Archive of Our Own ^beta

The thing is this— Patrick’s not terrified of the idea of Pete Wentz. He’s more… mystified. Confused. He’s baffled at the idea of some local punk kid becoming a legend and more. He’s absolutely fucking flabbergasted that this guy— this skinny-jeaned casanova, this great tall tale of the Chicago music scene— wants to see him.

And, yeah, okay. Maybe he’s a little bit scared of the fact that he’s currently standing on Pete Wentz’s porch, fist raised and prepared to knock. Maybe he’s just a bit afraid of that.

Inside the house, he can already hear the band practicing. Andy’s drums had been dragged over here after one too many noise complaints from his neighbors, and Joe’d been all too excited to venture into the Pete Wentz home. They’re all in there, shouting and laughing and abusing their poor instruments in the process, and Patrick can’t bring himself to join in just yet. 

He should probably leave. He should most definitely, absolutely leave. 

He’s met Pete, like, twice. Once at his own house with Joe at his side and Pete staring at Patrick’s mouth like he’s astonished that it can make any sort of melodic sound. And then a second time, a bit after that, where they’d bumped into each other at the same punk show. Pete hadn’t spoken to Patrick then but, well, his smile seemed rather eager from across the room. 

Then he’d whispered into the ear of the bigger punk guy next to him and they’d both disappeared into the bathroom.

Patrick decides he’s going to be sick.

“No, no, I’m not,” he says to himself. “For god’s sake, it’s just Pete.”

As if he knows him. Whatever. He at least remembers that Pete’s short so how much a threat can he really be? Besides, Patrick knows he’s being stupid. The band is just a summer hobby before college and all the real plans Patrick has. Plans that include a music degree to shove in his siblings’ faces when they sneer at the idea of him doing anything music-related, claiming that “there aren’t any real jobs in music, Patrick” like their dad didn’t raise them on records and vinyl. Plans that include getting out from the heavier scene around him, the metal sound and screaming lyrics that Patrick can write but not feel. Plans that include being taken seriously, enjoying his work, being proud of what he does.

Plans that don’t include Pete Wentz and whatever shenanigans his band holds.

A band that, however he may feel about it, Patrick’s been roped into. A band that, by the end of the summer, will mean nothing. Nothing more than a fun anecdote in the future; nothing more than a pit stop in the map of Patrick’s life. Pete thinks he’s claimed territory in Patrick’s world but nothing could be further from the truth.

Still. Patrick backs away from the door and decides to text Pete instead. 

Here  is all his message says, a simple word that draws less attention to him than knocking on the door would. It’s not cowardly just… cautious. Better to remind Pete that he’s coming over than to shock him with his appearance— though, Patrick did take care not to wear the argyle again today.

Besides, it’s not like Pete will actually hear the door through all the noise they’re making down there.

Patrick waits a moment more before his phone buzzes in his hand, Pete directing Patrick to come inside and find them in the basement. 

“Right, okay,” Patrick says, pocketing his phone and rolling his eyes. “So much for manners.”

It’s not like Patrick expected Pete to escort him down or anything but it would probably have been less daunting than opening the door and making his way through Pete’s house on his own. 

Probably.

The rush of cool air is nice on Patrick’s face, though, and he sighs happily as he opens the door and steps inside. The house is a bit bigger than Patrick’s and much louder, noise ricocheting off the walls to greet him as he ventures carefully through the front hall. He hesitates as the door closes behind him, debating whether or not to take off his shoes.

When something crashes from the basement— either a cymbal or a horribly mistreated guitar— Patrick decides Pete probably wouldn’t much care either way.

“Are you murdering instruments down here?” Patrick asks as he hurries into the basement, shouting to be heard over Pete’s laughter. Really, he sounds like a horse that’s far too pleased with itself, and the proper joke about Pete being an ass hangs on the tip of Patrick’s tongue. “Seriously, I thought we were making music, not—”

“Trickster!” A hot, heavy arm slung over Patrick’s shoulders and tugging him down the rest of the steps, a voice far too loud in his ears-- Pete. “You’re here!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick says, turning away from Pete’s grabby hands. “Shockingly, I didn’t turn around halfway through the journey.”

He looks in time to catch Pete’s small pout and—

And Patrick’s insults, of course, fade away. 

It’s hard to insult Pete to his face if only because there’s hardly anything to insult. He has charm perfected as if he invented it, a teasing spark kept safe in the warm brown shade of his eyes. His smile’s too big for his face but that, somehow, is like saying there are too many stars for the sky. It may be true but only because it wouldn’t be right any other way.

Patrick’s mouth dries and he swears it’s only because of the summer weather leaking in from the window cracked open behind him. Or maybe it’s heatstroke from the walk here, strolling down the sidewalks in a beanie and denim jacket because he wanted to make up for the socks and shorts fiasco from before. 

Of course, it could also be something as simple as the moment right before Pete says his name, flickers of flame on his lips as they prepare the sound.

“Patrick, did you hear me?” Pete asks. “I said we decided you’d be the singer.”

Or maybe it is just the summer air.

“Wait, what?” Patrick asks, blinking away whatever stunned expression he’d been wearing— an expression brought on by the sun and nothing more. “Who the hell decided that?”

