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On the corner of Sheffield and Webster, a kid with a guitar shows up, halfway through Pete's senior year at DePaul. Pete doesn't usually cut through that way, so he would have never noticed except that there's this kid Joe he met at a basement hardcore show, who says, "Seriously, though. He's so cool, he plays rap? Only it's not really rap, it's with a guitar, and it's soulful, so you almost forget this dude is seriously singing T-Pain." Which, okay, yeah that's relevant to Pete's interests, so the next time he's around there, he swings through and, holy shit. The kid is surrounded by a good handful of people with his guitar case open before him, and it looks like he's making a good chunk of change. Not enough though, because seriously holy shit he's going to buy Joe a beer. Maybe a six-pack.
Pete changes up his route. He cuts through that corner whenever he can, making laps around the campus unnecessarily to catch a few moments to listen to the kid (Patrick, he later learns from Joe, Patrick Stump, what the shit). Pete works most nights, and the crowd's too big for him around lunch, so he has a routine of walking by around ten or so in the morning.
But it’s one random evening when he's crossing that part of campus for something, he hears Patrick playing something new, so he stops. It's slow, and pretty, and wordless, just notes folding in on each other and sliding to make way for new ones and Pete stands there, listening till the very end. Eventually Patrick says, "Well, are you going to give me money this time? Or should I keep pretending I don't see you?'
Pete throws a five in the case and says, "You don't play that during the day."
“No," Patrick says. "That is not what makes the money. Gotta play what the people will recognize."
"So then you wrote that yourself then?" Pete says, and grins when Patrick nods. He tosses another five in the case and says, "Keep going then."
Patrick strums for a second, and then launches into another song, this one clearly more wistful and sad. He listens to Patrick hum, notes riffing as if his voice as if it was just another instrument to play, and is inexplicably reminded of mermaids, and lost travelers. His heart clenches oddly when Patrick finishes, but only says, "Why don't your songs have words?"
"I didn't ask for constructive criticism, asshole," Patrick says, and zips the guitar back in its case. He doesn't sound mad though, so Pete presses on. "Are you leaving? Where do you live?" He's kind of unsurprised when Patrick gives him a wave and walks off without answering. Pete heads back to his room, and dreams of kings, and courts, and chubby cheeked minstrels.
He returns the next afternoon with a notebook.
Patrick's got a decent crowd around him. He's playing TLC's Creep, made amazingly surreal by the guitar, and the decidedly un-TLC voice coasting over it. It hadn't occurred to Pete that anyone would be around; he forgot that Patrick was popular enough to attract the frat boys shouting requests, and a handful of laughing bystanders. He's trying not to appear peeved; he had a plan to show Patrick something, an idea for the Sea Song, as Pete had been mentally calling it. He lasts about fifteen minutes before he gives up, and tosses the notebook carelessly towards the case as if it were spare change. He doesn't look back, and Patrick doesn't stop playing.
Pete goes out of his way to avoid him for a few days after that. He kind of thinks it would be indescribably lame if Patrick just laughed him off, but eventually, as the sun sets, he makes his way again to the corner. He barely has Patrick in his sights when the song stops and the opening notes of the Sea song ring out, but this time Patrick is singing along. He doesn't look up as Pete approaches, instead fixing his gaze firmly on the asphalt. Pete's grateful for that, honestly, because if he didn't, if Patrick watched him as he sang the words off the pages Pete gave him, he thinks he might have done something embarrassing like burst into tears, or walk away. Instead he stands, rooted to the spot, as Patrick gives him back something he hadn't known he forgot to keep.
When Patrick finishes, Pete takes a minute to get a handle on himself and then smiles widely. "Magic. Fucking magic." Patrick lifts his head and grins back, obviously relieved. Pete thinks to himself, this kid has no idea, and files it away for further reference. Patrick starts packing up his guitar, and Pete hops around him. "Dude. Dude. We gotta get that sweet voice recorded, man. That shit will blow the fuck up. Come on, I've got a mic in my room."
