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On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Patrick watches the Alex triplets after school. They're not actually triplets, or even at all related, but fuck if Patrick can tell the difference between them most of the time. So he just brings them to the park, and does his homework while they're running around the playground. And if sometimes he slaps nametags on their backs when they're not looking, well. A sitter's gotta do what a sitter's gotta do, seriously.
It's a Wednesday now, which means little Cash Colligan is there too, with his sitter Joe, who Patrick knows from school. Patrick likes Wednesdays, because Joe keeps him company, but he sort of hates Wednesdays too, considering he spends a lot of time talking his kids out of following Cash into something stupid.
"You have to wear your pants," he urges the curly-headed Alex. (De...something. Maybe.)
"We're using them as a flag," Alex says stubbornly, and Patrick's really not in the mood for this today. He's got two essays due tomorrow, damnit.
"Put on your pants, and I'll buy you an ice pop," he shamelessly bribes, as the tinkle of the truck comes around the corner.
"Cash too?" Alex asks, looking tempted.
"Cash too," Patrick says, and they solemnly shake on it. He rolls his eyes at Joe, who's motioning for Patrick to get him one with the biggest, saddest, puppy eyes ever. He surrenders like Joe knew he would, and sets off towards the truck, counting crumpled up bills in his pocket.
"Six popsicles," he says once the kids in line ahead of him clear up. He smooths out the bills in his hand, and glances up, expecting old Buddy the Ice Cream Man to be grinning that seriously creepy toothless grin at him.
"Are you serious?" the guy says, and Patrick really wants to focus on the fact that he's wearing the stupidest, cartoon covered apron Patrick's ever seen, but really what he notices is how there's nothing under the apron.
"Um," he says, and gestures back towards the park. "They're for the kids I'm watching..."
"No, I mean are you serious with that outfit," the grinning ice cream dude interrupts him grinning, and Patrick bristles, because seriously, dude is wearing no shirt.
"Can I have my popiscles?" he asks, thrusting the money blindly towards the truck.
"What's your name?" the guy asks instead, and
Patrick snaps, "Noneya,"
"Noneya?" Shirtless Ice Cream dude repeats dubiously, and holds out six popsicles.
"Yeah, Noneyabusiness," Patrick totally burns him and grabs the popsicles, turning heel back towards the park. He definitely doesn't hear the guy whistling and shouting after him. He does not get paid enough for this.
*
On Thursday after school, he walks over Gabe's house, because he has the stupid Viva La Kids! club meeting. He wouldn't go, except it's hard to get babysitting jobs on your own as a dude, and his mom won't let him work nights until he graduates, so. Whatever.
"First order of business," Victoria says, holding the appointment book open. "Spencer's mom needs someone to watch the twins Monday night."
"I have plans," Spencer says by way of explanation, and Victoria nods and looks around.
Ryan's arm is waving frantically from next to Spencer. "I don't have plans. I can do it," he says breathlessly, and Spencer's face narrows at Ryan's excitement.
"Junior members can't work nights," Victoria tells him for the fifteenth time, and William says sweetly, "I'll do it. I too love to do favors for Spencer's mom." They all snicker, because seriously, Spencer's mom is hot. Ryan's far from the only one to notice.
Spencer's pointing his finger at William like he's going to flip out, when Gabe emerges from the closet, a tin of Rice Crispy treats held out victoriously.
"Um," Patrick says. "Who made these?" It's good practice never to accept anything Gabe offers that could have been tampered with in any way.
Gabe's not insulted at all. "Suarez," he says cheerfully. "He came over last night, and many beautiful things were made." Victoria crows, and high-fives him, and Patrick toasts him with a can of Sprite.
"Can we get back to the meeting?" William asks snappishly, and everyone's eyebrows shoot up, but Gabe takes a seat, half in Patrick's lap, half in Bill's.
They conduct the meeting about as efficiently as they always do, which is to say not at all, and Patrick lingers back with Victoria as they file out. "Did you notice the new ice cream truck dude?" he says, as casually as he knows how.
