[fic] origin; pete/patrick, g
title: Origin (2/2)
pairing: Pete Wentz/Patrick Stump (FOB)
rating: g
genre: headlines & heartbreak
summary: "You're the one who likes the press.” Patrick sighs, looking defeated. “Can’t you, I don't know ... do something distracting? Kidnap a politician or kill a baby or something. That'd make them forget about me quick enough."
"I. How about I just tell them the truth? I mean, it's not like we're ..." he trails off. "Uh. We're not, right?"
warnings: Pete is a really dumb superhero. COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY UNEDITED, UGH GOD.
This is still a belated birthday present for tricksterquinn. Because everyone needs some borderline-gen slash once in a while, apparently.
-- part one
Morning comes, accompanied by a phone call from Patrick, who doesn't bother with any sort of greeting before saying, "Have you looked at the motherfucking newspaper today?"
"Huh -- Patrick?" Pete says, sitting up in bed, balancing the phone on his shoulder. "Think about what you just said."
"What?"
"Why would I have done that? Why would I even be awake?"
"Oh. It's not that early. It's only -- uh. 6:40. That's not that early."
"Uh-huh. I'm going to go to bed, because it's summer and I deserve all the sleep I can get. You will call me later and tell me why I care what the newspaper says."
"You seriously have no idea - okay, fine, whatever. Sure.”
Pete hangs up, and goes back to sleep, and in a few hours his mom knocks on his door and tells him that Patrick's at the door, and that the poor dear looks upset, and she’ll just leave the two of them alone for a while to talk.
A few minutes later, Pete floats down the steps, still too tired to try navigating them properly. Patrick is sitting in the entryway, clutching a newspaper. “Hey, yeah, so,” he says, attempting a smile and failing. “About yesterday.” He pauses, like he’s going to say something else, then stops himself, holding out the newspaper instead.
"What?" Pete says, looking down at the rolled up newspaper that’s now in his hands. He opens it up, shaking it out before reading the headline. The Chicago Tribune's top story of the day is, apparently, that they've discovered the identity of Fall Out Boy's secret gay lover. "Uh. Wow. Since when was the Trib a tabloid?"
In a startling move yesterday, it starts, city hero Fall Out Boy came out of another battle victorious -- and came out of the closet. It seemed like a typical day for the city’s hero, as he battled and defeated a large mechanical construct. Shortly after the battle, however, he was seen leaving the scene with another man. He also, in a brief on-the-scene interview with a Channel 4 reporter, issued a statement … Pete stops reading partway into the first paragraph.
"What the fuck?" Pete says, scratching at his stomach. "Who're they saying it is, anyway?"
"Me, Pete," Patrick says, and he sounds more tired than he looks. "Me. There's been reporters calling all night asking who you really are, and there's been death threats, and there's been people soliciting me, and it's been insane. I just. I haven't slept since ... let's see, two nights ago, actually, since you kinda took me out Sunday night. Sunday’s not really the weekend, you know?”
"Oh. Uh. Sorry?"
"You're the one who likes the press.” Patrick sighs, looking defeated. “Can’t you, I don't know ... do something distracting? Kidnap a politician or kill a baby or something. That'd make them forget about me quick enough."
"I. How about I just tell them the truth? I mean, it's not like we're ..." he trails off. "Uh. We're not, right?"
Patrick looks up at him. "Okay. Okay, sure."
“Awesome, yeah. I’ll - gimme a couple hours, I want some breakfast and shit first. And I gotta - can I call a press conference? Am I allowed to do that? I mean, not me, but me as Fall Out Boy. They’d let me, right?”
“I don’t know. I guess? I don’t know how it works. It’s not like they can ask you for interviews after the show or anything.”
“That Channel 4 chick was kind of cute,” Pete muses, wandering toward the kitchen. “Bet I can talk ‘em into letting her interview me. And it’ll be a good chance to prove they, you know, got it all wrong, right?”
