Work Text:
Pete eyes lazily followed the pages as he flipped through his sketchbook. The tattoo sketch needs to be done tonight so that he has something to show his client in the morning but, fuck, nothing looks good. A lot of sketches are okay, a few well done eyes and skulls, but nothing that he feels comfortable etching on to someone forever. And really, his client deserves better than what he’s slopped together at the last minute and turned into a shitty stencil.
His client is a woman who has overcome cancer three times and is celebrating being healthy and clear for an entire year. This tattoo needs to show her struggle, it needs to show how strong she is and most importantly it needs to show how special and absolutely amazing she is. And basic script with a few cliche death images just isn’t going to cut it.
He throws his sketchpad onto the bed with a frustrated sigh.
Ink Block. Clearly, he needs to empty his head and get some help. It’s time to seek council from a fellow competitor so that he can come up with something brilliant that she flips over. Honestly, he really doesn’t care about the judges’s opinions; they don’t have to wear it. He just wants to make her smile because she’s gone through too much shit to be stuck with something she doesn’t like. So, it’s time for him to get blindingly talented help.
It’s time for—
"Patrick," Pete whispers, softly treading across the shag carpet of Patrick’s room. "Paaaaaaatrick."
No response aside from a soft sigh and quiet breathing.
"Lunchbox," he tries again, with similar results. "Patrick, I am going to tattoo my name on your forehead."
A slight kick, but nothing responsive. He creeps closer, putting a hand on Patrick’s shoulder to shake him a little.
"Stump. Stump, come on." Patrick pushes at the hand on his shoulder but his eyes remain closed. Whatever, Pete gets a firmer grip and shakes him again. "All of the other competitors are downstairs already, dude! You’re late!"
Patrick’s eyes snap open at that and he rolls out of bed, straight into Pete, knocking him over.
"Ow, fuck. I was kidding." His ass was probably broken.
Though, the punch in the arm he got from Patrick felt almost as bad. “You asshole!” He punches him again, for good measure. “Why the fuck did you wake me up at 2 am?” He says it quieter, just-woke-up-throat thick as he talks.
"I need help."
Patrick rubs sleep from his eyes.”Obviously.”
"No, not like that." Pete shakes his head. "I already get that help. I mean, I need help with my design."
He considers him for a moment before standing up and sitting back down on his bed. Pete quickly sits down next to him.
"No." And with that Patrick lies down.
Which, of course, is an ineffective way of trying to end a discussion with Pete Wentz.
"Aw, c’mon, man. Please?"
"Pete, I’m tired."
"Really fast."
"We have to wake up early for the competition tomorrow."
"I’ll make you breakfast?" Pete gives him what he probably thinks is a winning smile, but suffers from too much teeth and eyes a little manic with tired.
Patrick sighs. “Okay, fine.” He grabs his sketchpad from within his nightstand before turning towards Pete’s adjusting figure on his bed. “So, what’s the client like?”
Pete makes himself comfortable, laying down next to Patrick. “She’s awesome. Cancer survivor, super nice and she gets music. Like, like how we get music. It’s so—”
"Awesome?" Patrick looks at him with a small grin.
"Shut up." Pete waves an arm at him, hitting his knee. "She’s a really gifted pianist who’s only been playing for like four years. Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, blah blah blah; you name it. She can probably learn it in, like, a week and play it for you flawlessly. So, what do you think I should do?"
"Most women want a ring first, so I’d maybe start with that. And I call best man."
"And you said I’m an asshole? You’re a bitch when you wake up, you know that, right?" It lacks venom when he says it, smile betraying him as matches Patrick’s grin.
Patrick shrugs. “The Epic Duo of Midnight Asshole and Tired Bitch sounds like a fresh superhero story. You’ll write and I’ll do the art?”
"Sounds good. But, seriously. I’m lost, ‘trick." He reaches his arms out ahead as if he’s blind. "Lead me on the track to tattoo perfection."
"You’d know how to get there better than I would," He argues, jabbing one of Pete’s outstretched arms with his pencil. "Who won the last flash challenge?"
"Me?"
"And immunity?"
"Me."
Patrick sets his sketchpad down onto Pete’s stomach. “So, what’s the problem?”
"The problem is I have Ink Block and having Ink Block means I’m going to fuck up this challenge. And if I fuck up this challenge, that means that that inspirational woman is going to be walking around with shitty ink that I did and I can’t live with that. I will actually kill myself, Patrick, my honor and integrity as an artist will be shot."
Patrick throws his pencil at Pete’s head. “Wow, when’s the Oscar coming?”
"Hopefully soon, so I can use it for seppuku."
"Quiet." Pete shuts his mouth. "Now, sit up." He sits up. "Okay, now get ready to sketch."
They work for the rest of the night. (Sort of. Patrick tosses Pete ideas and then Pete sketches them and shows them to Patrick who offers up bits of critique. That lasts for, maybe, two hours before Pete declares that he has achieved artistic genius and then proceeds to argue over details for another hour. By the time Patrick agrees that the placement of the music notes is good, he is also informing Pete that it is now breakfast. This leads to a good five minutes of arguing over whether Patrick is entitled to breakfast after calling Pete a “melodramatic man baby”. Patrick wins.) By the time the other competitors are in the shared kitchen, the two are sitting joined at the hip talking about the challenge.
So, it’s really just another morning.