. This time it's actually on the lips, still more tense and terrified than shy. "At least let me give you a backrub, right? Through the shirt, even."
Patrick's eyes squinch up and he's got this tight little smile, like he's either stressed or trying not to laugh. Pete's not quite sure which, or why. Maybe both. But Patrick turns around, and leans forward, resting his elbows on the arm of the sofa. Pete presses down hard with his thumbs, starting at the base of Patrick's neck and working down and out from there. He can feel Patrick's shoulders go slack under his hands, and Patrick lets out this contented little sigh and Pete's really glad he had this idea.
By the small of Patrick's back, Pete's kissed the back of his neck at least three time. Patrick rolls his shoulders, wriggles a little so he's closer to lying down on the couch and can rest his head on the armrest. He has his face turned sideways and his eyes closed, and Pete has to kind of straddle him; it's awkward and there's not a lot of room on the couch, but they manage, somehow.
Pete says, "When I said I knew the risks. I don't just mean in you singing, if you thought that was -- it's not. I mean, I get it. I'm not scared."
Lifting his head up, turning a little to look at Pete, Patrick says, "You sh," then stops.
"Should be," Pete says. He digs his fingers in again. "Nah. You wouldn't." He frowns, eyes narrow in concentration. His tongue sticks out between his lips a little and he scoots back on the couch, then hunches forward so he can massage Patrick's thighs through his jeans. He grins. Patrick makes a little noise of complaint but doesn't act on it, just stays still.
"This okay?" Pete asks. Patrick buries his face against the arm rest. "I'm gonna take that as a yes. My Patrick-to-English dictionary says it's a yes." Under him, Patrick's whole body trembles with what he hopes is held-back laughter. He's not sure what inspired it, what's so funny, but he won't complain. Patrick shifts a little, refolds his arms and turns his head sideways again. He's smiling.
Pete pushes down in circles with his thumbs, and against his ankle -- he's kneeling kind of really weird -- against his ankle, he feels Patrick's toes curl. Pete hums a little under his breath then flops forward, basically lying on top of Patrick.
"Ow, hey," Patrick says, laughing.
"You're comfy, shut up." Pete says, "No, really. So like, when am I gonna get to give you a massage without you having so many clothes on?"
Patrick snorts, and tries to hit Pete but can't get much leverage since Pete's basically got him pinned lying on his stomach. Patrick says, "Dude, Pete. Hey," and manages to roll over, despite Pete's refusal to move. Then he's able to hit Pete.
Pete's voice is low. "Hey to you too, Patrick Stumph."
--
"I think I'm gonna be sick," Patrick says, standing hunched over. He is looking a little green around the gills, more now than just a second ago.
"Oh, come on, don't say that," Pete says. "You can't talk yourself out of this, that's not on. We need you."
"Okay, okay," Patrick says. "Whatever. Maybe not. Not gonna be sick."
Tom says, "Uh, are you guys going to help set up, or what?"
"Yeah, yeah," Pete says, hastening to lug some of their equipment on stage. This is the first full-sized show his little project is playing, and they're only doing a few songs; he's going to be screaming for the first two, then let Patrick loose upon the world. He's been tempted to redo the setlist and tell the guys to just do Chicago first, to get it out of the way, but doesn't want to explain.
So they get on, and they don't have a name or anything but Pete says, "We'll figure out a name later, just listen," and they play. It's not the best show Pete's ever played, or even anywhere close to it. For most of their first song Tom's guitar is out, and the levels on Pete's bass are all wonky. The tech guy is standing at the bar hitting on a random scene girl.
The second song's a little closer to alright. Pete's throat hurts, a little, but at least ten of the maybe thirty people there are paying attention. It's better than nothing. Pete just hopes more people show up for the headliner. He also tries not to think too much about what else is going on, because he's letting himself get distracted and almost throws the rhythm off.
Sweat drips into Pete's eyes right as they're finishing the third song off, and he wipes his arm across his forehead. The lights are hot and steady and glaring in his eyes from all angles, splitting his shadow at least six different ways. He says, "Hey, guys, you all still doing alright?" to the crowd. A girl shrugs. Another guy says -- doesn't even shout -- "Yeah, doin' okay."
"Sweet," Pete says. "So uh, we'll go away in just a second. Bear with us here. We've got a song that's got an actual melody and shit coming up first, though. Maybe you'll like it," he says. "Or maybe you'll all just die, who knows."