"Pete?" she asks, and Patrick continues his streak of total smoothness by walking into Gabe's front door. He tries not to take her hysterical laughter personally. Shirtless asshole has a name. Pete.
*
On Friday, the Alexes don't want to go to the park. Their moms hired Patrick because he can teach guitar, so he tells them it's park or guitar lessons. He's surprised when they pick guitar, but goes with it. By the time Mrs. Marshall gets home, they can play the beginning of "I Shot the Sheriff." They play it for her proudly, and she claps her hands loudly and says the way they're going, they can join band with Cash in the fall. Ah. It makes sense now.
He takes the long way home, loping through people's yards, and jumping over sprinklers, when he turns the corner, and hears the familiar tinkle of the ice cream truck.
"Hey noneya," a familiar voice catcalls, and Patrick fights not to look over as the truck coasts along next to him. "Wanna ride?"
"I think you're supposed to be in a white van when you do that," Patrick says, and resolutely stares at the sidewalk.
"All the cool kids are doing it," Pete says, mock-solemnly. "I've got delicious candy."
Patrick tries his very hardest to keep a straight face, and fails so hard, he should be ashamed. Pete crows loudly, and yells, "I got you to smile, Noneya. Now you gotta like me."
"Patrick."
"What?"
"Patrick. My name is Patrick." He stops when the brakes on the truck slam, and shakes the hand that extends out the window.
"Patrick," Pete repeats faintly, and grins at him. "See you around, Patrick."
Patrick waves at the truck as it pulls away, and then frowns at himself. Mustn't encourage obvious lunatics.
*
The weekend passes as it always does. He mows the lawn for his mom, and dicks around on his laptop a little. He goes to his favorite record store, and ends up in a two hour long conversation with Lupe from school about Ghostface Killah. It's pretty sweet if a little boring.
At school on Monday, Patrick listens sympathetically as Joe tells him how Cash totally got chased up a tree Friday night by the neighbors' dog. Joe isn't part of Viva La Kids, he just babysits for Cash to get enough money to go to shows. Joe practically lives for his hardcore shows, and comes in breathless with stories about getting elbowed in the eye during a really great riff. Patrick never tries to go with him, not because he doesn't love the music, but he really organizes his life around the principle of not being anywhere near large groups of people, nevermind angry ones. (Also he looks every inch of his sixteen years, and no self respecting bouncer would let him in. He knows. He tried.)
"I cannot understand how a kid can get in that many crisises. Honestly. I mean, I'm a laidback dude, I don't judge, but that kid." Joe trails off and shakes his head sadly, and Patrick pats him companionably on the shoulder. Kids are the worst thing ever.
"Anyways," Joe finishes, "He's not allowed near trees for the next week, or so says his parents. So no special park time for awhile."
The park makes Patrick think of Pete, and he's been trying not to think of Pete, because he keeps getting embarrassingly smiley, and heartpoundy and weird, and he doesn't know what to do with that, really. But this is Joe, and Patrick can pretty much say whatever weird shit he wants around him, so he totally just goes for it.
"You know a guy named Pete?" he asks.
Joe answers with his mouth full of biscuit, "Wentz?"
Patrick shrugs his shoulders, and says, "The new ice cream guy."
Joe wrinkles his nose and shrugs. "Didn't know there was a new guy. Tattoos? Douchey hair?" Patrick nods an affirmative. "Probably Wentz. He's all right. Fucking rad band though."
He goes off on a tangent Patrick doesn't follow and instead contemplates the situation as he knows it. Pete Wentz: ice cream dude by day, rockstar by night.
*
After school, he picks up his charges, and walks them over to the park. There's a new kid swinging on Marshall's favorite swing, and he watches interestedly as the three of them approach the situation.
"You're in my swing," Marshall informs the tiny, curly-headed gremlin.
"It's a big swing," the kid replies. "You can share." Within a few minutes, the four of them are squished onto two swings, and apparently best friends for life. Kids.
