Archive of Our Own

Apparently there’s no learning curve for suicide attempts.

Pete learns this about two seconds after it would have been useful, pretty much the first time he has to pee in the hospital and both Joe AND his mother try to come into the bathroom with him. Eventually he has to pee bad enough that he lets them listen at the door, but Jesus Christ, it’s a hospital. What do they think he’s going to kill himself WITH? Toilet paper and multivitamins?

Pete thinks about grumbling that this kind of behavior doesn’t exactly make him want to live or anything, but he doesn’t want to see that look on his mother’s face again, ever, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

Those first few days, he does a lot of saying nothing at all.

Two weeks later, Pete’s out of the hospital, but things haven’t eased up much. When Patrick interrogates him about his gas station purchases in case he bought, like, razor blades and bleach in a juicebox and cyanide pills and a shotgun, he makes the mistake of saying, teasing for god’s sake, “Gee, if I’d known you were all gonna be such a pain in the ass about this I would’ve got it right the first time.”

Patrick doesn’t speak to him for a week after that, and that’s worse than being dead.

He’s in the bathroom 30 seconds and Andy’s breaking down the door, and god forbid he locks anything at all, and at this rate he’ll never jerk off again and he’s about had enough, but. Well. It’s not like he can really say anything, because it’s his own fault. It’s like he shouldn’t have told Patrick: you have to get these things right the first time.

Pete doesn’t want to be a bitch about it or anything, but he really feels it should have been made clear to him beforehand that if he fucked up fucking up, Patrick would never look at him again. Because it’s Patrick. And, just, damn. It’s Patrick. He isn’t sure about the technicalities, but it’s pretty obvious that if Patrick won’t look at him, it’s because he isn’t really there at all.

And he’s pretty sure that the whole point of getting his stomach pumped and living in the hospital for a week was him being there, so come on.
If you look at it that way—which Pete does—Patrick is being pretty ridiculous about the whole thing.

When Pete asks Joe where the scissors are, this total, impenetrable silence falls. He can practically hear the uncomfortable look Joe and Andy are exchanging, it’s so quiet. “Um,” says Joe, “what do you need them for?”

Pete wants to tell Joe that he can hear his thoughts, and that they’re pretty insulting, but what he says instead is, “Jesus, Troh, I’m not going to commit hari-kari with your goddamn Fiskars, so contain yourself already.”

But now Andy’s shaking his head, all serious and Mother Hen, and Pete reconsiders seppuku. “Fuck you guys!” Pete declares emphatically. There’s a fucking string hanging off his fucking shirt is why he needs the fucking scissors, but he decides right then that he could give fuck-all about the shirt and embarks on a new project.

Four weeks after the fact and Patrick still hasn’t said more than three words to him. Pete honestly feels more like he’s dying than when he was actually dying. Like the overdose had been kind of anticlimactic. It wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. But Patrick mad at him like this? Just, fuck. He can’t take it.

Another thing is, Pete’s pretty sure that Patrick would understand that sometimes a guy needs more than five minutes in the shower, because Andy keeps setting this goddamn egg timer and hammering on the door with asshole drummer-strength when the time’s up, and those are not exactly ideal conditions for jerking off. And not to make a big thing about it, but fuck, he’s only done it twice in the last month, and the second time Joe walked in before he finished. He is not a goddamn child.

There are a lot of reasons why Pete misses Patrick. For one thing, he’s got these amazing eyes, and Pete hasn’t seen them in weeks, and that’s not fair because Patrick’s eyes were pretty much what he was going to miss the most when he was dead, except maybe the rest of Patrick, because that’s a pretty important thing too. And, like, what kind of serious suicide attempt takes place in a Best Buy parking lot? If he’d been like really committed, he would have gone somewhere where no one would have fucking found him, ever. So probably they should all just accept that it had been kind of a whim thing and less of a big deal than everyone was making of it.

Pete finishes his project, throughout the course of which he wasn’t allowed to use anything sharper than a fucking crayon, and stands back to admire it. He’d wanted scalloped edges but, you know, safety scissors were pretty fucking heavy machinery, but glue he’d been trusted with, so there was glitter around the edges instead. Personally he can’t understand why they think he’d try and saw his wrists open with scalloped craft scissors—blunt, FYI—but don’t consider him a risk for overdosing on glitter because, honestly, guys, the glitter thing is not even as farfetched as the scissor thing. Craft scissors don’t even have a point. You could let a baby chew on them and it wouldn’t be a big deal.