Tom says, "Pete, shut up," and starts in on that opening guitar riff.
Pete says, "Wait, wait," and shrugs his guitar strap off his shoulder, handing the instrument off to Patrick, who's just got up from his seat at the drum kit. Pete peels his jacket off and sits down at the drums, picking up the sticks. "Go."
Tom laughs, shaking his head, a little surprised. "Okay, dude, fine." And he starts the opening riff again, and then Patrick starts to sing. There's feedback from the microphone for a few second, a high, rusted-iron-scraping-steel kind of noise. Patrick moves maybe a centimetre further from the microphone and it's fine. They start for a third time, which prompts a giggle from the two girls nearest the front.
Pete would hold his breath if he wasn't playing. He's not that good at the drums, but he's at least holding onto the rhythm. Most of the crowd is actually watching now, if only because they're pissed at the interference noise.
Patrick sings.
continued, because it was too long for one post!
part one
Apparently, Hemingway likes Patrick, even though Pete doesn't learn this until maybe the fourth or fifth time Patrick's come over to watch a movie. Hemingway's even willing to come within two feet of Pete so he can sniff Patrick's crotch and whine, begging to be petted.
Pete says, "Huh."
"Huh?"
"This is the first time I've seen my dog in three days," Pete says. Hemingway's ignoring him, which, compared to growling at him or running in terror whenever Pete gets home, is a big improvement. Walks have been interesting, to say the least; he's been getting neighbors to do it, and Gabe, sometimes.
Less often, now, because Gabe keeps being busy, but whatever. The twelve year old next door's still willing to do it, and Hemingway likes her plenty.
They're sitting on the couch, the two of them, and Hemingway jumps up to lie down next to Patrick. Pete inches a hand toward the dog's head, but Hemingway pulls his lip up a little, teeth bared. Pete pulls his hand away. He puts it on Patrick's leg instead.
Here, in Pete's book, is the weird thing about Patrick coming over: they really do just sit around and watch movies, and not too long after Patrick will either leave or sit on the stoop blowing bubbles, or pick up some book Pete's left lying around and start reading. What Pete does isn't too different, but involves a lot more of watching Patrick. What Pete isn't doing is getting laid.
Patrick says, "Do you," then stops.
"What?"
Under his hand, Pete can feel Patrick's muscles go tense. He rubs his hand in tiny, hopefully-reassuring circles, then figures maybe the shoulder is a safer place for that kind of thing.
Pete says, "Dude, seriously, I don't get this whole -- I mean, you obviously can talk, what's with you not finishing sentences? What is with you, Patrick Stumph?"
"I," Patrick says. He says, "Everything I say is true. Or it becomes true when nobody's paying attention, or. It's all. I can't lie."
"Okay?" Pete says. "So you're really honest."
Patrick says, "Everything I say becomes true. Just because I say something, that means it is. Anything I say."
"So like, if you said it was raining outside?" It's sunny; the sky is clear.
Patrick winces. "I -- okay. Just to." He says, "It's raining outside."
Pete's watching the sky out the window. It's still clear, still bright and blue. He turns to Patrick, and there's no sign that he's kidding. "Seriously, are you -- I don't know. That's not possible, though, I'm sorry, I really am. I don't know what you've been telling yourself."
Patrick says, "I'm sorry about this, but look. Look again."
When he hesitates, still looking at Patrick, Pete gets that same almost-headache feeling forming, this time at the base of his skull. Pete turns and looks, and the feeling goes away. The sky is bloated with heavy, greasy black clouds. Rain is falling, slick and fast, coating everything. Pete jumps up to close the window, because even though it's barely open water is getting inside. Gusts of wind are pushing it.
"So," Patrick says.
"Christ," Pete says. "You could do fucking anything. You could, like, take over the world. You could make anybody love you. You could be rich. Holy shit, dude."
He leans forward, elbows digging into his upper legs. He holds his face in his hands. Patrick says, or mumbles, "I had this -- and I mean, I can't -- so I had this girlfriend. I really, we were -- I don't know, she was -- anyway, we were having a, uh, this conversation once. And I told her to stop stringing me along. I told her she couldn't possibly be interested in somebody like me," he says. "So she wasn't."
"Christ," Pete says again. "Jesus fucking Christ."