“All of us,” Pete says with a shrug. Patrick has rich fantasies of dislocating his shoulders. “I mean, it makes sense, right?”

“Uh, no?” Patrick says, glaring accusingly at Andy and Joe— more so at Joe because Andy glares right back and Patrick’s stress spikes in a way that cannot be healthy for someone his age. “I wasn’t even here when we decided that so, like, you’re lying. Not  all  of us decided it. I demand a revote.”

The silence is not only cruel but it is also embarrassing. Patrick’s sure he hears crickets— or maybe that’s just his own pulse giving out.

“Three to one,” Joe says helpfully from his spot on the couch, a guitar held haphazardly in one hand and a bag of Doritos in the other. “It would still be three to one.”

Yeah, like Patrick didn’t catch onto that.

“Traitor,” he hisses. It makes no sense but Joe’s sorry expression does make Patrick feel a bit better.

Of course, that fades once Pete drops a hand onto Patrick’s shoulder, tempting him to break his wrist.

“Come on, man. It’ll be fine,” he says. “Joe and I have both heard you sing and you’re fucking fantastic.”

“What about him?” Risking life and limb, Patrick points in Andy’s direction.

Andy shrugs. “I trust Pete. To an extent.”

Patrick doesn’t know Andy well enough to call him a mean name but the bait is still there. He bites his tongue to keep the insults back.

“You should trust me, too,” Pete says, competing for the stupidest sentence of the day. “I know talent when I hear it.”

“Your last band sucked,” Patrick says and, well, he didn’t quite mean to say it but it’s out there now so might as well keep with it. “Like. A lot.”

Thankfully— and horrifically— Pete laughs. “Yeah, I know. Which is why I’m not going anywhere near the vocals. You are. And you’re going to be amazing.”

It’s a horrible argument and it would never hold up in any sort of professional debate or court. And Pete— with his stupid eyes and stupid grin and reassuring tone— would never be allowed to make a case for anything ever again. 

But they aren’t in any sort of professional debate or court. And Patrick is only human.

“Fine,” he says, pulling away from Pete’s touch. “But if this goes sour, I swear to god—”

“It won’t,” Pete says. It should be too quick to be genuine but Patrick finds himself believing all the same. “Cross my heart and hope to die, Rick.”

“You promised me you knew how to play bass,” Patrick says with an eyebrow raised. “Don’t know how much I trust your promises at this point.”

“Well, trust this one,” Pete says. “I’ll give you my word and you can give me your voice. And we’ll take over the world.”

It’s terribly dramatic but Pete frames it in a pretty smile. Joe says something in the background to Andy— possibly mocking them, possibly asking the time— but Patrick doesn’t hear it.

“Fine,” Patrick says. “You get my voice.”

Pete smiles like Patrick’s signed some sea witch’s contract, fist-pumping and laughing. 

It almost makes Patrick feel bad for pretending this is for keeps. He’s not giving away his voice, not really; he’s simply lending it out.

And, when summer ends?

Patrick plans on taking it back and leaving without a word.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s favorite moments are the quiet hours of late afternoon. No one’s around to disturb him, his mom at work and his neighbors hiding away from the heat while his older siblings drive around with their friends. Patrick sits on the porch, a guitar in his lap and a warming glass of ice water beside him, and brushes his fingers across the strings, translating their noise into something that will make sense to someone else.

Chords are the synapses in his brain, the beginnings and endings of all his thoughts. They’re detached, disjointed, and he holds his breath as he plays each one out.

It’s almost a song, almost a tune. But it doesn’t have the shape he sees when he closes his eyes and imagines what it should be. It’s all there, the notes and sounds; all it’s lacking is a pulse.

Again, Patrick strums a chord, his eyes flickering open to watch his thumbnail catch on one of the strings. He used to have a pick but his dad packed all those away when he left. Patrick hasn’t yet had the chance to get them back but it’s only a few months until he’s out living with his dad again, anyway, so maybe—

“Writing something for the rest of us?”

Patrick’s neck snaps up in time to catch Pete’s gleaming grin, sun shining unabashedly from his oversized teeth as he leans against his bike in Patrick’s driveway. He’s too far for Patrick to read anything in his eyes but the teasing tone is enough to have Patrick hunching over the guitar, hiding his music with red cheeks and huffing breaths.

“Screw off,” he says, his harsh words doing little to dim Pete’s grin. “I’m not writing anything for  you .”

“Well, that’s a shame,” Pete says, swinging his leg off from his bike and propping it. He looks an awful lot like he plans to stay and Patrick’s not certain he’s strong enough to say no if Pete does invite himself in. “I heard you like writing songs. Heard you’re good at it, too.”

“Whatever,” Patrick says weakly, his cheeks heating for a reason other than the summer sun. “No one says that. You just made that up.”

“Yeah, I did,” Pete says. “But it’s okay because it’s true.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, sitting up now that the danger of mockery has faded away with Pete’s kind words. 

“You need to stop doing that,” he says despite the smile tugging at his lips. He refuses to give in, refuses to listen to the butterflies pounding against his guts and chest when he meets Pete’s eyes. “Seriously, you keep flirting and someone might just get the wrong idea.”