Anyway, the point is, the edges are normal but there’s a border of glitter and Pete used his very neatest handwriting to pen,

and he drew some flowers and rainbows and unicorns and suns, pretty much everything with a smiley face, and he calls a band meeting and presents the invitation to them as ceremoniously as fucking possible.

Then he stands back, watching their faces, bouncing up and down nervously on the balls of his feet, waiting.

“Very funny, Pete,” Andy says. Unsurprisingly, he’s the first to respond. He rolls his eyes and flops back onto the couch, where he had been collapsed reading even before Pete called the meeting, because, it has emerged, Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday are Andy-watches-Pete-and-doesn’t-even-try-to-be-subtle-about-it days. (His mother comes over on Sundays to clean and cook and fuss. Joe takes off days. Pete would really really really like it if Patrick worked into the rotation, like he did at the beginning, but again, not happening.)

Joe snorts in derision—and, Pete would like to think, at least a little amusement—and says, “All you had to do was ask, man.” Joe takes one look at Patrick and decides not to make any penis jokes. Instead he wanders over to where Andy’s ostensibly totally immersed in his book and sets himself up with a video game. These are all just props, though. Pete knows they’re listening, just like he knows Patrick is about to start speaking, because kind of the whole point of this was to make Patrick speak.

For his part, Patrick keeps his eyes on his feet, tugging at the brim of his hat, working his jaw in anger. “Listen,” Patrick says at last, but then he doesn’t say anything else, and Pete can’t stand it anymore.

“Sorrysorrysosorry,” Pete says, and it explodes out of him. “I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t want. And you. I. Um. Just.”

“You tried to leave me,” Patrick says, and maybe he’s looking up at Pete, maybe not, but Pete’s eyes are suddenly so full of tears he can’t fucking see anything. “You didn’t even fucking say goodbye.”

It occurs to Pete for the first time that maybe all this isn’t just about tasteless jokes told at the wrong moment.

“You’re mad at me… because I didn’t say goodbye?” Pete asks, just to make sure. He swipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie discreetly, but Patrick definitely notices, because it turns out that Patrick is looking right at him and it’s the first time he can see Patrick’s eyes in weeks.

“You could have fucking warned me!” Patrick says, too loud, halfway between shouting and singing. God but his voice just knocks Pete on his ass every time. Like it’s gotten to the point that he doesn’t just annoy Patrick for the sport of it but also because he wants him to get angry and yell. This is probably not constructive.

Anyway, Patrick’s loud and close and Patrick, and what Pete wrote about the puberty thing wasn’t a joke, and it’s suddenly difficult to breathe for reasons that are not tear-related and there’s this hot tightness unfurling in his belly that is way too familiar and he wishes more than anything that he was wearing tight jeans that showed everything in a very different way than these stupid fucking pajama pants are about to because it is very nearly an issue.

A little out of breath, a little dizzy, a little drunk, what Pete says is, “Okay, so next time I’ll give you a heads-up,” and it’s been so long since he’s been around Patrick that he’s forgotten to account for the effect Patrick has on him. Pete’s big rule about Patrick—other than lovehimforever and don’tfuckupdon’tfuckupdon’tfuckup—is to always, always prepare for these scenarios. Which means having regular sex or at the very least masturbating before they hang out and, most importantly, wearing restrictive pants. Having taken none of these precautions, Pete should be on the other side of the room thinking very hard about something else. Instead he’s toe to toe with Patrick Stump and there’s heat and yelling and god, lips like that should be registered as weapons, and he’s saying things he shouldn’t say and he’s very very close to doing things he shouldn’t do.

Stupid, stupid Pete.

Pete says “Okay, so next time I’ll give you a heads-up”, and Patrick punches him in the jaw.

Well, that’s the idea anyway. Pete, as Patrick very well knew, is a wily bastard, totally maddening and unpredictable, and what that means really is that he’s surprisingly hard to hit. Just as Patrick’s putting his weight behind his fist and pushing, fast and hard and unrelenting because that’s how Patrick Stump punches, damn it, and if you don’t like it then don’t get yourself punched, Pete’s leaning towards him with a weird kind of look in his whiskey-colored eyes and, well. Fuck.