There's a blur from the corner of his eye, and then Pete the Shirtless Ice Cream Truck Asshole is sitting next to him, mercifully clothed, and without the ice cream truck.
"What is up, Padiddles?" he says, grinning like he just won the damn lottery. Why Patrick? Honestly.
"Don't call me that," he says grumpily.
"Sorry, Pattycakes," Pete says, and then winces when Patrick punches him in the thigh. "All right, no nicknames, Jesus."
"And stop stalking me," Patrick tells him. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the Alexes' bent heads, hoping the stupid blush he can feel on the back of his neck will go down.
Pete snorts. "Awful self-centered, aren't you? What if I was just walking through the park, and chose this bench by random selection?"
Patrick turns and meets his eyes for the first time, and takes in a properly dressed Pete, not sweaty or harried, minus that stupid cartoon apron. He inhales.
Pete obviously takes his look for scorn or disbelief, because he laughs, pulling the hoodie closer around his face. "Fine, I totally came to this stupid park on my day off just in the hopes you'd be here. I heard you give guitar lessons."
Patrick chokes. "Yeah, to kids. Who told you that?"
"I'll pay you," Pete ignores his question. "C'mon dude, it'll be great."
Patrick stares at him for a minute, then says, "Come to the Johnson house on Wednesday. There's a PTA meeting, so none of the moms will be home till late."
Pete grins big again, swats Patrick's hat once and takes off. Patrick's extra nice to the Alexes on the way home, and even lets them watch an hour of tv before their moms' come. Just 'cause.
*
Because he wants it to hurry up and be Wednesday already, Tuesday naturally drags for what seems like years. Each class period is an eternity, and even band, which he normally loves, is tortuously slow.
"The clock is broken," he whispers to Joe, who's frowning at the notes in front of him. "It's completely stopped."
Joe makes a sound like he's going to answer, and then Mr. Nelson is calling from the front of the room, "Stump, Trohman! You want detention?" and Patrick most emphatically does not, so he shuts up and tries to ignore the clock. With mediocre success.
School finally does let out, after what feels like approximately fifteen thousand years. He trudges home, the strap of his backpack stretched tight across his chest with the weight of all his homework. He has vague plans of knocking it all out of the way tonight, because he knows damnwell he's not going to get anything done tomorrow.
But this is one of those days when his mom inexplicably wants to talk, moving around his room, presumably looking for an unmatched sock. "Patrick," she says. "You know you can bring girlfriends around the house, right? Your stepfather thought you might think we'd embarrass you, or something."
"I know, Mom," he says, ducking his head. She ruffles his hair, which he knows she knows he hates; he's convinced it's falling out. He doesn't know what prompts him to do it, but he says, "What about boyfriends?"
She stops, startled, but her face doesn't show disgust or dismay, like he sort of feared it would. "Patrick," she starts, just the once, and then pulls him into a big hug, one he doesn't even try to pretend he's too old for.
He may be seventeen and a tortured teen or whatever, but he kind of loves his mom. A lot.
*
"I want to go to the park!" Alex D. says, crossing his arms and glaring hatefully.
"No," Patrick says for the seventh time. "Come on guys, I'll take you Friday. We're doing a music lesson today."
"We told Ian we'd see him there," Johnson says quietly, and Patrick turns to look at him.
"Ian?" he says, his mind scrolling through their friends.
"We met him Monday," Marshall reminds him sulkily, and Patrick remembers the curly-haired swing sharer.
"Hey," he says. "I hear you guys, and I'm sorry I'm screwing up your plans. But I got someone coming to see you guys; he's the lead singer of a real band. And I wanted you to meet him."
They still don't look happy, but they're mollified, and agree to head home to meet Pete. Patrick breathes a sigh of relief. One hurdle down.
*
After twenty minutes of playing Eric Clapton, Marshall complains, "This is boring. Can't we learn something good?" Patrick looks around, and the other two are nodding, looking slightly mutinous.
"Okay, okay," he says, and shows them a few chords to repeat. They don't recognize the song off the bat, so he hums along, and then plays the next few bars for example. Oh no, it go, it gone, bye bye he sings, and when he looks up, Pete's standing on the other side of the screen, grinning.
