Work Text:
There’s a feeling you think you’re going to leave behind when you graduate high school. That tight, anxious feeling in the pit of your stomach, the night before a big test – Pete’s pretty sure he used to think you outgrew that. But as he’s grown older, he’s realized there’s a lot of things you don’t move past (or, at least, not without considerable therapy and effort), and anyone or anything that says you do is a liar and probably getting paid for it.
It’s two in the morning, and Pete’s got that feeling. Joe and Andy checked out half an hour ago to crash in Patrick’s spare rooms; they’ve always been the brains in the band.
He says as much to Patrick, who’s been sitting on his couch staring at his laptop for a really long time and could probably use a distraction.
“What does that make us, then?” Patrick says, not looking up.
Pete abandons the trench he’s been pacing into Patrick’s living room floor to climb up onto the arm of the couch. “I’m brawn,” he says, and he waits until Patrick turns to him from across the couch to begin flexing his arms obnoxiously. Then: “And you’ve got dibs on the beauty, obviously.”
Patrick snorts.
“Don’t laugh, dude, it’s true,” Pete says, stretching out one leg to nudge Patrick’s leg with his toes. “I’m passing on the torch. I’m too old now.”
“You’re not the spring chicken you were,” Patrick says, shaking his head sadly. He hasn’t looked at his screen in almost a minute now, and Pete lets himself feel a little proud that even after all these years, he can still be one distracting son of a bitch when he wants to be.
“Yeah, my best days are behind me. But, y’know,” and the words trip off his tongue with post-midnight-ease, “it’s good, because even if they don’t like the song, they’ll still buy it for your handsome face.”
His foot is still half-resting on Patrick’s leg; when Patrick goes tense, he feels it. And Patrick’s got one of those poker faces where his face can be perfectly blank but his eyes still speak volumes, so even without that point of contact Pete would still catch the quickly-buried panic that flashes there.
“If by ‘they’ you mean our moms, then yeah, sure,” Patrick says, his voice light. His fingers drum briefly against the edge of his laptop, and his eyes sneak towards it, a quick glance. He opens his mouth, and Pete can just feel the brush-off coming. Yeah. Nope.
“Patrick. Hey,” Pete says, and he digs his toes lightly into Patrick’s thigh, rubbing them into Patrick’s old flannel pajama pants. “They’re gonna like it.”
“Our moms?” Patrick says, his body beginning to angle away from Pete, back to his laptop. He flashes Pete a quick, distracted smile – ha ha, get it? What, me worry?
Pete frowns, and presses his toes in harder, insistently. “Come on, man, don’t do that. Don’t play dumb.”
“It’s not my fault Joe and Andy are the brains,” Patrick says, but then his smile slips. He leans forward to set his laptop down on the coffee table in front of them, then turns in his seat until he’s facing Pete with a quiet sigh. He rests his arms over his knees; his feet settle over Pete’s, thick woolen socks soft and warm against the Pete’s bare skin. In the dim light of the single lamp still on in the room, he looks exhausted.
“What if they don’t, Pete?”
“They will,” he says, and when Patrick’s frown deepens, he insists, “Dude, they will. It’s a good song. It’s a damn good album, Patrick, and they’re gonna love it.”
Patrick raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Is that why you were pacing a new fault line into my floor five minutes ago?”
“That’s just me, man,” Pete says, shrugging. “I freak out about what to eat for breakfast, you know that.”
“Oh hell yes, I’m a nervous wreck,” Patrick sings quietly. He pitches it lower than it is in the original, and his voice is scratchy and thick, from the hour as much as the tension.
Pete nods. “Yeah, exactly. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s a damn good album -- we wouldn’t have even moved beyond, like, pre-preproduction if I didn’t.”
“And everyone thinks I’m the perfectionist,” Patrick says, grinning. His eyes crinkle at the corners with it behind his glasses, and Pete thinks with the unnatural clarity of those who should be asleep that he might have had a part in putting some of those laugh lines there, and that – that’s kind of big. Bigger than any of his business ventures, any of the bands he’s discovered, even the album they’re about to release to an unsuspecting world. Maybe bigger than anything.
That’s too scary a thought for two in the morning, so Pete pushes it to the back of his mind. For now, he just wriggles his toes under the arches of Patrick’s feet until Patrick squirms away with a muttered “Jerk.”
“We both are. Peas-in-a-pod-style,” Pete says. He lets himself pretend that the grin spreading helplessly across his face is just because of Patrick’s ticklishness.
“We’re both jerks?”
“We’re both perfectionists, asshole.”
Patrick laughs, his shoulders loose like they haven’t been since Pete brought this whole thing up. Pete grins wider, relieved. He leans forward, curling his fingers into the arm of the couch on either side of himself, and continues, “I mean it, though. I’m not just saying this – it’s a great fucking album, Patrick.”
Patrick opens his mouth, then closes it sharply, glancing down and away.