Patrick’s fist hits Pete in the teeth as they collide, and Pete’s howling in pain and grabbing his mouth and Patrick’s got fucking zombie bite marks in his hand and there’s all this blood because Pete’s a fucking cannibal, and just. You’d have to be there, but. It’s kind of hilarious.

For the first time in a month, Patrick feels like laughing. So he does. And, yeah, he kind of looks like a crazy person, because he’s laughing and bleeding all over and Pete’s checking his own hands for blood and there isn’t any but his lip is purple and swelling up faster than Patrick would have believed and, well, he’s laughing.

He’s laughing and it’s good.

“Once again,” Pete says, eyes wide and incredulous and just how Patrick likes them, “I cordially invite you to go fuck yourself!” Only it comes out funny because his lip, bleeding a little, is already that fat, and Patrick just laughs harder.

The thing is, Patrick’s really angry at Pete. Like crazy punch-you-in-the-teeth-apparently angry. Pete tried to do the worst thing a person could do to Patrick (i.e. take Pete away), and Patrick so has not forgiven him for that, but. Pete hasn’t shaved in a few days so his chin is dark with stubble and his sideburns are filled in and prickly and his eyes are like bruises and his bangs are long and falling in his eyes and even with a fat lip he’s just so so so fucking beautiful that Patrick can’t be mad at him. Well, that and he may have just chipped his tooth on Patrick’s fist and Patrick can’t stop laughing. These are all things that are really starting to weaken Patrick’s platform.

And it’s not like he’s forgiving Pete or anything, but when he comes back downstairs with some ice he sits down next to Pete, who is sitting up against the wall with his head tipped back and murder in eyes, beautiful beautiful beautiful.

“Hey,” Patrick says and he likes saying it, hasn’t said it in too long.

“Hi,” Pete says, puffy and sarcastic and glaring at the ceiling.

There’s silence for a minute and then Pete says, “You punched me in the tooth,” all accusing. “Like right in this one fucking tooth.”

Maybe he’s hoping Patrick’s going to apologize, but seriously, Ativan overdose. Patrick’s not apologizing for anything for six years at least, because Pete Wentz fucking owes him.

So Patrick says, “Well, you didn’t have to lean into it. I mean I didn’t aim for that tooth.”

“Crappiest apology ever,” Pete grumbles, and Patrick can’t hold back his smile, but figures it’s okay because Pete’s not looking.

There’s quiet between them and it’s not entirely comfortable, but not really that uncomfortable either, and it starts to feel serious and honest and Patrick has to stifle a giggle because, well, he’s a little nervous and not sure why, but he feels like something’s coming, something big.

“I will, you know,” Pete says, glancing over, and Patrick scowls furiously. “Say something. Next time. So you guys don’t have to like stare at me all day anymore, because I’ll let you know if, um, if.”

“Next time,” Patrick repeats, not like a question but maybe like something he’ll brand into Pete’s skin after he tears it off for sport.

Pete fidgets a little, shifting the ice on his face. “Well, you know, if,” he says, but Patrick doesn’t like ‘if’. Patrick likes ‘never’. ‘Never’ is a good, solid, dependable kind of word.

Patrick reaches out and grabs Pete’s hand and squeezes it like a death threat before he can think better of it, and he stares at Pete even harder than he’s squeezing and he says, “No next time, okay?”

And Pete’s staring back at him, and Patrick can’t breathe right, and Pete says, “But if—” and Patrick says, “No if” and Pete’s ice falls away from his face and the hand Patrick isn’t holding is cold, cold on his cheek and Pete’s lips are on his, hard and fierce and really really real, and Patrick feels his heart burst with this tinny little echo and then Pete pulls away and whispers, “Oh, fuck, ow” because Patrick did punch him right in the one fucking tooth and his lip is just not in its zone of optimal performance.

“Did you just kiss me?” Patrick asks, because he wants to be sure, because he might have imagined it, because god knows he’s imagined it often enough. Anyway it’s not like Pete has never kissed him before, on the neck or the cheek or whatever, but this was different, really really different, for Patrick at least, and Patrick needs to know if it was different for Pete too, and somehow he hopes to accomplish all this with just that one question. “I just. Um. Did you?”