“I - right. I’m … I was gonna say I’m going home, but there’s still reporters standing around on my lawn, I think. Jesus.” Patrick’s got his arms clutched tightly to his chest, fingers digging into his arms. His knuckles are bright, bright white, just like the skin under his nails.
“You can hang out here for a bit,” Pete offers. “Want some breakfast? We got cereal, or I could get Mom to cook you something. She likes you.”
“I don’t really want to,” Patrick says, head down so the brim of his hat hides his eyes. “I think I’m gonna see if Joe’s home. Can I use your phone? I don’t wanna use my cell, in case they, I don’t know. I’m just being paranoid. You know.”
“Uhm? Yeah, sure, go ahead.” Pete gestures toward the kitchen phone with one hand, pouring milk into a bowl with the other. “Mi casa es su casa and all that. You don’t even have to ask - I mean, you’re like family, man. Mom won’t mind either. Seriously, she adores you.”
“Oh,” Patrick says. “Right, of course. Okay. Okay. I - yeah.”
---
“So, Fall Out Boy - this is the first time you’ve agreed to do a studio interview. Was your decision influenced by the upswing in media attention following your coming out?”
“See, about that,” Pete says. He’s all done up in his costume, cape and all; the studio lights are hot, but he’s used to hotter from stagelights and superpowers. “That guy, he’s not - neither of us is gay, you know? We’ve got this amazing friendship, yeah, but there’s nothing romantic about it. There’s nothing sexual. The media these days, it always - you’re kind of like flies, aren’t you? Not you, not you. You’re pretty. But it just seems like you’re always looking for the worst in people, you know?”
“Are you saying, then, that you’re not gay? You kissed another man.” This reporter, she’s sort of pretty, with short red-brown hair and grey-green eyes. “It’s easy to see how the public could misinterpret your actions the other day.”
“On the head. I mean, sure, I love the guy, but that’s no reason to think it’s anything, you know? I mean, don’t air that. I didn’t mean it that way; what I mean is, he’s just this really close friend of mine.”
“It seems difficult to believe that you,” the reporter starts, but she’s cut off when Pete stands up from the couch and leans over the news desk to kiss her.
“See?” he says, pulling away; she didn’t kiss back and he didn’t try for long.
“Uhm.”
The rest of the interview is basically more of the same - Pete keeps insisting that he and Patrick are both totally straight, while occasionally hitting on the news anchor. A few more minutes of interview and she asks him a few political questions that he waves off, and it’s done with.
The media picks the clip up as news-fodder, too, some stations choosing to claim the footage as proof that Chicago’s beloved hero is indeed a staunch bastion of heterosexuality; others interpret the briefness of the kiss as further proof that Fall Out Boy is both gay and a bad influence on children.
---
On Wednesday, for the first time, Pete doesn’t save the day. A mad scientist tries to destroy the Sears Tower, and Pete - he doesn’t bother to show up. He lets the police handle it, just this once.
That evening, when his mom turns on the news, he can’t make himself watch. All anyone is saying is that Fall Out Boy is a failure, that the city shouldn’t rely on him.
---
The band’s supposed to play a show Friday night, and the rest of the guys show up on time, but Patrick’s not there for soundcheck. He’s not there when doors open, and he’s not there for the first opener, which is really worrisome considering that they’re on second tonight.
He finally shows about three minutes before they’re due on, and he refuses to talk to anyone except Joe; when they go on, his voice is raw and desparate. He stands to one side of the stage, aloof, and when their set is over he retreats to a corner of the venue and sulks rather than helping break down their gear.
After the show, usually they stick around to talk to fans, but everyone else bails early, and Pete’s not feeling up to performing his duties as frontman tonight. He’s not sure which direction Patrick’s headed in, so he just starts walking for a while. Then he stops, and closes his eyes, and he listens and, in all the noise of the city, he’s still able to pick out the sound of Patrick’s heartbeat, just barely. He’s not so far away, yet.