"Stalker," he says, and lets him in.
"Only for you," Pete says obnoxiously, and smacks his lips against Patrick's cheek. Patrick laughs and ducks away, returning to his seat, motioning for Pete to take his own.
They practice for nearly forty-five more minutes before the boys rebel. Honestly, Patrick wasn't even expecting that long, but he thinks they were showing off for Pete especially Alex D, who turned out to have a killer voice of his own. Pete ribs them and praises them in equal measures, but when they're done, they're really done, and Patrick sends them off to watch TV.
"I think we're alone now, Patrick Stump," Pete says, wiggling his eyebrows, and Patrick punches him, hands him an Alex's guitar, and gets down to business.
Twenty minutes later, Pete put it back down. "I suck," he says.
"You do," Patrick agrees, trying not laugh. "You just need practice. Look, see, if you strum down here, you actually can get the chord. So like..." and he plays the middle of one of the covers he's teaching himself for kicks, and sings low to keep himself on track. (Yet there's still this appeal that we've kept through our lives. Love, love will tear us apart again). When he looks up, Pete is grinning. He clears his throat, and says, "So hold it like that, is what I'm saying. "
Pete's still smiling weirdly. It's freaking Patrick out a bit. "You better be careful, dude. I'm ten seconds away from proposing we run off to Chile and you sing to me while I farm our homestead in the middle of nowhere."
"I sweat a lot," is the only answer Patrick really has for that one. Marshall yells in the living room, and Patrick stands. "I should make them dinner," he says, and when Pete's face falls he adds, "You can stay."
*
There is probably more sauce on him and Pete and the kitchen than there was on the spaghetti. Patrick is like ninety percent sure of that, and he's also pretty sure he should get up and clean it off before the PTA meeting ends, and their mothers get home, but he's also pretty damn comfortable where he is, wedged against Pete's side, watching Jurassic Park with the Alexes sprawled on the carpet in front of them. He's trying not to fidget too much, trying to be completely cool with this turn of events, when Pete yawns, and raises his arms over his head, settling back down with one around Patrick's shoulders.
"Dude," Patrick says, incredulously.
"What?"
"Did you seriously just pull that trick?"
"Yeah, and it totally worked, so shut up," Pete says, ostentatiously turning back to the movie. And he's not wrong, so Patrick shuts up and watches the movie.
He must have dozed off at some point after that, because the next thing he knows, Pete's shaking him gently. "Someone's here," Pete whispers, and Patrick looks out over the sleeping Alexes, and sees Johnson's mother's van. Mrs. Johnson herself appears in the doorway next, and Patrick waves sleepily to her.
"How'd it go?" he asks, trying not to yawn again.
"Fine," she says, a tiny bit frostily. Patrick blinks. "Can I see you for a minute in the kitchen?" Patrick is fully awake now, and wedges himself off the couch, and follows her into the kitchen.
"Who is that?" She asks in a clipped voice.
"Um. My friend Pete?" Patrick tries, voice a little wavery. And the thing is, he realizes she's mad now. And that's not a problem, except for the part where Patrick hates being yelled at. More than anything else in the world, Patrick hates being yelled at. He has two default reactions: get angry, or burst into tears. He's kind of trying not to lose control here.
"When we hired you, we thought you were responsible, Patrick. I would have never pegged you as the type to bring your boyfriend on a date with the children around. I mean, come on! You have to see that as inappropriate! What if they had gotten up to something, and you were too preoccupied to notice?" Mrs. Johnson shakes her head a little. "I wish you had asked, Patrick. I'm just so disappointed." Patrick's eyes start to burn a little, and he nods quickly. "Go home," she says tiredly. "I'll tell the other mothers you said goodnight."
Pete's waiting for him on the front lawn when he closes the door behind himself. "Are you okay?" he asks, falling into step beside Patrick.
"I was almost fired because of you," Patrick bites out, swallowing the urge to throw up.