Pete smiles, kind of, because his lip’s doing pretty bad by this point, and he says, “Yeah. That’s why I leaned in. When you broke my tooth, I mean. I leaned in because I wanted to kiss you. More than usual, anyway. I mean I always want to kiss you.” It occurred to Pete that he was blathering but he didn’t quite care enough to stop. “And I, um, I want to always kiss you. When I want to. If you want me to, um, want to.”

What all this is is too much for Patrick Martin Stump, whose dizzy heart has burst, whose body is burning and whose mind has quit and whose dick is calling all the shots because honestly, there’s nothing else left that remembers how to function after Pete’s kiss.

“I want you to,” Patrick hears himself say, and he’s just going to have to trust his penis on this one, although it can’t be said that it hasn’t led him astray in the past, because he can’t for the life of him seem to be able to stop speaking, or even control what he’s saying. “I want you to want to kiss me, and I want you to kiss me, and I want you to tell me you’re sorry for almost killing yourself before I let you do any of those things ever again.”

Pete’s eyes are big and damp and close and he says solemnly, “I’m sorry for almost killing myself.” And he tries to kiss Patrick again, but Patrick stops him.

“And I want you to tell me you won’t do it again,” Patrick says, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set, looking like a hell of a fight.

“I won’t do it again,” Pete says, quivering a little, smile creeping into the edges of his promise, and Patrick realizes that he’d probably say anything at this point to kiss him again, and he knows Pete’s a slut but still, he can’t think about it too hard, because the thought of Pete wanting to kiss him at all is more than a little overwhelming.

“And if you do it again I get to do something truly horrible to you,” Patrick continues.

Pete hesitates for longer than Patrick had pegged him for. “How horrible?” he asks.

“Truly horrible,” Patrick reiterates, because sex—or even the prospect of it—makes Pete a little loopy. “I haven’t thought of anything yet, but it’s gonna be really really bad.”

Pete nods, serious, maybe a little frightened. “Okay, ’Trick,” he repeats. “If I do it again, which I won’t, you can do something really really horrible to me, like punch me in the tooth.”

Patrick thinks, but he can’t think of anything else except how badly he wants Pete to kiss him again, so he says, “Okay. I want you to.” And Patrick leans in to kiss Pete like he’s wanted to since forever, but this time it’s Pete who stops him.

“Wait,” Pete says, and Patrick’s starting to go a little crazy because he’s only been fantasizing about this moment for forever and Pete’s in no position to be annoying right now and they really are incredibly close to each other.

“What?” says Patrick, hoping his voice says ‘I hate you’ and hoping Pete can pick up on that, which Pete can.

“I didn’t just kiss you,” says Pete, and it’s hard to take him seriously with a fat lip and a lisp but damn it, Patrick’s trying. Right now it is all Patrick can do not to maul Pete with his mouth, so he doesn’t have any energy that he can put into saying ‘what do you mean?’ without running the risk of kiss-assaulting his best friend, so again all he can do is hope that Pete picks up on it and try to restrain himself, and they both do pretty okay.

“I sort of, um. This is gonna sound stupid,” Pete warns, and Patrick doesn’t care what it sounds like because he can’t take his eyes off Pete’s lips, discoloration and all. “But it’s not just that I want to kiss you. I sort of, um. I just. Fuck.” Pete sighs heavily and he’s taking his goddamned time, and Patrick can’t stand it any longer.

“I know I know I know,” Patrick says at all once, clearly losing his mind this close to Pete’s lips and teeth and tongue. “I know and you know and I love you back, okay? So let’s do this.”

And for a minute Pete looks stunned, but only a minute, and then it’s gone. “You love me,” Pete whispers to himself. Patrick loves me. He can only whisper it once, because then Patrick’s on top of him, climbing into his lap and pretty much attacking his mouth, and his erection is not even remotely disguised by his pajama pants but it’s okay because Patrick moans a little in his mouth, and Patrick kisses him, all heat and tongue and want, and even though a month ago he thought he wanted to die, there’s a learning curve, and he’s never been happier.