Pete thinks about flying to catch up with Patrick faster, but can’t get any farther off the ground than his tiptoes.
He almost keeps his eyes closed as he follows the sound on foot, but figures maybe he should look before he crosses the street. He trots along in the right general direction, and is annoyingly proud of himself when he finally finds Patrick.
“Hey,” he says, reaching out and putting a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s been up with you?”
“What the fuck,” Patrick says, though it’s not really a question. “Seriously, what the fuck. It’s nothing.”
“You up and disappear, don’t even talk to me at the show, and it’s nothing?”
“Pete,” Patrick says. His shoulders slump, and he lets his head drop. “Okay. Okay. Think about it for a minute. Just think.”
“Okay, yeah, the media thing really does suck, but there’s bound to be a school shooting or something soon. I mean, hey, they’re talking about me more than you anyway.”
“It’s summer. And they don’t know who you really are.”
“Well, something like that, I mean. An office worker could go postal? Plus, I mean, hey, at least it meant more people at the show tonight.” Pete shrugs, unhelpful, then holds his arms out. “C’mon, gimme a hug and let’s forget everything that makes us unhappy.”
“I - I’ll talk to you tomorrow. How’s that? I’ll leave it up to you to figure out where.”
“Sure,” Pete says, “sure.” He just stands there, feeling an inexplicable sense of loss as Patrick walks away. Finally, Pete turns around and walks the other way.
When he gets home, he has to use the microwave for the first time in a very long time.
---
Looking for Patrick the next day, Pete thinks about cheating. He closes his eyes and tries to sift through the city-noise, then thinks, no, he has to figure this one out by himself.
So he starts wandering, mostly eastward, and listening only to the sounds around him. The sun is hot and golden, and glazes his skin with sweat that quickly dries into flakes of salt.
Occasionally, he’ll wander the edges of someone’s lawn, because a lot of people have their sprinklers on, watering neatly-trimmed grass. It takes him a while, but finally, after nearly half a mile of aimless wandering, he realizes where he has to go. For the first time in a long time, he has to take a bus.
From the bus stop, it’s not much more of a walk - he cuts through some condos and takes off his shoes, letting his toes curl into the hot sand. The breeze off the lake is cool; the tide is in and there’s hordes of shrieking children playing in and around the water.
Pete wanders in the shadows of lakeside developments, and even here, where there’s people all around and he’s got almost no chance of finding Patrick, he doesn’t try to listen for him. He’s not sure he’s willing to fail again.
He finally does find Patrick, sitting on a concrete embankment in the shade. Patrick’s sitting with his knees curled up to his chest and his arms around his legs, hat angled to block the sun. He doesn’t look up when Pete stops next to him, so Pete finally sits down and pokes him in the side. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Patrick says, still not looking up.
“So I - I don’t know. You know,” Pete says, and he looks around, making sure there’s no one else too close by. “I can’t - I don’t know why, but I can’t fly anymore. I can’t do anything.”
“What?” Patrick looks up, at that, eyes clear and startled. “What do you mean?”
“Like, I can’t do it. It doesn’t work anymore. I almost fell off a roof for real last night. I did fall off some steps. I think it’s …” Pete trails off. He’s been looking at Patrick this whole time so far, but now he turns to look way out past the beach, toward the horizon, the endless blue of the lake that, in the humid haze, seems to melt into the sky. “This sounds so cliché.”
Patrick pushes his hat up a bit and looks at Pete.
Still watching the lake, Pete leans his head on Patrick’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to do it without you.” He can feel Patrick tense up, ready to move away. “No, no. Stay here, just for a little while. I don’t care what it looks like to anybody else.”
“Hey,” Patrick says. “You know. I always, well, for a while I kind of thought you - thought we. You know.”