"No thanks," Patrick says evenly, and jams his hands in his pocket. "Thanks though," He hands Pete back the notebook, and Pete's a little dumbfounded.
"Dude, no, you gotta. Here." He tosses a ten into the half open guitar case, and says "You gotta come back with me."
Patrick's mouth tightens, and Pete knows he's fucked up, because Patrick spits back at him, "I'm not a whore." He knocks the ten out, leaving it fluttering on the ground, and straps the guitar on his back, and is gone, disappeared into the night. Pete doesn't pick it up either, just heads back, kicking rocks the whole way.
He also doesn't give up that easy. If Mohammed won't come to the mountain, then it's lucky the mountain has a fucking laptop. He comes out the next night, armed with a mic, his laptop and a whole lot of bravado. Patrick rolls his eyes when Pete approaches, and says, "Go away."
"No," Pete says. "Come on, what's it going to hurt to put a track online, see what happens? Like, I'm ninety percent positive that the second this shit hits anyone's ears, it's going to blow up."
Patrick huffs in irritation, but Pete doesn't think that counts as a no, so he takes a seat on the wall behind Patrick, and opens his bag. "Ready?" is all he says when he's set up, and he thinks Patrick's going to back out until the moment the first note hits. But he doesn't, and Pete captures it as best he can with the shitty technology he has, and saves it twice, just to make sure. He leaves first this time, mind full of myspace plans, and purevolume accounts. Patrick doesn't say goodbye exactly, just says, "Make up a fake name," and Pete recognizes that as a blessing, so. So, okay.
Pete positively bounces onto the corner the next day, and can't really stop himself from throwing his arms around Patrick's neck and hanging off his back. "Two hundred and fifty plays overnight, baby, I told you, told you, told you."
Patrick laughs as he packs up his guitar, and slings it on his back. "How many of them are you?" he quips, and Pete fires right back "Two-forty-nine, but hey, that one is gonna take us places." He falls into step beside Patrick, and chatters on about sockpuppeting interest on AbsolutePunk, and big plans of studios and billboard charts. He almost doesn't register it when Patrick stops, instead stumbling a few steps before righting himself, and turning around. They're outside a closed up, unlit comic store a few blocks from campus, and Patrick's fishing a key out of his pockets. "Coming?" is all Patrick says, and Pete doesn't hesitate a second before following him into the shop.
Patrick pushes the door open and leads Pete through, towards the back. There's a stockroom with a big table set up, where two frowning guys are concentrating on a game of Magic. They look up when Patrick and Pete enter, and Patrick vaguely gestures towards them, saying "Pete, this is Andy, and Gerard. They own this place." They both wave, and Patrick points out another guy sitting on a stack of boxes, saying "And that's Ray, and Bob is..." He trails off, looking around, and Gerard fills in "Movies with Frank. If you're wondering if he's amused by jokes about it, he isn't." They all roll up their sleeves to show the traces of what had to be a killer Indian burn.
"Awesome," Patrick says. "We'll be in my room."
Patrick' "room" ends up being a small office off the stock room. There's a cot set up in the corner and a small TV on the desk, which is covered with crumpled papers and scribbled out pads. Pete knows this is Patrick trusting him, so he's nearly vibrating with the effort not to fuck this up. He spots a keyboard in the corner, propped up on a hobby horse, and says, "You play?"
Patrick nods once, and Pete crosses the room in a few short steps, to run his fingers over the keys. "Play me something," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners.