He’s simply teasing, just tossing some jokes back in Pete’s direction. And Pete should swing at them like a fastball, knocking Patrick over with another snarky response and quick-witted word.

But Pete cocks a hip out to the side and lets it all go right over his head.

“That’s not flirting,” he says. “I’m a way better flirter than that.”

Patrick stammers for words, only managing to find his voice at the last second. “Doubt it.”

“It’s true!” Pete says, crossing the driveway to stand before Patrick. As he nears, Patrick can’t tell whether his smile is growing or if it’s simply a trick of the distance disappearing. “You think I’d make jokes about songwriting to flirt? I wouldn’t do that if I was flirting with you. That’d be such a waste.”

“Gee, thanks,” Patrick says. “Good to know that flirting with me is—”

“Flirting with you would be so much easier,” Pete continues, staring at Patrick as if Patrick hadn’t said anything at all. “I mean, look at how cool the color of your hair is. Why would I waste words on songwriting when I could say that your hair looks just like the sun?”

“Blinding?” Patrick says, resisting the urge to tug at his cap and hide the god-awful haircut he’s been stuck with for the past few months, the jagged bowl cut growing out. “Bad to look at?”

Pete smiles and he knows exactly what he’s doing when he leans forward and whispers, “Beautiful.”

It’s a joke— Patrick knows it’s part of a joke. But Pete’s eyes are so close and his smile hasn’t yet faded and the word hangs in the air like the song Patrick’s trying to write.

Patrick pulls back but he doesn’t look away. 

Stop it , he could say.  Leave me alone. Fuck off.

“You wanna come in?” He asks instead, holding up his guitar either as a weapon or a shield. “We can write together or just, like, jam.”

Pete blinks and, for a second, Patrick swears he’s said the wrong thing, his heart racing up his throat along with the lunch he’d made himself earlier. But then Pete laughs and pulls back and everything is okay again.

“I wish I could but my mom’s actually got me running some errands for her. Dropping mail off at the post office,” Pete says. “I like the idea of jamming, though. We should do that sometime.”

“Yeah.” Patrick’s mouth is dry again. “Soon, preferably.”

“You can’t rush genius, Trick,” Pete says, hands in his pockets. “Besides, we’ve got the rest of our lives to write killer songs.”

Here, surrounded by nothing but Pete and his bad ideas, Patrick can almost see it happening. The band on the road, writing songs in motels and the backrooms of sketchy clubs. Coming back from tour and waiting for Pete to show up the next day, his bass on his back and his pretty words on his lips. Though Pete’s a scoundrel and the definition of a wreck, Patrick can see his world as clearly as he can see the songs in his own head.

Except…

“More like the rest of summer,” Patrick says, not feeling the weight of his own voice until Pete steps away from it. “I’m leaving for college in the fall.”

Pete— always moving, always acting, always with something crazy to say— doesn’t respond. He keeps still, the universe moving around him as he stares at Patrick like he’s looking at him for the first time.

“What?” He asks, at last, the word sounding like it’s been spit out in slow motion.

Patrick shrugs and looks away, a heat spreading through his body as his grip tightens around the guitar’s neck.

“College. Community college so, like, nothing fancy,” he says as if that makes a difference. “It’s a few states out so I’ll be staying with my dad until I can afford a place out there but it’s a good school and I already know some people who are going, too. I’m thinking that—”

“You’re leaving?” 

Patrick doesn’t realize he’s rambling until Pete cuts him off. 

“I, uh, yeah,” Patrick says, dragging his eyes back to Pete’s face. “I guess.”

Another silence, another stillness that strikes Patrick in the chest. 

“Pete?” He asks when too much time has passed. “Hey, are you—”

“I should go,” Pete says, sticking another smile back on his face. It has no reason to be as stiff as it is but at least it matches the way his eyebrows furrow— the way he’s looking at Patrick through curious eyes. “I’ll see you soon. We’ll have to make this summer feel like forever.”

“Every second feels like forever with you.” Patrick means it as an insult but his voice catches on the last word, the same way Pete’s smile twitches into something more real. 

The same way that, though he knows how it sounds and what else it could mean, Patrick wouldn’t take it back. 

Pete makes a moment feel like forever— in every good and horrible way.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

 The good thing about music is that, no matter how weak and bruised Patrick may feel crawling into their practice space, it always serves as a fence around the pieces of his life that are his. No disappointment from his mom or teasing from his siblings can exist when he pulls out a guitar and sits in a room full of music with his friends. With his band.

Or, well, his temporary summer band. The expiration date does sour the mood just a bit but it’s not enough to have him fighting against it. He has no choice, really. College will come sweep him away and it’s best to simply accept that now. Besides, it's less time as the frontman— and the mic Pete tosses his way certainly does it best to remind him of that.

“Where the fuck did you get this?” Patrick asks, staring uselessly at the thing in his hand. It’s heavier than he’d expect it to be, weighing into his palm as if it plans to sink through it.