“Oh,” Pete says, then, “Oh, I mean, I didn’t. I - no, no, look, you listen to me this time. I didn’t want to fuck it up, because, you know, I always do, and I figured, I don’t know. If I ignored it we could just be friends and things would be okay?”
“What?”
“I need you to trust me,” Pete says. He says, “I know, I know. God, I’m talking like we’re in some bad romance novel. What-the-fuck-ever, you know? I guess what I’m saying here is, yeah. Hey, hey, look at me,” he says, never mind that Patrick’s been looking at him. “I think I figured it out, is all. Finally.”
Patrick doesn’t say anything, so Pete keeps talking. “I mean, okay, so not being able to fly, not being able to use my powers, that’s bad, I guess. But, I mean, I could give that up. That stuff, it’s nice, it’s good to be useful, but I could give it up.”
“Yeah?” Patrick’s voice is flat, neutral.
“It’s, you know, none of that’s as important as, you know. Other stuff. I mean,” Pete says. He raises a hand to touch Patrick’s face. “You know?” He says, “Come on, Stump. Patrick. What do you want? What do I gotta do to make you my friend again?” He’s not paying much attention to what he’s doing, but he does rub his thumb in slow circles against Patrick’s cheek, idle thoughtless movement. “Well?”
Patrick’s about to say something when he gets hit in the head with a beachball. “Sorry, mister!” some little kid yells.
Pete looks at him, grinning. “Revenge?”
“Revenge,” Patrick nods, and the both of them get up and chase the little kid down as she laughs and squeals in delight.
If maybe, after chasing the kid down (Pete hands her ball back, very seriously, and messes up her hair when he says, "Now, you be careful 'round strangers, okay?") -- if maybe after that, while the two of them are walking the lakeside Pete just so happens to grab Patrick's hand, well, neither of them says anything about it.
One sure thing is, never mind how crowded the beach is, at one point Pete stops -- still standing right on the edge of the land and water -- and he leans down and kisses Patrick. And if maybe, just maybe, Pete's feet aren't quite touching the ground, neither of them pays that any mind.
pairing: Pete Wentz/Patrick Stump (FOB)
rating: g
genre: headlines & heartbreak
summary: "You're the one who likes the press.” Patrick sighs, looking defeated. “Can’t you, I don't know ... do something distracting? Kidnap a politician or kill a baby or something. That'd make them forget about me quick enough."
"I. How about I just tell them the truth? I mean, it's not like we're ..." he trails off. "Uh. We're not, right?"
warnings: Pete is a really dumb superhero. COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY UNEDITED, UGH GOD.
This is still a belated birthday present for tricksterquinn. Because everyone needs some borderline-gen slash once in a while, apparently.
-- part one
Morning comes, accompanied by a phone call from Patrick, who doesn't bother with any sort of greeting before saying, "Have you looked at the motherfucking newspaper today?"
"Huh -- Patrick?" Pete says, sitting up in bed, balancing the phone on his shoulder. "Think about what you just said."
"What?"
"Why would I have done that? Why would I even be awake?"
"Oh. It's not that early. It's only -- uh. 6:40. That's not that early."
"Uh-huh. I'm going to go to bed, because it's summer and I deserve all the sleep I can get. You will call me later and tell me why I care what the newspaper says."
"You seriously have no idea - okay, fine, whatever. Sure.”
Pete hangs up, and goes back to sleep, and in a few hours his mom knocks on his door and tells him that Patrick's at the door, and that the poor dear looks upset, and she’ll just leave the two of them alone for a while to talk.
A few minutes later, Pete floats down the steps, still too tired to try navigating them properly. Patrick is sitting in the entryway, clutching a newspaper. “Hey, yeah, so,” he says, attempting a smile and failing. “About yesterday.” He pauses, like he’s going to say something else, then stops himself, holding out the newspaper instead.