They have a tussle over it for a minute ("No." "Please?" "No" "Please?") before Patrick drags the desk chair up to the keys, and seats himself carefully. Pete thinks his eyes are going to roll out of his head when Patrick starts Lean On Me. "Dude. One of yours." Patrick huffs, but then goes quiet, taps one of the keys absently a few times before positioning his hands to play. It's nothing Pete has ever heard before, not anything he's normally into, but it pulls at him in a way he doesn't quite understand. Patrick's hands fly back and forth and Pete has the urge to grab paper, to try to secure this feeling in phrases and metaphors, but he also doesn't want to move, so. So he crouches behind Patrick, and touches his nose to Patrick's neck, and pretends he can feel the music in Patrick's skin. Eventually Patrick slows, and stops, and turns his head a little bit, to smile at Pete. Later Pete will remember this moment with a running commentary of "Shit shit shit shit shit," but in the here and now, he feels completely justified in tilting the last few inches and pressing his lips to Patrick's own.
He doesn't know what he means by it exactly, mostly just caught up in the overwhelming...whatever, of this kid. But he also isn't expecting Patrick to push him back, and scramble towards the door. "I think you should go," Patrick says, in a shaky tone, and fuck if Pete didn't do exactly what he set out not to do.
"I didn't mean to fuck this up," he says in a small voice, and Patrick just shakes his head and holds the door open without comment. Pete stands his ground for a minute, like he's going to fight, to apologize, but in the end he doesn't really have anything to say, so he ducks his head down and makes his way out. He hears the guys in the stockroom asking what happened as the door to the comic store slams behind him, Superman's stupid fucking cheerful face mocking him to the last.
Pete heads back to his dorm room, wants to flop down on his bed and relive every horrifying second, but there's people sitting on his and his roommate’s beds, some his friends, some Nick’s. "Wentz!" comes the cry and everyone wants to know where the fuck he's been, and he smiles, laughs along when they tease him about the hot chick he's totally boning,
He manages to send out enough go-the-fuck-home vibes, that the room clears out to just him and Nick, who stretches out on his own bed and says, "But really, Pete. Where were you?"
"Around," Pete mutters, strips off his clothes, and crawls into bed. He doesn't come out for fifteen straight hours.
When he finally rouses himself again, it's for class the next afternoon. He walks through campus fast enough, avoiding going out of his way to see Patrick. He sits through a lecture, and doesn't raise his hand once, doesn't take any notes. He does the sudoku in the paper, for whatever reason the certainty of the boxes calms him down. By the time he gets out, the sun is low in the sky, and he has a plan.
He looks at the time on his phone before approaching, and it's later than Patrick usually stays, but he's there anyways, bouncing on his toes to keep warm. "Hey," Pete says, and holds out a styrofoam cup. "I got you hot chocolate." Patrick's eyes narrow, and Pete hurriedly tacks on, "I don't want anything, it's just because I thought it was cold out, and it cost a dollar, so shut the fuck up." Patrick takes it with the hint of a smile playing on his face, and then...doesn't say anything else. Pete swallows hard. "Anyways, I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about last night. I swear I won't let it happen again."
He bumps his hip against Patrick's with a hopeful look on his face, and after a minute, Patrick bumps back. "It's not like. Whatever, I'm not mad. I'm just not…I'm seventeen, you know? And you're like..." He flaps his hands, but Pete is still stuck a few words back, and his mouth is hanging wide open to make that completely clear. "Yeah,” Patrick says, looking embarrassed. "I mean, I have a fake id that says I'm 21, but it's kind of terrible, so God willing I'll never have to use that shit." He tries to squirm away when Pete pulls him into a hug, but Pete prides himself on not an easy one to shake off, so Patrick eventually just holds still and he even thinks he feels a squeeze back.
"Hey," Pete eventually says when he lets go. "C'mon, let's go get some fries. I think you can milk a fuckton more out of me being sorry if you try." Patrick laughs and shakes his head, but he zips up his guitar and follows Pete down the road.
Midterms come and go, and Pete gets busy trying not to fail out. Patrick's face gets tight too, as his regular crowds are living in the library instead of walking around, susceptible to getting sucked in by him. Which is why Pete grabs the only spare time he has to dash down to the comic store, and beat out a haphazard rhythm on the back door.
"Jesus," Andy says when he opens the door. "I thought someone had died."