Patrick says, "So I. Yeah."
"Why don't you just tell people you're mute or deaf or something?" Pete says.
Patrick looks at him.
"Oh, right," Pete says. "That'd be a bad idea."
"Yeah."
Pete says, "So wait, when you said I'd get my shadow back."
"I said it," Patrick says, nodding.
Pete says, "How?" and Patrick just shrugs. "Can't you -- haha, it'd be cheating to tell me how, wouldn't it, because that'd mean that'd be the way. No, that's cool, I'm fine with that."
"Cool," Patrick says, and there's a sudden drop in temperature. He frowns, letting out a sharp breath. "Yeah, okay, whatever, not as cool. Same fucking temperature it was before."
"That's really, really inconvenient, huh," Pete says, still trying to pull his sleeves down further to guard against the cold. He realizes what he's doing and stops.
Patrick snorts.
"What? What? I keep ruining the mood, don't I." Pete says, "Okay, forget about saying you're deaf-mute. Go back to telling emo stories. I've told you enough; it's your turn for at least three months now."
Patrick doesn't quite smile, but the muscles around his mouth twitch a little like he might at any moment.
--
Pete calls Gabe and tries to tell him -- something. He's not sure what, exactly. "No, so like, I shouldn't tell you, but anyway, so there's this Patrick kid, right?"
"I met him. We're acquainted."
"Okay, so like, just, you saw how fucking adorable he is, Christ, he's awesome. He's really, really awesome."
"Look, I'd love to have you squeal at me about him if it wasn't, you know, eight o'clock on a Saturday? We're going to a show in like ten minutes."
"Oh," Pete says. "Well, like. I was just, you know. I was just saying I really like him and all. I mean, I like like him, but there's this thing, right."
Gabe says, "Oooo, sounds grade school. Pull on his pigtails. It's the key to a little girl's heart."
"You're telling me that doesn't work?"
"Would I lie to you?"
"No," Pete says. "Neither would Patrick. Hah. That's actually, that's kind of the problem."
"How is that -- no. This is not appropriate talk for the evening. I am going to a punk rock show," Gabe says. "I need to think bad-ass thoughts, Pete. Say something bad-ass. I think -- wait, what color is that? I'm sorry, apparently eyeliner's part of the wardrobe for the evening. I gotta go."
"Can I come?"
"What? Uhm. Some other time? Will and I were."
"Oh," Pete says, and he's still wondering how he managed to miss the part where Will and Gabe are apparently BFF now. He doesn't remember this happening. He hopes Patrick didn't say anything, then punches himself in the head for thinking Patrick would ever do something like that.
--
Pete takes Patrick out. He puts a lot of thought into it, going through three different free local papers trying to find interesting things to do that won't involve too much talking. Finally, he finds this random Hula-Hoop contest, sponsored by some rag-tag group of local artists, and Patrick refuses to enter but Pete's adamant. "Come on, come on," Pete says. "This is pretty much the coolest idea in the world."
Pete says, "Don't shake your head at me. Nuh-uh. Come on. We can wear costumes. What? We could. Where would we get them? Hell, I don't know."
Patrick says, "Pete."
Pete rolls his eyes and lifts his camera from where it's hanging around his neck. "You want this? You can take pictures. That non-degrading enough for you?" Pete says, "I'll even wear a grass skirt, you watch me." Pete's already wearing a pair of red velvet pants, an eye-melting hoodie and a Blue's Clues t-shirt.
Patrick says, "Oh, uh-huh." He takes the camera, though, even though he's rolling his eyes.
Pete says, "All for you, Sophia." He sways his hips, humming some Franz Ferdinand song. Then he signs himself up for the hula-hoop tournament, and steals decorations hanging from the wall to make into a hacked together plastic-grass skirt. Patrick's not a photographer, not really, but he takes some pictures along the way.
Pete pulls off his shirts and gets himself a hula-hoop. There's still a moment before things start, and Patrick just looks around, and figures no one's paying attention, so he pulls a feather off of a stuffed bird mounted on the wall and tucks it into this obnoxious red sweatband Pete's got on.
"There." He still hasn't quite figured out the point of all this, just that whoever can keep their hula-hoop off the floor longest, without their hands touching it, they win. He also hasn't quite figured out what the prize is, or, more importantly, what the point is. It's about then that the start of the tournament is announced, and Patrick scampers off to the sidelines so he won't be in anyone's way. The problem with the camera is, it doesn't capture the way Pete's hips move.