"What?" Pete says, looking down at the rolled up newspaper that’s now in his hands. He opens it up, shaking it out before reading the headline. The Chicago Tribune's top story of the day is, apparently, that they've discovered the identity of Fall Out Boy's secret gay lover. "Uh. Wow. Since when was the Trib a tabloid?"
In a startling move yesterday, it starts, city hero Fall Out Boy came out of another battle victorious -- and came out of the closet. It seemed like a typical day for the city’s hero, as he battled and defeated a large mechanical construct. Shortly after the battle, however, he was seen leaving the scene with another man. He also, in a brief on-the-scene interview with a Channel 4 reporter, issued a statement … Pete stops reading partway into the first paragraph.
"What the fuck?" Pete says, scratching at his stomach. "Who're they saying it is, anyway?"
"Me, Pete," Patrick says, and he sounds more tired than he looks. "Me. There's been reporters calling all night asking who you really are, and there's been death threats, and there's been people soliciting me, and it's been insane. I just. I haven't slept since ... let's see, two nights ago, actually, since you kinda took me out Sunday night. Sunday’s not really the weekend, you know?”
"Oh. Uh. Sorry?"
"You're the one who likes the press.” Patrick sighs, looking defeated. “Can’t you, I don't know ... do something distracting? Kidnap a politician or kill a baby or something. That'd make them forget about me quick enough."
"I. How about I just tell them the truth? I mean, it's not like we're ..." he trails off. "Uh. We're not, right?"
Patrick looks up at him. "Okay. Okay, sure."
“Awesome, yeah. I’ll - gimme a couple hours, I want some breakfast and shit first. And I gotta - can I call a press conference? Am I allowed to do that? I mean, not me, but me as Fall Out Boy. They’d let me, right?”
“I don’t know. I guess? I don’t know how it works. It’s not like they can ask you for interviews after the show or anything.”
“That Channel 4 chick was kind of cute,” Pete muses, wandering toward the kitchen. “Bet I can talk ‘em into letting her interview me. And it’ll be a good chance to prove they, you know, got it all wrong, right?”
“I - right. I’m … I was gonna say I’m going home, but there’s still reporters standing around on my lawn, I think. Jesus.” Patrick’s got his arms clutched tightly to his chest, fingers digging into his arms. His knuckles are bright, bright white, just like the skin under his nails.
“You can hang out here for a bit,” Pete offers. “Want some breakfast? We got cereal, or I could get Mom to cook you something. She likes you.”
“I don’t really want to,” Patrick says, head down so the brim of his hat hides his eyes. “I think I’m gonna see if Joe’s home. Can I use your phone? I don’t wanna use my cell, in case they, I don’t know. I’m just being paranoid. You know.”
“Uhm? Yeah, sure, go ahead.” Pete gestures toward the kitchen phone with one hand, pouring milk into a bowl with the other. “Mi casa es su casa and all that. You don’t even have to ask - I mean, you’re like family, man. Mom won’t mind either. Seriously, she adores you.”
“Oh,” Patrick says. “Right, of course. Okay. Okay. I - yeah.”
---
“So, Fall Out Boy - this is the first time you’ve agreed to do a studio interview. Was your decision influenced by the upswing in media attention following your coming out?”
“See, about that,” Pete says. He’s all done up in his costume, cape and all; the studio lights are hot, but he’s used to hotter from stagelights and superpowers. “That guy, he’s not - neither of us is gay, you know? We’ve got this amazing friendship, yeah, but there’s nothing romantic about it. There’s nothing sexual. The media these days, it always - you’re kind of like flies, aren’t you? Not you, not you. You’re pretty. But it just seems like you’re always looking for the worst in people, you know?”
“Are you saying, then, that you’re not gay? You kissed another man.” This reporter, she’s sort of pretty, with short red-brown hair and grey-green eyes. “It’s easy to see how the public could misinterpret your actions the other day.”
“On the head. I mean, sure, I love the guy, but that’s no reason to think it’s anything, you know? I mean, don’t air that. I didn’t mean it that way; what I mean is, he’s just this really close friend of mine.”