"Because of me?" Pete asks, offended. "What did I do?"
Patrick stops walking. "You showed up!" he yells. "You show up and harass me every day, you sweet talk everyone into giving you what you want, and you get it. Fuck, who cares if I almost lost the one way I have of making money! You got guitar lessons!"
"I didn't just come over for guitar lessons," Pete says, his lips tight. "And I also didn't come over uninvited."
"I don't care," Patrick says, breathing harshly. "Just leave me alone. Find someone else to pick on."
'I wasn't picking on you," Pete says, staring at him. "I was trying to pick you up. I like you, asshole." There's a minute there where all Patrick can hear is his own harsh breathing, and the dogs barking next door. Pete pulls his hood up around his face, and disappears down the street, and with a few minutes is lost in the black of the night. Patrick really does throw up, knees digging into the rocks on the pavement. "Fuck," he swears loudly.
*
He's going to drive off the rest of his friends next if he's not careful. Thursday's Viva La Kids! meeting goes terribly, to the point where he thinks Gabe even gave up molesting Bill to get the meeting over with quicker. He doesn't take any jobs near the park, doesn't walk anywhere near the ice cream truck's path. This is because Patrick is an asshole, and he knows it.
The problem is when he's reminded by Alex Deleon that he promised to take them to the playground on Friday.
"Cash is going to be there, he asked his mother yesterday," he pleads.
"And Ian too," Marshall chimes in. "Please Patrick. Please."
Patrick's already in enough trouble with their mothers, Mrs. Deleon having left a note saying "Please call if you have visitors," on the counter this morning. He really doesn't think the solution to that one is letting them come home to pissed off kids.
"Fine," he says, feeling backed into a corner. He calls Joe though, gets him to come in for back up, though Joe doesn't know that's what it is.
Cash is there, and runs up for a big hug when he sees Alex D. Patrick feels a little better about having given in, and takes a seat on the bench to watch his charges. Cash is telling the Alexes all about this super cool new game he got, and the Alexes are listening in utter wonder.
Joe plops down beside him. "You owe me like four ice creams when the truck comes around," he says yawning.
"Only if you get it yourself." Patrick says flatly. Joe takes a sideways look at him, but doesn't say anything. Which Patrick would be grateful for, but he doesn't know whether it was restraint, or the fact that Alex Johnson just spotted Ian, and pointed him out to the others. Marshall immediately stops listening to whatever Cash was saying, and runs over to crowd Ian's space. The other two follow closely behind him, chattering loudly. Cash stands there, looking shellshocked.
"That's not going to end well," Joe murmurs.
"Tell me about it," Patrick says, watching with interest as Cash tries to reclaim his Alexes. Then the familiar chime rings out, and Patrick closes his eyes. Of course.
"Can we have a popsicle?" they chorus, magically at his side.
"No," Patrick says, and waves towards the playground. "You wanted to play, you can go play."
They look disappointed, but trudge back towards the swings. "Cash," Alex D. calls. "Wanna share a swing?"
"No," Cash retorts. "My mom's buying me and anyone I want popsicles. Which isn't you. Because I'm not your friend."
Joe laughs, and Patrick thinks about intervening, when he hears a familiar voice behind him. "Special on popsicles, fifty cents each!" Patrick turns around, just the once, and Pete's eyes are on him, scorching with intensity. Fuck.
When he whips back around, Johnson's at his side. "I can't find Alex D." he says quietly, and a little worried.
"Did you check the tunnels?" Patrick says distractedly, and Johnson shakes his head and disappears.
"You could talk to him," Joe says evenly.
"There's nothing to talk about," Patrick says, and a voice from directly behind him says, "Oh, I disagree."
"Fuck off," Patrick says, and feels nauseous again.
"No," Pete says. "Talk to me for ten minutes."
Patrick's saved from having to answer by Johnson's reappearance. This time Marshall's with him, and they both say Alex is missing. Patrick stands, and starts walking through the playground, the Alexes and Joe trailing him. Aaand Pete.