"Is Patrick here?" Pete says breathlessly, and barely gives Andy the chance to nod before ducking under his arm and heading for the back room.
Patrick, apparently having heard the commotion, gets to the doorway before Pete gets to him. "What's going on?" he asks confused, because Pete hasn't been to the store since The Night, their careful boundaries having been redrawn.
"Dude," Pete says, "Look." He hands Patrick a flier, obviously torn off a bulletin board. STUDIO TIME AVAILABLE FOR BOOKING. RECORD YOUR OWN DEMOS -- $3000 FOR A WEEKEND.
Patrick hands the flier back, face carefully blank. "I don't have three thousand dollars."
Pete barely registers Andy snatching the flier out of his hands before he's arguing back. "No dude, see, I do though. I have next semester's tuition money already; we can use that!"
"No," Patrick says without any hesitation. "No, no, no. Pete, you're, you have one more quarter!"
"I'm not going either way," Pete says flatly. "Come on, Patrick, don't be stupid about this." He stares Patrick down; slightly unnerved by the way Patrick's balling his fists at his sides, when Andy interrupts. "I'll kick in half," he says, still staring down at the paper.
"What?" Pete says, surprised.
"Andy," Patrick starts.
"No man, come on. You've wanted this for how long? I've got the money right now. I can kick in fifteen hundred, if your friend can kick in the other half."
Pete nods quickly, and Patrick says, "No, a thousand." He meets Pete's eyes head on and says, "I have five hundred saved, and I'll pay back the rest."
Pete has no intention of letting Patrick pay back anything, but it's an agreement, and he'll take that where he can. He grins his biggest grin, and sticks out his hand. "Everyone in," he demands and they both roll their eyes, but put their hands on top of Pete. Patrick's feels warm and callused against his own and he screams out into the empty store, "To rock stars!"
Pete books the studio for the following weekend, and he fights and forces his way through the rest of the week. He avoids Patrick's corner, figures he'll see enough of Pete over the weekend. Plus he doesn't really want Patrick to have the opportunity to back out, which is a good enough reason to contain his jaunts to the places he actually is required to be. When Friday comes, however, he sets off towards the corner, pulling his hoodie tight around his face. Patrick grins when he sees him, which makes Pete relax five thousand percent.
"Ready?" he says, completely unnecessarily, since Patrick clearly has his guitar packed up, and is rocking back and forth on his heels.
"Ready, dude," Patrick says, and they set off a few blocks towards the studio.
Patrick stays a step behind him as they push through the doors, and are directed to their studio. Pete introduces himself to the tech at the soundboard, and when Patrick doesn't say anything, he introduces Patrick too. And listen, if Patrick's not going to talk, then Pete can't be blamed if he says shit like "born in the sunshine". But the ice is broken, and the tech laughs, and directs Patrick into the soundproof booth.
They're not using studio musicians, Patrick's determined to play all three parts himself, so it's a lot less interesting than Pete assumed it was going to be. It's a lot of Patrick playing the same stretch of piano over and over, and Pete stretches out on the couch to listen. He falls asleep somewhere around the third go round of the piano intro and has a restless dream about riding an elephant through high school when Patrick's voice cuts in and he starts awake. They're listening to the playback of one of the vocal takes, and shit, how long was he asleep? Patrick's pulled a chair up to the soundboard, and his head is bent close to the tech's as they debate something about levels.
Pete yawns, and stretches out on the couch like a cat. "Howssitgoin," he manages to force out, as he wiggles his toes experimentally, and finds them semi-willing to cooperate. Patrick and the tech, who Pete's sleep-addled brain thinks might be named Jesse, completely ignore him. Patrick leans into Jesse's space in order to reach a dial, and Jesse doesn't move away an inch, simply nods, and listens intently to whatever Patrick's going on about. Pete sits up.
"What's up," he says louder and clearer, and finally Patrick turns his head to grin.