“It seems difficult to believe that you,” the reporter starts, but she’s cut off when Pete stands up from the couch and leans over the news desk to kiss her.
“See?” he says, pulling away; she didn’t kiss back and he didn’t try for long.
“Uhm.”
The rest of the interview is basically more of the same - Pete keeps insisting that he and Patrick are both totally straight, while occasionally hitting on the news anchor. A few more minutes of interview and she asks him a few political questions that he waves off, and it’s done with.
The media picks the clip up as news-fodder, too, some stations choosing to claim the footage as proof that Chicago’s beloved hero is indeed a staunch bastion of heterosexuality; others interpret the briefness of the kiss as further proof that Fall Out Boy is both gay and a bad influence on children.
---
On Wednesday, for the first time, Pete doesn’t save the day. A mad scientist tries to destroy the Sears Tower, and Pete - he doesn’t bother to show up. He lets the police handle it, just this once.
That evening, when his mom turns on the news, he can’t make himself watch. All anyone is saying is that Fall Out Boy is a failure, that the city shouldn’t rely on him.
---
The band’s supposed to play a show Friday night, and the rest of the guys show up on time, but Patrick’s not there for soundcheck. He’s not there when doors open, and he’s not there for the first opener, which is really worrisome considering that they’re on second tonight.
He finally shows about three minutes before they’re due on, and he refuses to talk to anyone except Joe; when they go on, his voice is raw and desparate. He stands to one side of the stage, aloof, and when their set is over he retreats to a corner of the venue and sulks rather than helping break down their gear.
After the show, usually they stick around to talk to fans, but everyone else bails early, and Pete’s not feeling up to performing his duties as frontman tonight. He’s not sure which direction Patrick’s headed in, so he just starts walking for a while. Then he stops, and closes his eyes, and he listens and, in all the noise of the city, he’s still able to pick out the sound of Patrick’s heartbeat, just barely. He’s not so far away, yet.
Pete thinks about flying to catch up with Patrick faster, but can’t get any farther off the ground than his tiptoes.
He almost keeps his eyes closed as he follows the sound on foot, but figures maybe he should look before he crosses the street. He trots along in the right general direction, and is annoyingly proud of himself when he finally finds Patrick.
“Hey,” he says, reaching out and putting a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s been up with you?”
“What the fuck,” Patrick says, though it’s not really a question. “Seriously, what the fuck. It’s nothing.”
“You up and disappear, don’t even talk to me at the show, and it’s nothing?”
“Pete,” Patrick says. His shoulders slump, and he lets his head drop. “Okay. Okay. Think about it for a minute. Just think.”
“Okay, yeah, the media thing really does suck, but there’s bound to be a school shooting or something soon. I mean, hey, they’re talking about me more than you anyway.”
“It’s summer. And they don’t know who you really are.”
“Well, something like that, I mean. An office worker could go postal? Plus, I mean, hey, at least it meant more people at the show tonight.” Pete shrugs, unhelpful, then holds his arms out. “C’mon, gimme a hug and let’s forget everything that makes us unhappy.”
“I - I’ll talk to you tomorrow. How’s that? I’ll leave it up to you to figure out where.”
“Sure,” Pete says, “sure.” He just stands there, feeling an inexplicable sense of loss as Patrick walks away. Finally, Pete turns around and walks the other way.
When he gets home, he has to use the microwave for the first time in a very long time.
---
Looking for Patrick the next day, Pete thinks about cheating. He closes his eyes and tries to sift through the city-noise, then thinks, no, he has to figure this one out by himself.
So he starts wandering, mostly eastward, and listening only to the sounds around him. The sun is hot and golden, and glazes his skin with sweat that quickly dries into flakes of salt.