“At a garage sale,” Pete says while pulling the window shut. Last time they had practice, one of the neighbors’ sons had run by just as Patrick was shouting a handful of creative expletives at Pete. While Patrick did feel bad at the time, he can now appreciate how it was equally Pete’s fault. “It’s missing the wire and cords so it won’t work but I still think it would be important for you to learn how to hold one.”

Patrick blinks, waiting for Pete to turn around before speaking. “You want me to practice holding a microphone.”

“Yeah.” Pete’s smile is awful, sharp and direct. Like the sun. “Grip is everything, Trick.”

Fuck, Patrick’s gonna kill him.

“Okay, now that we got Pete’s obligatory flirting out of the way, can we start?” Joe asks, raising an eyebrow at the two of them. “As funny as Patrick’s blush is, I’d really like to get going. I’ve got a family dinner later tonight so we don’t have much time to begin with, anyway.”

It’d be easy to think that the look on Pete’s face is just pretend— just something Patrick’s imagination has projected onto him. Something almost upset or hurt, something that implies Patrick should know what it means.

Something that makes Patrick look away in shame.

“Yeah, okay,” he says to a random spot on the floor. “Let’s play something.”

When he looks back up, Pete’s strange gaze is gone. 

Still, as they bicker over which song to play first and whether it’d be lame to only do covers for now, Patrick can’t help but think back to what he thought he saw. Those eyes— wider than usual by just a fraction, smoking with their intensity. Those lips— frowning in the corners, parted as if waiting to take a breath.

As if waiting for Patrick to say something first.

But what would Pete want him to say? From behind his guitar, Patrick glances over at Pete. Pete, fucking around with his bass and calling it a warm-up, doesn’t look back at him. Does he expect Patrick to admit the same thing he did the day before? To say that this is all temporary, a summer fling? Why should it matter? Why does it?

“You’re still not singing,” Pete says for the fourth time since they started playing, Patrick’s vocals more of a half-hearted hum than anything else.

Patrick’s gaze becomes a glare. Perhaps some force took and possessed him yesterday— something that said it would be a good idea to confide in Pete— but that’s in the past. And Patrick could try to understand why he did that, why he said that, but, really, does it matter?

“And you’re still not playing right,” Patrick snaps back, dropping his eyes down to his own fingers, shouting to be heard over the mess of music around him. 

He doesn’t see it but he swears he can feel Pete’s cocky grin.

Despite everyone’s insistence that this is a “real band” and a “serious thing” and “the last shot we have to do something important in our lives” — the last one an emphatic mantra of Pete’s—their jam session is nothing more than old covers and off-topic conversations.  For the most part, Patrick doesn’t mind.

Though, a smaller piece of his head plays yesterday’s melody on repeat. It’s a struggle to keep his fingertips on the right strings, playing the right chords, and he bites his lip each time he’s tempted to say he wants to start writing something real— there’d be no point to sharing it with temporary friends, after all.

Still, the melody twists through his mind with each moment between songs, with each glance at the mic he’s left discarded on Pete’s basement floor. He refuses to touch the thing-- despite Pete’s constant remarks-- until he has a reason to pick it up.

And songs he didn’t write aren’t a reason. 

“You gonna touch it at all this summer?” Pete asks as they’re tuning their instruments.

Patrick doesn’t meet his gaze, afraid of what he’ll say or see if he does. 

“Not unless I have a song worth singing,” he says, flicking his eyes up just once— a challenge or a dare. “And the songs I write don’t have words.”

Pete doesn’t answer before Andy’s shouting another song suggestion but it doesn’t matter.

When summer is a time bomb, nothing matters.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

“Hey,” Pete says as the instruments are set down and the window is opened again, the echoes of their last song still hanging in the air. “Help me clean up?”

Joe and Andy have already fled upstairs, each with a different excuse to leave. Patrick would think it’s a trap if not for the way Pete’s mom kept glancing downstairs with each song started, her subtlety non-existent when she finally asked how much longer Pete’s friends would be around.

She seems kind enough but Joe and Andy’s rapid departure have Patrick second-guessing that theory.

Pete's trap is the same and the question is presented to Patrick like something innocent. Help clean up, help put the mess away, stick around a bit longer with just Pete and him in this room. While his mom still has a chance at being trustworthy, Patrick hesitates when he looks at Pete.

“Clean up?” He repeats, arms folded across his chest.

“Yeah, come on,” Pete says with a smile. “You really want to leave me to fix all this shit?”

‘This shit’ being the few half-empty bags of chips and pretzels that have been strewn across the floor, along with coke bottles and speaker cords. It’s not half as bad as Patrick’s ever seen it, and it’ll take a max of ten minutes to clean. He narrows his eyes and fixes Pete with a cold stare.

“Only if you deal with Joe’s socks. I’m not touching those.”

For some reason, rejection doesn’t slip past Patrick’s lips; for some reason, he finds himself smiling wryly and hoping his words will make Pete smile, too. It’s a subconscious betrayal of the worst kind but, somehow, it works.

“Yeah, alright,” Pete says, looking at the sweaty socks Joe had peeled off and thrown after complaining about the heat. “I did the same thing at his house so I guess that’s fair.”