Some shitty techno version of 99 Red Balloons plays over the PA system of the little converted warehouse that's hosting the contest, and Pete loses eight minutes in, right as Patrick's getting tired of watching and going to try to buy a peanut butter and banana sandwich.
Pete says, "Hey, do you want to -- we can jet, because I don't think I"m gonna win best costume. Pretty sure that's going to the mermaid, or maybe that drag queen, I don't know. But I mean, you wanna go, we can."
Patrick points at the little stand selling sandwiches.
"You want one? Okay, cool, I'll wait for you. Gonna, you know, put my shirt back on. Public decency and all." Pete's pulling his shirt back on, trying to figure out which way his hoodie is supposed to go since the sleeves have been pulled inside out. What he's not doing is offering to help Patrick. He figures Patrick's got this kind of thing sorted out by now.
(It turns out, Patrick's method of asking for a sandwich is just, "So how much are the sandwiches?" followed by "okay, I'll have one." Why Pete thought it was any more complicated than that, he's not sure.)
--
Two months of sitting around watching movies and going to stupid contests and mediocre shows later, and Pete's getting a little frustrated. Will won't sleep with him anymore, is one thing; he's all it was fun, but I'm gonna be an adult for once, see how that works out. Plus you don't drink, so Gabe's got instant points up on you. He's gone out, tried to pick up chicks, but when it gets to the part where he's supposed to take them back to his place, or where they ask if he wants to come up for coffee, or whatever, he always ends up turning them down.
Pete figures he's making progress, though, because he's convinced Patrick to watch Hook with him.
The nice thing about the movie is that Pete's seen it enough times he doesn't have to pay attention anymore to know exactly what's going on, so he's free to draw patterns on Patrick's leg with his fingernails. He's free to keep one eye on the screen and the other eye on Patrick. It's convenient.
Pete presses his fingers against Patrick's upper arm, and leans forward.
Patrick says, "Oh, hey, look." He points at the TV.
Pete says, "Okay, what? What? Ooh, new season of Supernatural?" and tries not to be too disappointed. "Why don't you un-cancel The OC? That'd be fucking awesome."
Patrick shakes his head, snickers a little, but he just sits and watches TV. He sits curled up at Pete's side and, eventually, takes Pete's hand, but that's it.
And Pete, he's almost alright with that. He's starting to scare himself, because he's really not minding, is almost -- God forbid -- content with what he's got.
--
Will says, "I told you so."
"You did not." Pete shuffles the phone to his other ear, grabbing his iced quad venti breve latte.
"Yes I did. I think I expressly said that Patrick wasn't gonna put out, and you didn't listen. You need to listen to the wisdom of your elders."
"Dude, I'm older than you."
"My order stands: listen to people who know what they're talking about."
Pete says, "You don't know what you're talking about, shut up."
"For once, I do."
Leaving Starbucks to wander the street aimlessly, Pete says, "Okay, okay, okay, just like. I thought we -- we held hands and shit, and I'm sure to someone, somewhere, that was really cute, but still."
Will says, "I've known him longer than you. Good luck, man. That's all I can say, 'cos you're gonna need it."
Pete says, "I know about the, uh, his thing. The weird truth thing he's got."
"Oh," Will says. "See, that's a step in the right direction." He says, "I guess maybe holding hands is a good sign, too."
"You would think."
Will says, "Okay. So, I'm trying to think here. Don't say anything, I know, me thinking's pretty dangerous. Hopefully the world will soldier on." Will says, "My advice is you try an ambush."
"What? What, no. That's basically the worst idea ever, I think. Well, maybe not quite, but maybe if I wanted to get spoken out of existence."
"Or at least get spoken out of liking him," Will says. "Yeah. I don't know. I didn't really put any -- this is a different situation."
"I know, right." Pete says, "So about that. Gabe's being kind of a dick, what's up with that? Did I piss him off?"
"You're Pete Wentz."
"Oh, right," Pete says, then, "Shit, that's harsh, dude."
"Kidding. I don't know, you've known him longer than I have. He seems kinda. Distractable?"
"You're wise," Pete says.
"I know, it's true. I can't help it. I was blessed with the gift of being awesome and, uh, like, knowing shit."
"Right."