"Nice of you to join us, Sleeping Beauty," Patrick says, and Pete notes how alight his face looks, how almost....joyous he is, despite having been awake for what? Like, twenty something hours now? Jesse-the-tech waves him over, and Pete listens to the take they're working on, and weighs in himself. He'd never admit it, but it's possible he takes Jesse's side just to hear Patrick get heated over a four second span that only a few people in the world would ever take the time to notice.
A few excruciating hours later, they do one last run through, and then their time is up, and Jesse hands them a CD labeled "Stump Session 001." Patrick turns it over and over in his hands, and Pete loops his arm around Patrick's neck, and rests his entire exhausted body against him. "Come on, Stump," he says. "I'll give you a ride home, and we'll ride around with the windows down, and blare our song through the Chicago streets." And maybe that's a convincing reason, or maybe Patrick doesn't want to face the prospect of a long trudge home, but he nods and leans his head against Pete's, and they walk out to the parking lot like some two headed sloth monster.
Patrick slides into the passenger seat like molasses dripping from a jar, and Pete starts his piece of shit Corolla and takes the jewel case from Patrick's unprotesting fingers, and pops it into his stereo. He's napped more than Patrick has, is used to living on very little sleep, but he thinks even if that wasn't all true, the sound of Patrick motherfucking Stump singing his motherfucking words on Pete's motherfucking stereo would have opened a reserve of energy in him anyways. And he thinks Patrick feels it too, because he sits up and rests his forearm on the open window, as Pete makes good on his promise, coasting through the streets to the comic store with the sound ringing through their ears.
He lets out a whoop of delirious laughter when he pulls in to the back parking lot, and turns the ignition to let the car settle. "We made it," he yells out into the sudden silence. "We're on our way," and he's going to go on to shout about taking over the world, when he's interrupted by Patrick's fingers fisted in the collar of his shirt, and his mouth, wet and hot, sealing itself over Pete's.
"Mmph," he manages, and then his brain shuts off as Patrick licks into his mouth, opening Pete wider and wider until his entire world is patrickpatrickpatrickpatrick. He somehow gathers the mental acuity to grab the lever under his side, and slide the seat as far back as it could go. Patrick doesn't hesitate to use the new space to settle himself over Pete's lap, knees bracketing Pete's hips on both sides. Pete loves kissing, loves kissing Patrick even more, and so it has to be at least ten years before Patrick pulls back for a breath, and Pete twitches up, rocking against the weight of Patrick in his lap.
There's a sharp intake of breath from someone, anyone, Pete honestly doesn't know anymore, and then Patrick's mouth is back, his hand curling around the back of Pete's neck. He sighs and arches up again, the fabric against his jeans scraping against his seriously impossibly hard dick. Patrick groans, and then there's cool air against his sweat-soaked side, which is really confusing until Pete realizes the door is open, and Patrick's pulling them up and out of the car.
He walks Patrick backwards, not willing to move back an inch, and they both take a minute to breathe when Patrick's back hits the door. Pete latches his mouth onto Patrick's neck, and sucks the skin there in between his teeth. Patrick shivers and exhales as he fumbles with keys, and Pete lets off long enough to help him get the door open, and then they're in.
The store is dark, which makes sense, as it's like three thirty in the morning, and Andy and his friends have been long gone. He lets Patrick navigate them through the stockroom and into the small office/bedroom. Once they're in, Pete propels them forward until the back of Patrick's thighs hit the edge of the desk, and it only takes another maneuver to get Patrick sitting. He wants so much, wants to bend Patrick over the desk, wants to stretch him out and explore, wants Patrick to explore him, but they're both too exhausted and worked up, so Pete thinks maybemaybe if... and drops to his knees between Patrick's spread thighs.
Patrick's more vocal than Pete kind of thought he would be, in the few times he let his mind wander this way unchastised. He works the zipper on Patrick's worn jeans down, and Patrick gusts out "Pete," in a needy, broken voice that has Pete immediately dipping his head to work his mouth down over the head, down until Patrick's cock bumps the back of his throat, and he has to pull back.