Pete Wentz does not strike Patrick as someone who cares about being fair. He’s supposed to be a suave cool guy, the kind of boy girls love to hate all the while planning seduction at their sleepovers. He’s nothing but a rumor, a tall tale, and he smiles like he knows it.

He’s a heartbreaker decorated like a summer dream and that’s the reason Patrick keeps dropping his eyes to the floor. 

High school’s over and Patrick’s still afraid of the popular kids, still nervous about the power they supposedly wield— even if it’s coming from someone as stupid as Pete.

“I’m gonna go ask your mom for a vacuum,” he says, kicking at a pile of crushed chips. “Do you think it’ll annoy her or make her like me?”

“I think you have this amazing ability to make everyone like you. No matter how annoying you try to be,” Pete says. It twists Patrick’s guts, turning them into sand and weighing him down.

“Pretty sure that’s you,” he says as he walks towards the stairs. “And, trust me, it’s the most frustrating thing.”

Asking Pete’s mom for the vacuum is only terrifying in the sense that he’s never actually been properly introduced to her before. Sure, he’s seen her when coming over, red-faced as he hefts his guitar case through her doorway, but he’s pretty sure they’ve never exchanged more than a few words.

Which is why it’s horrifying when she looks him up and down, and says, “Oh, you’re Patrick. I was wondering which one you were.”

Patrick doesn’t consider himself an egotistical person but he’s fairly certain this means someone in the house has been talking about him.

His request for the vacuum is nothing more than a squeaky stammer, punctuated by Mrs. Wentz’s sharp laugh. She sounds like Pete as she teases him for his red cheeks, eyes sparkling when she tells him he seems like one of Pete’s nicer friends.

For the first time ever, running downstairs to join Pete— nearly falling each time the vacuum crashes into his calves— is a relief.

“What happened?” Pete asks, looking over from where he’s tossing Joe’s socks out the window with a stick— because of course. “Did mom try to kill you?”

“I, uh—” Patrick shakes his head, both at himself and at Pete. “I’m gonna start cleaning now.”

Pete starts to say something else— something that sounds truly concerned— but Patrick drowns it out as soon as he finds an outlet and turns the vacuum on. A wall of white noise shields Patrick from Pete’s words and he smiles to himself, sighing at having avoided whatever conversation Pete so clearly wanted to begin.

Cleaning becomes a rather silent act after that, even after Patrick’s finished vacuuming the small room— though he did eye the bedroom down the hall, wondering if he could hide there only to panic when he realized it was Pete’s. He takes his time rolling up the cord, kneeling next to it as Pete watches from where he’s brushing crumbs from the couch cushions. Patrick would offer to suck it up with the vacuum but the thought of pulling out the hose— and all the inevitable blow job jokes to come with it— is too much.

So... Silence.

Silence, that is, until Pete clears his throat and stands up straight to look at Patrick.

“So, college,” he says. “Been there. Hated that. What are you going for?”

It’s not so sudden a question that Patrick drops what he’s doing but it is unexpected enough that he pauses, frowning at Pete.

“Music,” he says, gauging Pete’s reaction. “Or, at least, that’s the plan. I haven’t declared anything yet but dad says there’s a good music program so I can probably pick out the specifics at orientation.”

“Oh, so you’ll still be doing this,” Pete says, more excited than he has any reason to be. “That’s good. I was scared you’d say accounting or some shit.”

“It’d be a lie to say I wasn’t tempted,” Patrick says, looking back at the vacuum cord as he finishes wrapping it up. “Mom, um… Mom and dad don’t really agree about the musician thing.”

“Really?” Pete asks, his soft voice brushing over Patrick’s panic over why he said such a stupid thing to someone like Pete. “Why?”

Because all dad ever did was talk about music. Because he refused to get a job when we were kids, certain his band could pay the bills. Because I’m closer to my dad due to that and mom’s a bit jealous.

Because everyone else tells me my music isn’t going to last .

“Don’t know,” he says instead, standing and wiping his palms across the front of his jeans. Sweat’s starting to drip from beneath his hat, and his hands are no better. “She probably thinks it won’t work out.”

Patrick’s sure he says it in a certain tone, unwavering and dismissive, but Pete looks at him with gentle eyes all the same— Patrick didn’t know Pete could look like that.

“You’re getting a degree, though,” he says. “So, if anything, that’ll prove her wrong.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” Patrick says with a shrug, giving in and shoving his hands into his pockets despite the heat, desperate to keep himself from waving them around the way he does when things get too awkward. “So, like, it’s clean in here. Should I take the vacuum up on my way out or should—

“Wait!” 

Patrick does, stiff as he slowly brings his gaze back to Pete.

Pete-- hand outstretched towards Patrick and his eyes wide-- hesitates and, then, with all the shyness Patrick felt when Pete first smiled at him, he asks, “What’s your favorite color?”

“My—” Patrick breaks out of his spell, nose wrinkling and lips curling as he replays the question in his head. “My favorite color?”

“Yeah.” And, god, Pete doesn’t even look embarrassed by his juvenile request, his eyes shining as he nods. “Look, all I know about you is that you can sing and that you’re leaving in a few months. Am I allowed to know anything else?”

When Pete says it like that, like he’s asking permission to be Patrick’s friend, how can Patrick do anything other than what Pete wants?