"Shut up." Will says, "Look, just. Do right by him, okay? If you, I don't know. Just don't fuck with the kid, he doesn't need that. If you're just gonna get distracted and forget about him next pretty girl you see on the street, fucking don't, okay."
Pete says, "Ooh, Bill Beckett's defensive."
Will says, "For once, I'm serious. I know it's hard to believe. The illustrious Bill Beckett, trying to help his friends? Oh, horror of horrors! Seriously, I'll murder you and then kill you just for good measure."
"You're the best friend a guy could have."
"I know, I know." Will says, "Hey, so I would have warned you about it, but uh, he kind of told me I couldn't tell anybody."
"Oh," Pete says.
Will says, "I tried. It's out of my jurisdiction. I haven't taken the bar exam in this district yet."
"What are you talking about?"
"It was funny. What I just said, it was humor."
"No it wasn't."
"Well," Will says, "It was like kissing cousins with funny. They're very closely related."
--
Pete says, "So I've seen you sing at shows and stuff."
Their own nameless little side project isn't quite off the ground; they've played one show, just the two of them, in somebody's loft space. Pete couldn't talk for a day after because he forgot how to scream without tearing his throat completely raw. The pair of them were mostly ignored in favor of alcohol, though one girl did flirt with Pete for a while afterwards. This was a few days ago, now. The Academy has played a few more times, though, and even though Pete's been in the crowd he's been paying attention. Pete says, "So like, I don't know, can you?"
Patrick shrugs. "Do you pay attention to the parts I sing along with?"
Pete tilts his head to the side, frowning. He makes faces. He rolls his shoulders. "Uh, no."
"'Is it serious? I'm afraid it is. Am I gonna die? Well, son, death is gonna catch up to all one day,'" Patrick sings. "Obviously. 'Hold your head high, heavy heart,' and. Eh."
"Oh, shit," Pete says.
"What?"
"You can sing. I don't know what the fuck Will was talking about." One side of Pete's mouth goes up in a tooth-baring smile.
"What?"
"He just, I don't know, he was all weird about it. Probably he just -- okay, I can see why he'd be worried. Never mind."
"Hey." Patrick frowns, then curls up against Pete.
"Hi," Pete says. He puts a hand to the back of Patrick's neck, and from there can't resist petting his back. "No, really, will you sing for me? Just once, at a show. I can do drums. Can you play guitar?"
Patrick nods against Pete's chest, where he's resting his head.
"Was that a yes to the show or the guitar?"
"Guitar." Patrick says, "Seriously, you only want -- for -- oh, sh -- I, okay, wait. Don't -- or, uh."
Pete says, "Shit." He only laughs because he's nervous. He's nervous because Patrick's nervous, because he can feel how close Patrick is to saying some things that really, really aren't true. Some things that shouldn't be true.
Patrick says, "With, uh, with me, you'll," he says. "Do you like safety? Because."
"I know, I know," Pete says. "I kind of got that part. Blah blah blah, it's not safe. You can go ahead and say that one, seriously."
Patrick shakes his head.
Pete says, "Look, if you really don't want to. I'd say 'what could it hurt to try,' but I think I already know."
Patrick's breath catches. He holds it, for a while, and Pete just sits there rubbing his back. "I'll try," Patrick says.
Pete says, "Just one song. I've got something, you know. We can work on the music part of it, but I'll find the -- can I get up? Sorry, sorry, I just want to," and he gets to his feet, disappears into his bedroom. He rummages through things -- boxes he's never unpacked, dresser drawers. He flops down on his stomach and wriggles under his bed to look there, and finally emerges victorious with a spiral-bound notebook. On the cover is a picture of the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers, original series. He says, "This is it, right in here!"
By then, Patrick's sitting pressed up against the arm of the small couch, his chin on his knees.
Pete frowns, and shoves one hand in a pocket. The only reason he doesn't do both is because he's holding on to the notebook. He rocks forward on the balls of his feet a few times, thinking, then grabs an acoustic from where it's leaning against the wall. He sits down, as far as he can from Patrick on the tiny couch, and starts to play a few chords. He really isn't any good, and it's symplistic and unmelodic. "My heart is on my --"
Patrick snorts, and grabs the guitar from him. He holds it by the neck and reaches the other hand out for the notebook.
"What, you don't like my singing? I'm a virtuoso. I should be on American mothertrucking Idol."
