Work Text:
Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday
I know my kingdom awaits and they’ve forgiven my mistakes
I’m coming home, I’m coming home
Tell the World that I’m coming
It’s been too long. Too many years, too many rumors, too many ‘sources’ guaranteeing leaks of songs they don’t have. He feels horrible for all of it. For the way the fans have been jerked around, for all the late night blog posts begging and pleading, but even more for all the hopeful fans who wait patiently and probably won’t get what they wanted.
This music is different. They're different. It’s no longer the charcoal rimmed eyes and suffocatingly tight hoodies of yester-year. Not when there was so much time to grow up and to learn.
Their sound is different. Patrick is no longer able to put up his walls of sound; big, bulking wars of over-driven guitars and louder drums. He can’t hide himself in Pete’s words and let the rest carry them forward. Not like he’d want to now, fresh faced and more confident than Pete has seen him in the over 10 years of time that they've known each other.
Patrick is sure where Pete isn’t and he’s loud when Pete can’t be.
Somethings don’t fit like they used to. Gone are the spoken word bits at the end of the songs, the pieces that held too true to be encased in music and that struck so strong that even Patrick couldn’t bring himself to fit notes around them. It’s free-verse in it’s most honest extent.
So, nothing is really the same. He’s a father. Patrick and Joe are married. Andy has shed the longer locks and broken a bit more out of his shell. There’s really nothing left on the outside that’s the same
(aside from Joe’s ever uncontrollable mane of a hairdo that’ll probably stay that way when he’s teasing Pete up and down the nursing home).
Really, it wouldn’t surprise him if no one cared when they were back. There were newer artists, ones that didn’t have the large ‘emo’ sash around itself. Ones that were more innovative than they ever thought they could be.
And, in this sense, it’s easy to post the video. To have all the gasoline poured across cold ice
(a car accident, a wreck, the left side is shattered and glass litters the floor of the van)
and then to toss a match.
They wait. They breath. And then they don’t.
The response comes like wild fire. Ethanol burning and flames licking their way across the ground with a thirst that seems unquenchable. A blog post, a share, a reblog. There’s a steady roar and all of the old things rise, like a new life has been blown into them. There’s no air in the word surprised and there’s nothing in comparison to over a million views in a day.
Patrick coughs, eyes wide.
Andy barks out a laugh, clapping his hands as the numbers climb.
Joe loudly brakes into an earsplitting rendition of “We Are the Champions”.
And Pete? He looks over to Patrick, catches his eye and smiles for the first time after months of hard work and nervousness.
After the rounds of beer (“On Andy!” “I don’t drink, you asshole.” “That doesn’t mean you can’t buy beer. We’re about to be millionaires again; share some green.” “That’s really funny coming from you, Trohman.” “You can laugh at me and my leafy tendencies as much as you want as long as I can bear it with a cold one. Come on, just one, Hurley?”) and after everyone parts ways to head home. Pete gets on his computer, pulling up Skype to see message after message from nearly everyone on his friends list offering varying amounts of excitement for him. Most notably, he sees a message from Patrick sent about 5 minutes before he got in.
ricktalife: Still so sure that no one would miss you?
He snorts, clicking away a reply before checking up on his other social media platforms.
p weezy: no one did. im not fall out boy. if anything i was way too much of fall out boy. fall out wentz.
A ping.
ricktalife: If it counts for anything, I’d be apart of Fall Out Wentz any day.
p weezy: even if it was just a shitty band of guys playing shittier bass, looking like total douchebags, and fucking around offstage?
There’s a small lull and Pete isn’t drunk, but the buzz is making him a little sleepy. He’s falling asleep, eyes fighting to hold themselves open as he waits. Sleep has almost overcome him, with a vice grip that slows down his breathing and relaxes his muscles when he hears another soft ping.
ricktalife: Especially if. Nobody else but you. We’ve turned into a true blue duo. Hard times we’ve had a few.
p weezy: are u actually quoting goofy movie to explain our friendship
ricktalife: Maybe.
p weezy: i think that is the lamest fucking thing you have ever done oh my god
ricktalife: Like we’re thrown in the drink.
p weezy: no im not this lame patrick. srsly.
ricktalife: Like we’re thrown in the drink.
p weezy: no im not gonna do the song. theres nothing that will get me to do the song. im going to actually sleep k.
ricktalife: Like we’re thrown in the drink.
He sighed, a soft smile stretching across his lips all the same.
p weezy: like were tossed out of town
ricktalife: But when I start to sink.
p weezy: hey id rather go down
ricktalife: with nobody else, but
p weezy: oh man. big finish. Y O UUU
ricktalife: Now enjoy our success. I know you’re in your own head again, but take a deep breath and take a moment to orient yourself. Tomorrow we’re back on tour as Fall Out Boy and you’re going to be Pete Wentz the improved bassist, not Pete Wentz who sits on his ass watching Real Housewives. And you can do it. So, get some rest and I expect to see you shaking it up on stage at ass o’clock in the morning.
p weezy: youve missed seeing my ass
ricktalife: I’ve seen enough of your ass to last seven lifetimes.
ricktalife: But, if I have to see more ass. I’m glad it’s nobody else, but Y. O. UUUU.
He laughs, fucking Patrick and his goddamn Disney movies. Maybe he could watch A Goofy Movie with Bronx tomorrow or something, if he could find time in between the comeback shows and prior practice for them.
Fuck it, he could make time.
Pete let out a long breath, the air releasing from his lungs and warming his upper lip. They were back, they had a new sound, they looked different, but…
They were still Fall Out Boy. They’ll always be Fall Out Boy.
And, now, as he hears the sound of small, padded feet accompanied by the jingle of dog tags and the excited slap of presumably slightly bigger, bright tennis shoes.
He thinks he’s home.