“Orange,” he says after some time has passed, the word as uncertain as the weather when it presses to his tongue. “My favorite color is orange.”

“Like a sunset or like a—”

“Like a, I don’t know, like an orange!” Patrick snaps, though his lips betray him with a grin. “How specific do you want this to get?”

“Just wondering,” Pete says, firing back a smile of his own, the kind that promises a snarky comment or playful tease. “Not my fault you haven’t thought this through.”

“Oh, whatever,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes. “And I assume you have your favorite color planned out in some five-paragraph essay format? Complete with cited sources and in-text citations?”

“You laugh now but that’s exactly the kind of shit you should expect for your future,” Pete says, sinking Patrick’s heart just a bit. “Just wait until you have to analyze the symbolism of something black and white.”

“Are those your favorite colors?” Patrick asks with an eyebrow raised.

Pete smirks. “Those and everything in between.”

“That’s not an—”

“Moving on.” Pete collapses back onto the couch, arms spread and smile wide. “Got any pets?”

It feels like twenty questions or an interrogation and Patrick can’t keep the befuddlement out of his voice when he sits next to Pete and says, “Just one. A neighborhood cat that hates me.”

Pete laughs and it feels like victory.

“I’m sure it’s just playing hard to get,” he says. “I don’t think anything could hate you.”

“And I didn’t think you’d be able to keep up your stupid lines yet here we are,” Patrick says. He hurries on with a question of his own before Pete can ask his, leaning forward just enough to see the color of Pete’s eyes. “So what made you want to do music, anyway? Why waste time with attempts and misfires when you had a shot at something in college?”

“Because it wasn’t like I ever actually had a shot,” Pete says with an overexaggerated roll of his eyes. “Maybe it’s because it was the exact opposite of what everyone wanted me to do but music just felt so much better. I’ve always loved shows and the energy they have. What I was doing in school was the exact opposite of what I was supposed to do. You ever get anything like that?”

“Uh, not really, no,” Patrick says though his hands fold in his lap, picking at each other’s nails as he thinks. “I’ve always wanted music in my life so, well, I’ve always made sure that was something that happened in whatever way I could get it.”

Pete’s next smile feels wry, nearly mocking, and it washes over Patrick like ice on a sunny day.

“Lucky you,” he says as his eyes turn towards the wall across from them. Something else hangs onto the end of those words, another question yet to be asked. Patrick tenses, prepares for it, but Pete’s smile changes and he’s looking at Patrick again. “So what was the craziest job you wanted to have when you were little?”

A conductor, maybe, Patrick thinks with fond memories of waving wooden spoons as his mom cooked dinner. Or perhaps that time when he started quoting movies so he could be an actor. Each one’s a fun response.

But they’re not the most honest.

Pete watches him, eyebrows raised in preparation.

And Patrick deflates, shutting his eyes as he speaks.

“A Walmart greeter,” he says, at last, the words a pitiful confession, sounding like a sob as he realizes how embarrassing it is halfway through the phrase.

And he expects the laughter. He prepares for the laughter. Hell, he even  deserves  the laughter.

Still, it feels right to shove Pete off the couch as he doubles over, snickering and cackling and being an absolute dick about it.

“Ah, yes, the epitome of music scholarship,” he says, even once he’s collapsed into a heap on the floor. “A Walmart employee.”

“I was a kid and I thought they were just there to say hi. I thought it was  nice ,” Patrick says, resisting the urge to kick Pete. It only causes his laughter to grow louder. “Oh, come on, it’s not  that  funny.”

“No, yeah, I’m sure every kid wants to stand at the mouth of a supermarket, force a smile, and say hello every second,” Pete says as he’s recovering, eyes shining as he speaks. “I’m sure it’s the  dream . God, you’re precious.”

“You realize that I don’t want that anymore, right?” It seems imperative that Pete understands this, that he knows Patrick’s not this dumb kid making stupid wishes. Patrick leans forward and glares at Pete, his voice hard even in the face of Pete’s fading giggles. “Like, I’m not that—”

Not that young. Not that naive. 

Why do these stick so easily to his tongue when he thinks of what he wants to be to Pete?

Pete the heartbreaker. Pete the popular boy.

If Pete sees him as just another stupid kid, Patrick doesn’t know what he’ll do. His heart pounds at the thought, his mouth filling with a sour taste. Isn’t he on Pete’s level yet? Isn’t he in his league?

The protests die on his lips when Pete sits up and looks at him, legs crossed and eyes wide, mouth crooked into that awful smile of his.

For a second, Patrick can’t breathe. And it’s terrifying.

“I should get going,” he says, standing and twisting his head to avoid Pete’s sudden frown. Fuck but he can’t let himself think of how it feels to know Pete’s disappointed that he’s leaving, can’t let him pretend there’s any hope with emotions like that. 

“Right, right. Yeah, but—” And Pete sounds just like him, stammering as he shoves to his feet, rambling as he forces himself into Patrick’s way. “You have time later this week, right? I know we didn’t schedule anything for the band but I was thinking about your suggestion about having a jam session? Just you and me? I think that’d be cool.”