Patrick rolls his eyes, using his foot to poke at the Summer League vinyl Pete's left sitting on the coffee table. He grins.
"What, me? Good at singing as Brendon Urie? I know, I know."
Patrick just laughs and starts flipping through the notebook. He's got the guitar across his lap still, and the notebook sort of resting on top of it. "Hey, have you got a pen?"
"Yeah, sure," Pete says. Digging around in his pocket for a second, he manages to find a hot pink gel pen. When Patrick starts marking things up in his notebook, though, he says, "Hey, wait, no! What are you doing?"
Patrick ignores him, making little editing marks and occasionally scribbling down an entire word, at one point circling about five lines and drawing a big wiggly arrow to somewhere else on the page. Every now and then Patrick will shift the notebook a little and pick up the guitar to tap out a few chords. Pete sits and tries not to look. He keeps almost glancing at the notebook out of the corner of one eye but manages to stop himself. For a while he hums the Jeopardy theme, but Patrick kicks him for that one.
Finally, Patrick hands the notebook back. Pete looks at it. Pete says, "Oh. Oh, you're right. Wow. This is kind of a lot better, isn't it."
In the months they've known each other, Pete's never seen Patrick looking quite so smug. The gesture he makes isn't quite a nod, just the slightest inclination of his head.
"You gonna practice now?" Pete says.
Patrick shakes his head.
"When?" No answer is forthcoming. "You gonna wait until the show?" That gets an affirmative, in the form of Patrick's hand squeezing Pete's knee instead of a nod. "Scared?" More assent. "So am I, don't worry. We can be all fearful and shit together, and spazz out like morons and then you can act like you're not gonna do it then end up doing it anyway because you just can't resist my boyish charm."
"Intro?" Patrick says, and Pete's about to ask him what he's talking about when Patrick starts playing the guitar again.
Pete says, "Well, shit." Pete says, "Got it in one. That's gotta be it, pretty much."
Patrick keeps playing, humming a tune soft under his breath as he does, and Pete leans in close just to catch the sound. "Jesus Christ, Stumph," he half-whispers. "Jesus Christ."
Patrick raises one shoulder and cocks his head to the side.
"No, it's good," Pete says. "Really, really good. We should, I'll see if I can con anybody else into playing. Yeah, I know I said I had people. I might. If they're not busy."
Patrick says, "Okay." He thumps his palm against the strings for no good reason.
Pete says, "Hey, hey." He doesn't give Patrick a chance to do anything before kissing him. It's just on the corner of the mouth, close-mouthed and quick.
Sighing, Patrick sits back against the sofa, tilts his head toward the ceiling and closes his eyes.
Pete says, "Don't worry. I know the risks. You can talk me out of existence, for all I care. It'd be worth it. I've got the facts and I'm voting yes." Patrick opens one eye just a crack. Pete says, "Come on, I'm allowed at least one cheap reference. I live in Brooklyn. I can act like a hipster if I want to."
Patrick says, "You're so ..."
"Yeah, yeah, but that's cool. I'm a shadowless freak, you've practically got superpowers; pretty sure it evens out somewhere in there." Pete says, "I know what's at stake and I think you should just try. You'll never know if you don't."
Pete says, "Come on."
Patrick says, "I already said I would."
Again, Pete says, "Hey, hey," and again he kisses Patrick, but this time his aim is better, or Patrick doesn't move, or something. This time it's actually on the lips, still more tense and terrified than shy. "At least let me give you a backrub, right? Through the shirt, even."
Patrick's eyes squinch up and he's got this tight little smile, like he's either stressed or trying not to laugh. Pete's not quite sure which, or why. Maybe both. But Patrick turns around, and leans forward, resting his elbows on the arm of the sofa. Pete presses down hard with his thumbs, starting at the base of Patrick's neck and working down and out from there. He can feel Patrick's shoulders go slack under his hands, and Patrick lets out this contented little sigh and Pete's really glad he had this idea.
By the small of Patrick's back, Pete's kissed the back of his neck at least three time. Patrick rolls his shoulders, wriggles a little so he's closer to lying down on the couch and can rest his head on the armrest. He has his face turned sideways and his eyes closed, and Pete has to kind of straddle him; it's awkward and there's not a lot of room on the couch, but they manage, somehow.