Occasionally, he’ll wander the edges of someone’s lawn, because a lot of people have their sprinklers on, watering neatly-trimmed grass. It takes him a while, but finally, after nearly half a mile of aimless wandering, he realizes where he has to go. For the first time in a long time, he has to take a bus.
From the bus stop, it’s not much more of a walk - he cuts through some condos and takes off his shoes, letting his toes curl into the hot sand. The breeze off the lake is cool; the tide is in and there’s hordes of shrieking children playing in and around the water.
Pete wanders in the shadows of lakeside developments, and even here, where there’s people all around and he’s got almost no chance of finding Patrick, he doesn’t try to listen for him. He’s not sure he’s willing to fail again.
He finally does find Patrick, sitting on a concrete embankment in the shade. Patrick’s sitting with his knees curled up to his chest and his arms around his legs, hat angled to block the sun. He doesn’t look up when Pete stops next to him, so Pete finally sits down and pokes him in the side. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Patrick says, still not looking up.
“So I - I don’t know. You know,” Pete says, and he looks around, making sure there’s no one else too close by. “I can’t - I don’t know why, but I can’t fly anymore. I can’t do anything.”
“What?” Patrick looks up, at that, eyes clear and startled. “What do you mean?”
“Like, I can’t do it. It doesn’t work anymore. I almost fell off a roof for real last night. I did fall off some steps. I think it’s …” Pete trails off. He’s been looking at Patrick this whole time so far, but now he turns to look way out past the beach, toward the horizon, the endless blue of the lake that, in the humid haze, seems to melt into the sky. “This sounds so cliché.”
Patrick pushes his hat up a bit and looks at Pete.
Still watching the lake, Pete leans his head on Patrick’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to do it without you.” He can feel Patrick tense up, ready to move away. “No, no. Stay here, just for a little while. I don’t care what it looks like to anybody else.”
“Hey,” Patrick says. “You know. I always, well, for a while I kind of thought you - thought we. You know.”
“Oh,” Pete says, then, “Oh, I mean, I didn’t. I - no, no, look, you listen to me this time. I didn’t want to fuck it up, because, you know, I always do, and I figured, I don’t know. If I ignored it we could just be friends and things would be okay?”
“What?”
“I need you to trust me,” Pete says. He says, “I know, I know. God, I’m talking like we’re in some bad romance novel. What-the-fuck-ever, you know? I guess what I’m saying here is, yeah. Hey, hey, look at me,” he says, never mind that Patrick’s been looking at him. “I think I figured it out, is all. Finally.”
Patrick doesn’t say anything, so Pete keeps talking. “I mean, okay, so not being able to fly, not being able to use my powers, that’s bad, I guess. But, I mean, I could give that up. That stuff, it’s nice, it’s good to be useful, but I could give it up.”
“Yeah?” Patrick’s voice is flat, neutral.
“It’s, you know, none of that’s as important as, you know. Other stuff. I mean,” Pete says. He raises a hand to touch Patrick’s face. “You know?” He says, “Come on, Stump. Patrick. What do you want? What do I gotta do to make you my friend again?” He’s not paying much attention to what he’s doing, but he does rub his thumb in slow circles against Patrick’s cheek, idle thoughtless movement. “Well?”
Patrick’s about to say something when he gets hit in the head with a beachball. “Sorry, mister!” some little kid yells.
Pete looks at him, grinning. “Revenge?”
“Revenge,” Patrick nods, and the both of them get up and chase the little kid down as she laughs and squeals in delight.
If maybe, after chasing the kid down (Pete hands her ball back, very seriously, and messes up her hair when he says, "Now, you be careful 'round strangers, okay?") -- if maybe after that, while the two of them are walking the lakeside Pete just so happens to grab Patrick's hand, well, neither of them says anything about it.
One sure thing is, never mind how crowded the beach is, at one point Pete stops -- still standing right on the edge of the land and water -- and he leans down and kisses Patrick. And if maybe, just maybe, Pete's feet aren't quite touching the ground, neither of them pays that any mind.