Patrick gasps out wordless sounds, and tightens his grip on Pete's hair, and Pete flicks his tongue out, trying to make it as good as he can, before Patrick's fingers twist and the sharp, salty taste hits the back of this throat. He swallows unceremoniously, and stands, yanking his pants open, because what the hell, he's still fucking clothed, and Patrick helps eventually, both their hands wrapped around Pete's dick, and Pete comes, swearing and moaning against Patrick's neck.
It's awkward for a minute, standing there with swollen lips and open pants, and Pete has the sudden urge to laugh because they must look so fucking silly, especially Pete with the way he can feel his hair going in all different directions from the way Patrick pulled. He thinks Patrick might actually punch him if he laughs though, so he wipes his hand on his jeans, pulls off them off completely, and yanks up his underwear. He ignores Patrick's protest when Pete makes his jeans go the same way, because he totally has that right now, it's awesome. He tugs them both in the direction of the cot, and it's a tight fit, but they're both so ridiculous worn out, that Patrick doesn't fight, and Pete thinks for once, he can drift off without a struggle.
He wakes up with sunlight streaming in through the small window near the ceiling, and Patrick pressed against his back, arms looped around his stomach. He's content to lie there for awhile longer, warm and happy like he hasn't had a morning be in a long time. He concentrates on all of the points Patrick's skin touches his, so that he knows the exact instant Patrick wakes up, and stiffens with the realization of what happened.
So Pete leaps up, and grabs Patrick's hand. "I need some fucking coffee," he says blusteringly, and he's tugging on his hoodie and t-shirt before Patrick is fully blinking awake. He manhandles Patrick out the door, and they go out for coffee, and Pete orders them pancakes and grins at the waitress until she laughingly agrees to shape Patrick's into a heart. Patrick gives him a death glare, but he doesn't kick Pete away when Pete toes off his cons and nudges his toes under Patrick's pant leg.
There's two weeks left in the semester, and Pete totally fails at going to class like, ever. But he studies to make up for it, and if he chooses to study in the grass by Patrick's corner, well that's just a lucky coincidence. He's not really sure how he makes it through finals, but he does, settled into a routine of reading outside in the sun, and spending evenings around Patrick's friends in the store, and then nights tucked against Patrick, happier than he's ever been. The semester ends like that, and when the next one begins, he just....doesn't sign up.
He's networking online in ways and venues just emerging, and he has this weird feeling like the world is changing just a little bit, a little bit easier, a little bit wider. He has it out with his parents when they find out about DePaul, but he doesn't care, because there's a guy in Upstate New York who he's been conferencing on MySpace about starting something, a movement from the basements and garages, and taking it as far as they can. "We gotta hit up that WEST COAST, though," the last one said. "we need them opportunities only the sunshine can provide, man," and Pete thinks he's right. He and Patrick, they've exhausted everything Chicago has to offer them. So he prints out the last conversation, and heads down in the fading sunlight to pick Patrick up from the corner.
Patrick's in a crappy mood, some asshole played some game with trying to run off with his guitar case, so Pete lets him vent until they pull into the parking lot, and then he kills the engine and says, "Well, hey. I might have good news."
Patrick blinks and says, "Oh, I forgot after that asshole, but I do too."
Pete says, "Me first though," and Patrick waves his hand in assent, and Pete takes a deep breath, and says. "Let's go to L.A."
There's a silence, as Pete waits a beat for a reaction, but when he doesn't get one, he barrels on and explains. He explains Travis, and their plans, he explains the internet things he's been doing. "We could gather people who are awesome, and do something for them," he says. "Patrick, I mean, we'd sign you first, but we could make it a whole thing."