Pete says, "When I said I knew the risks. I don't just mean in you singing, if you thought that was -- it's not. I mean, I get it. I'm not scared."
Lifting his head up, turning a little to look at Pete, Patrick says, "You sh," then stops.
"Should be," Pete says. He digs his fingers in again. "Nah. You wouldn't." He frowns, eyes narrow in concentration. His tongue sticks out between his lips a little and he scoots back on the couch, then hunches forward so he can massage Patrick's thighs through his jeans. He grins. Patrick makes a little noise of complaint but doesn't act on it, just stays still.
"This okay?" Pete asks. Patrick buries his face against the arm rest. "I'm gonna take that as a yes. My Patrick-to-English dictionary says it's a yes." Under him, Patrick's whole body trembles with what he hopes is held-back laughter. He's not sure what inspired it, what's so funny, but he won't complain. Patrick shifts a little, refolds his arms and turns his head sideways again. He's smiling.
Pete pushes down in circles with his thumbs, and against his ankle -- he's kneeling kind of really weird -- against his ankle, he feels Patrick's toes curl. Pete hums a little under his breath then flops forward, basically lying on top of Patrick.
"Ow, hey," Patrick says, laughing.
"You're comfy, shut up." Pete says, "No, really. So like, when am I gonna get to give you a massage without you having so many clothes on?"
Patrick snorts, and tries to hit Pete but can't get much leverage since Pete's basically got him pinned lying on his stomach. Patrick says, "Dude, Pete. Hey," and manages to roll over, despite Pete's refusal to move. Then he's able to hit Pete.
Pete's voice is low. "Hey to you too, Patrick Stumph."
--
"I think I'm gonna be sick," Patrick says, standing hunched over. He is looking a little green around the gills, more now than just a second ago.
"Oh, come on, don't say that," Pete says. "You can't talk yourself out of this, that's not on. We need you."
"Okay, okay," Patrick says. "Whatever. Maybe not. Not gonna be sick."
Tom says, "Uh, are you guys going to help set up, or what?"
"Yeah, yeah," Pete says, hastening to lug some of their equipment on stage. This is the first full-sized show his little project is playing, and they're only doing a few songs; he's going to be screaming for the first two, then let Patrick loose upon the world. He's been tempted to redo the setlist and tell the guys to just do Chicago first, to get it out of the way, but doesn't want to explain.
So they get on, and they don't have a name or anything but Pete says, "We'll figure out a name later, just listen," and they play. It's not the best show Pete's ever played, or even anywhere close to it. For most of their first song Tom's guitar is out, and the levels on Pete's bass are all wonky. The tech guy is standing at the bar hitting on a random scene girl.
The second song's a little closer to alright. Pete's throat hurts, a little, but at least ten of the maybe thirty people there are paying attention. It's better than nothing. Pete just hopes more people show up for the headliner. He also tries not to think too much about what else is going on, because he's letting himself get distracted and almost throws the rhythm off.
Sweat drips into Pete's eyes right as they're finishing the third song off, and he wipes his arm across his forehead. The lights are hot and steady and glaring in his eyes from all angles, splitting his shadow at least six different ways. He says, "Hey, guys, you all still doing alright?" to the crowd. A girl shrugs. Another guy says -- doesn't even shout -- "Yeah, doin' okay."
"Sweet," Pete says. "So uh, we'll go away in just a second. Bear with us here. We've got a song that's got an actual melody and shit coming up first, though. Maybe you'll like it," he says. "Or maybe you'll all just die, who knows."
Tom says, "Pete, shut up," and starts in on that opening guitar riff.
Pete says, "Wait, wait," and shrugs his guitar strap off his shoulder, handing the instrument off to Patrick, who's just got up from his seat at the drum kit. Pete peels his jacket off and sits down at the drums, picking up the sticks. "Go."
Tom laughs, shaking his head, a little surprised. "Okay, dude, fine." And he starts the opening riff again, and then Patrick starts to sing. There's feedback from the microphone for a few second, a high, rusted-iron-scraping-steel kind of noise. Patrick moves maybe a centimetre further from the microphone and it's fine. They start for a third time, which prompts a giggle from the two girls nearest the front.
Pete would hold his breath if he wasn't playing. He's not that good at the drums, but he's at least holding onto the rhythm. Most of the crowd is actually watching now, if only because they're pissed at the interference noise.
Patrick sings.