Cool, sure, but what else would it be? Two friends hanging out has no rarity value and yet Patrick’s mind blanks on a response. It tries, again and again, to make sense of it, to grasp onto logic and respond in kind.

“Sure,” he squeaks out at last, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt as he nods. If it’s a shaky action, it’s only because there’s another voice in his head screaming that this is a bad idea. “I’m free tomorrow?”

“Alright, then.” And Pete smiles. And Pete nods back, looking at Patrick like they’re making more than a simple plan. “Tomorrow.”

Patrick should go back on this before it starts. He should admit that this is stupid and nothing but a disaster.

He should listen to the part of his mind that says Pete’s bad news, that this summer thing won’t last.

But Pete smiles and Patrick can’t say anything of the sort.

He can’t lie to himself in quite that way anymore.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s always been a mess but this is just getting ridiculous. Being in a band with Pete is one thing but hanging out with him— having him over for an hour or so of supposed songwriting— is completely another. And, yes, Patrick’s aware that he agreed to the thing— that he jumped out of the plane of his own free will— but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying when he wakes up, an hour after his alarm was supposed to go off, and remembers that Pete is coming over today.

And, well. Shit.

His mom’s at work already so, thankfully, she’s not around to hear the trail of swearing that exits his mouth as he gets dressed, sniffing at shirts to make sure they’re clean and finding his only pair of socks without holes. He has an hour or so before Pete shows up and he doesn’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse— more time to prepare but also more time to panic.

And, as he steps into the kitchen with the intent of making a quick bowl of cereal, his mind easily decides the best action to take is panic.

Because, yeah. Of course.

Really, though, what else is he supposed to do when Pete’s coming over and the only entertainment Patrick can offer is a guitar and some misplaced notes? Things were easier when play dates were the popular hang-out situations and he could rely on his mom pulling out the lemonade and mini corn dogs— neither of which sounds like a horrible idea once Patrick glances into the pantry and sees nothing but granola bars and graham crackers. He rests his head against the wall, shutting his eyes as a headache prods at the back of his skull. 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he tells the dull pain. “Make yourself at home.”

Which, of course, the headache does. A band pulls tight around his forehead and brow as he shoves away from the wall and goes towards the front door.

Buying snacks for Pete wasn’t part of his original plan but, at this point, it’s better than sitting around, lost in his own nerves. 

The closest place for junk food is the gas station, a place Patrick can easily walk to within fifteen minutes. He hums to himself as he goes down the sidewalk— half because he needs a distraction and half because he wants a song to show to Pete when he arrives. By the time Patrick gets to the store, he’s already gone through four versions of the same opening tune.

“Okay, so, some pop and candy,” he says to himself, feeling around for the quarters he’d shoved into his pocket before leaving. “Sprite, or maybe—”

He stops just outside the door, suddenly feeling faint.

Inside, standing by the slushie machine, is none other than Pete.

With a sharp gasp and flailing limbs, Patrick pulls to the side and presses himself flat against the other side of the building, chest heaving from the near-humiliation experience.

What would he do if Pete saw him inside, counting out coins in order to purchase a pop and some chocolates? What if they had bumped shoulders, Pete smiling with his goddamn slushie while Patrick stared uselessly at all the options, trying to figure out which one would make him seem cooler? His heart thuds uneasily at the mere imagining of such a situation.

It also thuds uneasily when he thinks of Pete just inside. And it’s this thought that has Patrick peering around the corner, glancing through the windows, to see what Pete’s doing now.

He’s still with the slushie machine, popping a lid onto a cup and searching for a straw. A girl passes by him, blonde with an intricate braid down the center of her back, and Pete seems to make a joke. She laughs, says something back, and Pete shakes his head fondly. Something in Patrick’s chest twists.

There should be nothing handsome about the sloppy way Pete fills another cup with cherry slush, the juice dripping down the back of his hand when he fills it just a bit too much. Convenience store lights are unflattering but Pete still glows like he’s beneath the sun, his smile bright when he carries his drinks to the cashier and says hello like he expects everyone to know his name.

And, well, perhaps they do. Because the cashier— a young high school kid with pimples on his nose and greasy bangs— returns Pete’s smile and rings him up with shaking hands. They talk as Pete passes over his bills and Patrick is struck with the way everyone going in and out of the store stops to say something to Pete. Or, if they don’t say something, they certainly pause and they look. The little boy with a fistful of dollars points at the scab he has on his knee, gesturing to the skateboard left outside; Pete says something in return, something that has the kid nodding and bouncing. The group of guys with piercings and tattoos shove at each other with snickering sneers but go quiet when Pete shoots them a look; when he pairs it with a sharp smile, they fade towards the back.

At that moment, Pete’s a siren and Patrick’s just outside imagining his song. Everyone is drawn towards him, everyone is under his spell, and, as he leaves, Pete walks with all the certainty that it’s not a curse meant to be broken.

“So, should I refer to you as a stalker or a spy?” Pete says.

Patrick blinks and Pete is looking right at him. His stomach drops; he’s jumped from the plane, yes, but he forgot his parachute. He’s plummeting towards failure and he feels it in the heat of his cheeks.