"Pete," he says, and no, come on, he must not have explained it right, because how can Patrick be shaking his head? "Pete," Patrick says again. "Jesse, he came by today. They're hiring at the studio, and he thought of me. They're going to train me, and pay me right with like, benefits and shit." He sounds kind of wrecked. "Pete, I can't turn that down."
Pete swallows hard and says, "No, yeah, makes sense. Okay," and Patrick hand snakes around to fold itself around Pete's.
"You should still go," Patrick says, and Pete's shaking his head already because fuck no, but Patrick's grabbing his chin. "Come on, man, this is your dream. And it's not that far away, and if I'm pulling in real money, I could come see you, I could. It's not the end of the world if you go. Come on, this is. You want this." And fuck, Pete does, but it's Patrick. He's not going to just pack up and leave now, he can't, except Patrick's saying calmly, "You could take my demo, you could sell it for me. I could come later," and well, shit.
Everything happens faster than he wants it to, the way it does when you get everything you want at the expense of what you have. His parents get on board with the plan with less of a fight than he expected, and they're even willing to front some money to start out there. Travis and his crew find them an apartment to work out of, and Joe's going to come, having graduated from high school a whole five days ago. It's all working out awesomely when he doesn't concentrate on how, fuck, Patrick, but it's Patrick's turn to maneuver them past the hard stuff, keeping Pete busy with packing, and big group goodbye dinners at restaurants they'll never be allowed in again, and later, when they're alone, hands and skin, and kisses on necks Pete refuses to see as the goodbye kind.
On the last night before Pete's flight is the first time they fuck. He spreads Patrick open and pushes in, more desperate and needy than he's ever shown himself to be. He presses his thumbs hard onto Patrick's hips, and he curses out Patrick's name, but he means don't forget me, and he thinks Patrick gets that because he bucks up and pushes back, rendering Pete's vision hazy as everything explodes around him.
Morning comes too soon, and with the first grey light, Pete feels colder and tinier than he ever has before. He and Patrick put his stuff in the car wordlessly, and they pick up Joe, and his stuff, and drive to the airport. Joe hugs Patrick goodbye, and heads in, thoughtfully giving Pete time to freak the fuck out. He leans his head against the glass of the car window and sings, "Don't know when I'll be back again", and Patrick chokes out a laugh. "Dude, spare me."
"Shut the fuck up," Pete says, "you love it," and Patrick doesn't say anything, just laces his fingers through Pete's and squeezes. "Come with me," Pete says quietly, half wanting to take it back the second he says it. "Come on, just."
"Pete," is all Patrick says and yeah. Yeah. So he opens the car door, and shoulders his duffel bag. He kisses Patrick hard against the side of the car, and yeah. He turns around and he walks through the double doors that Joe disappeared through. Yeah. He kind of feels like he's breaking into a million pieces, but he does it. He leaves.
His flight touches down without exploding in the sky, which Pete is only half relieved about, and Travis picks him and Joe up in truly the most broke-ass van he's ever seen. The apartment they're all sharing is kind of hilariously terrible, with a curtain sectioning off the bathroom from the kitchen, and his bedroom containing a mattress on the floor. Whatever though. It's fine. He calls Patrick, but it goes to voicemail, and so he curls up on the mattress, sticks earbuds in his ears, and zones out to Patrick's song.
There's a commotion a few hours later with voices rising from the living room, and Pete just tugs his hoodie closer around his head, and turns the volume up louder. So he's entirely excused from not noticing when the door creaks open, and someone stomps in, not until a familiar pair of dirty hightops are right smack in his vision.
"Patrick," he breathes.
"Asshole," Patrick says, and promptly falls on top of him, elbow landing somewhere in the vicinity of Pete's gut, but he doesn't care, he doesn't, it's Patrickpatrickpatrickpatrick.
"You came," he shouts and kicks his legs out, and wriggles around, and basically behaves like someone being hit with a fucking taser, because seriously, Patrick.
"You better keep me in the manner I've become accustomed," Patrick grumbles, but his arms tighten around Pete's waist, and so hey. Pete does.