Pete swallows. It’s not like he couldn’t tell it was on Patrick’s mind, but -- there’s a time and a place to talk about Folie. He’s pretty sure this isn’t either, as much as he can feel that particular spectre in the room. It’s too late, for one; he doesn’t want to risk the kind of fight that’ll shake the walls and send Patrick’s neighbours phoning the cops on them. It would basically suck to herald in their new album by disturbing the peace and shit. But also – this is Patrick’s home. They’ve talked about Folie before and they’ll do it again, he knows, but it won’t be now, with the low lights catching on the shadows under Patrick’s eyes and Patrick’s feet still resting over Pete’s.
Maybe he’s selfish to avoid something that’s clearly weighing on Patrick’s mind, but Pete values his renewed welcome into Patrick’s space too much to risk it.
“I was freaking out, yeah,” Pete says, breaking the silence and calling Patrick’s eyes back to his own. “And yeah, part of it was because I have no idea how this is gonna go down. Like, no clue at all. That’s not so unusual for us, though – going in blind, with nothing but a prayer and our – whatever, our faith in each other, I guess -- to keep us moving forward.”
He pauses, and it feels almost like his words echo, drawn out and suspended in the silence that fills the room. It's different than the silence from before. That had felt like the sterile hush of a hospital waiting room; now, there’s just a quiet intimacy hanging in the space between them, a stillness and a warmth that makes Pete want to lean closer, close enough to touch. He wraps a hand around his own knee to keep it with him. He thinks, nonsensically, that it’s much too soon to go giving pieces of himself away. What if he doesn’t get them back?
“It doesn’t matter to me if they like it or not,” Pete says, and now his voice is as rough and thick as Patrick’s. He bites the inside of his cheek, drops his gaze to trace the lines of the bones – tendons? whatever – standing out of the back of his hand. “I mean, it does. But the fact that we even fucking made this thing is enough. You know?”
There’s a pause, and then Patrick’s hand covers Pete’s, his thumb brushing over Pete’s knuckles. Pete looks up.
Patrick smiles at him, a little crooked around the edges. “You’re a wise dude, Pete Wentz.”
A grin tugs at Pete’s lips. “Don’t tell,” he says. “You’ll ruin my rep.”
“Who’d believe me?” Patrick says. “I think you’re safe.”
That warm silence spreads around them again. Patrick rests his head against the back of the couch, the curve of the cushions making his glasses go the tiniest bit lopsided. Pete stays as still as he possibly can, timing his breathing to the rise and fall of Patrick’s chest and watching the way Patrick’s eyes begin to slide shut. He’s still holding Pete’s hand.
“If you fall asleep there, you’re gonna get a crick in your neck,” Pete says finally. “And then you’re gonna be a grump in the interview. Our first interview back, Trick, and you’re gonna be a douchebag.”
“I am not,” Patrick says, not opening his eyes.
“Yeah, you are,” Pete says. He gets to his feet, groaning quietly with the way his joints pop – he’s not as young as he once was, damn – and tugs Patrick’s hand. “Come on, dude.”
Patrick sighs irritably, but he opens his eyes and unfolds himself from the couch. Pete keeps pulling his hand until he’s on his feet.
“Happy?” he says, frowning up at Pete.
Pete considers it, and considers him. Patrick’s hair is flopping down into his eyes and standing up at weird angles at the back; his Rolling Stones t-shirt is rumpled and pulled up at the bottom, revealing a small strip of pale belly above his dorky Batman pajama pants. He’s trying to hold his frown in place, but there’s a glint of laughter in his eyes that Pete knows all too well.
Pete reaches out and pulls Patrick’s glasses off carefully with his free hand, folding them up and placing them down on the coffee table. “Yeah, I’m good,” he says, and smiles.
“Good,” Patrick says. “Don’t stay up all night, okay? I know you said you’re not worried, but --“ he smiles crookedly. “Well. I know you.”
“I’ll try,” Pete promises.
“That’s all I ask,” Patrick says, the last word stretching into a yawn. He sways forward slightly on his feet towards Pete, and it’s such a change from how he was just ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago, tense and wired in front of his laptop, that Pete can’t help it – he wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders and pulls him in, dropping his head to rest on Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick sighs softly and melts into Pete. His arms come up around Pete’s waist; he presses his face into Pete’s neck, and Pete feels his smile against his skin.
When Pete finally pulls back, Patrick’s hair is even more mussed. Pete laughs quietly and brushes it away with a careful hand. On another whim, he leans in again, presses his lips to Patrick’s forehead.
Patrick tilts his head questioningly when Pete lets go and steps back. Pete coughs, shrugs. He feels like he’s once again shown too much of his hand -- it’s a bad habit of his. “For sweet dreams,” he says, like it’s an explanation that makes any kind of sense.
Patrick makes a vague noise of agreement, still staring up curiously at Pete. Then he stretches up slightly to brush a kiss to the corner of Pete’s mouth, a bare second of unsteady contact and then warm breath ghosting over Pete’s lips as he pulls back.
“Sweet dreams, Pete,” he says. He squeezes Pete’s fingers before turning away.
Pete tells himself that he imagines the way Patrick pauses at the top of the stairs and looks back at him. He won’t sleep at all if he thinks about that for too long.