"Alex!" Patrick calls. "Get out here!" Nothing. Patrick tries not to worry. Everyone splits up. Joe takes east, Patrick takes the section by the parking lot, and Pete, without a word, heads for the bathrooms.
It starts getting dark, and Patrick's cellphone rings. It's the Marshalls, probably wondering where their son is. Cash's mom, who's with him now, takes pity on him and takes the phone. "Deb," she says soothingly, and Patrick blinks furiously. How could he have done this? He takes the tiniest bit of comfort in seeing his expression mirrored on Cash's equally miserable face, as he swings his legs next to Ian on the bench. Mrs. Colligan paces down the path, and Patrick takes a seat between the two boys.
Cash looks up at him defiantly. "It wasn't my fault."
"No one said it was your fault," Patrick tells him and Cash ducks his head under Patrick's arm to hide his face in Patrick's side.
Suddenly he hears Joe cry from behind him, and whirls around to see Pete emerge from the woods. Alex's tear-strained face was visible from atop Pete's shoulders, holding on for dear life as Pete nearly skips. Cash's mom behind him doesn't miss a beat and chirps brightly into the phone, "...So the boys were with me, and we'll be a little late!" Patrick doesn't stop to thank her though, he just runs straight and tackles both of them, as Pete sets Alex on the ground.
"Oof," Pete says.
"I'm sorry," Patrick mumbles into his stupid stupid apron. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, harass me more."
Alex wiggles out from underneath them, and Cash knocks him right back down. "You scared me!" he yells in outrage.
"You didn't want to be my friend," Alex argues back, a note of hurt feeling creeping back into his voice.
"I didn't want you to be best friends with Ian," Cash sulks, and Alex hits him in the shoulder.
"I want to be friends with Ian, and I want to be friends with you, you jerk." Cash looks mollified and when he stands, he extends a hand for Alex to stand up.
Ian appears then, rolling his eyes at both them, but doesn't escape when they flank him walking side by side back to the swings. Patrick would probably be mocking them, but he really is in no position to be mocking anyone, the way he's clinging to Pete. He sits up.
"Come back," Pete says immediately.
"I have to go home!" Patrick says, laughing, giddy with relief and happiness and Pete.
"I'll drive you home," Pete promises, and as if coordinated, they both turn towards Cash's mom, who laughs and waves them off. "I got them," she says, amused. Pete crows victoriously, and tugs Patrick towards the truck, still parked haphazardly where he left it.
Pete drove the whole way with the speakers on the roof happily chiming away. Patrick protests at first, slapping at the switches on the dashboard, but only gets his hand slapped for his troubles. "You're being annoying," he tells Pete's grinning profile.
"Quit whining," Pete says, only barely following the known traffic laws.
"Asshole."
"Jerk," There's a screech of tires, and then Patrick looks out to see the truck parked a few doors down from Patrick's house. He pushes open the passenger side door, only to be shoved back against it, once it closes behind him. "Hi," Pete said.
Patrick means to reply back, something awesomely snarky probably, but then Pete is kissing him, hands warm around his waist, and tongue licking into his mouth. Patrick's not new to kissing, or anything, not really, but maybe if he was the type, he'd say it was the first time it ever felt right.
"Mister," a voice comes from behind Pete. "Can I have a Spongebob Squarepants ice cream?" Patrick looks over Pete's shoulder to see a little girl determined, a dollar clutched in her fist.
"Go away," Pete says, leaning his forehead against Patrick's.
"Mister," the little girl says reproachfully, and Pete groans and reaches behind Patrick's head, into the truck where the freezer is cracked open. With a hefty pull, and a grunt, a entire big box of ice cream sails out over Patrick's head, to the grass on the lawn behind them. The little girl squeals, and Patrick laughs, and Pete gets back to the very important business of kissing.
fledmusic: THE ALEXES ARE LIKE
fledmusic: PATRICK!!! STRANGER DANGER!
fledmusic: MOM PATRICK KEEPS GETTING IN THE TRUCK WITH THE ICE CREAM MAN