“I was just- I was going to get something and-” He stammers, his words lost as Pete nears him with a laugh.

“Well, you didn’t miss out,” he says. “The A/C in there is wrecked and it’s hot as shit. Much better to hang out here.”

Pete nudges Patrick with his elbow and it’s like he’s saying he’s jumping from the plane, too.

“Anyway,” Pete continues, holding out one of the melting slushies. “I got this for you.”

He doesn’t expand on it, doesn’t make it into the big deal Patrick’s racing pulse thinks it should be, so Patrick takes it with a small noise of gratitude.

“Thanks,” he says. He pauses, staring at the drink before talking again. “So did you want to head over to my place now or—”

“Yeah, sure,” Pete says and, god, why is he always so enthusiastic? It’s Patrick’s half-cleaned home, not fucking Disneyland. “Did you walk? I can give you a ride there.”

It might be embarrassing to get a ride back to his own house but with the heat pounding down on him and his somewhat frozen drink, Patrick’s not going to say no. He follows Pete to his car, wincing when he gets in and suffocates on the warmth that had been building up inside.

“I think this is exactly why they say to park in the shade,” Patrick says, hesitating to lean back against the seat lest it burn him. 

“You’re welcome to walk,” Pete says from the driver’s side with no real malice. Patrick rolls his eyes and puts his seatbelt on, hissing when the metal part stings his fingertips.

“I’m going to melt,” he says flatly as Pete pulls out from the parking lot. He sincerely means it but Pete laughs as if it’s a joke.

“Exactly what I was hoping for,” he says. “My own puddle of Patrick.”

This doesn’t invoke the greatest imagery in Patrick’s mind but Patrick finds himself smiling all the same. 

They drive in shared silence for the first few seconds, interrupted only by the obnoxious sound of flavored ice dragging up Patrick’s straw as he tries to salvage what coldness he can from the slushie. Pete glances over every so often. Patrick expects him to tease him or laugh but, surprisingly, he doesn’t.

They’re a block out from Patrick’s place when Pete’s phone buzzes between them, a sound so sudden Patrick jerks in his seat.

“Oh, shit,” Pete says though his eyes are on the stoplight ahead. “Might be my mom. Can you check that?”

Can you check that-- Why does Pete ask like they're close, like Patrick should expect for this to happen? Buying gas station slushies before a jam is one thing but going through his phone like an old friend is another.  Still, Patrick does it— what else is he going to do?

“Um, it’s, uh—” His heart lifts into his throat, trying to keep him from saying the name. “It’s from some Bianca? She says she’s free and wants to know if you can hang out?”

Bianca— it’s not a name Patrick’s familiar with. Was she the blonde from before, the one with the braid and lipstick laugh? Is she some other girl Pete’s known for knowing, some scene chick with dyed hair and a taste for Pete’s brand of fun? Is she a reason to be afraid?

Is she a reason for Pete to leave?

“Oh, cool,” Pete says, unaware of how the words freeze Patrick’s heart. “Can you tell her I’m busy?”

“You’re—” Patrick knows what Pete said but he can’t make it make sense. “You’re busy?”

“Yeah.” Pete stares ahead, turning towards Patrick’s neighborhood with no hesitation. “I am.”

It makes sense, Patrick supposes.

Still, as he types out the words, it’s with a warm smile and the strangest sensation of sunshine in his veins.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick wipes up another spattering of spilled slushie on his jeans before it can stick and stain. The things are great summer fun but are tedious to clean and, unfortunately, he and Pete learned that the hard way a few slushies ago.

Also known as a few hours ago.

It’s grown dark outside and all hope of music fled the second Patrick told a bad joke that got them kicked out of the house by his mother. Guitars left uselessly on the front porch and asses sore from sitting on concrete, the two of them have wasted time in ways Patrick didn’t know was possible. Pete’s car still sits in the driveway, only used the few times he’s left to go get more slushies and snacks.

“You’re such a liar,” Patrick says, mouth stained blue from his drink— eyes trying to keep away from the purple-tinted lips curving into a smile across from him as he speaks. “You said we were going to play music but we’ve only done, like, two covers.”

“Two and a half, if you count my awesome rendition of  Kiss, ” Pete says with a cheeky smile.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “You didn’t know the lyrics. Who the fuck doesn’t know the lyrics to  Kiss? ”

“Hey, don’t be mean,” Pete says, shoving Patrick’s shoulder and simultaneously giving Patrick a mild heart attack as his hand makes contact with him. “I was trying to woo you.”

“Well, you failed,” Patrick says once he’s recovered from Pete’s touch. “I’ve never been more insulted in my life. I didn’t deserve that. Prince didn’t deserve that.”

“Yeah, well, I bought you sugar,” Pete says, nodding towards the slushie in his hand. “So it evens out.”

Patrick’s not willing to argue Prince’s genius again so he wraps his lips around the slushie straws and makes a soft humming noise, eyes fixed on a tree past Pete in the yard.

“Seriously, though, how did we escape all music?” Pete asks. “I thought you were, like, made of that stuff.”

Pete says it quickly enough that Patrick can’t tell if it’s an insult or compliment so he shrugs, lips still firmly attached to his straw.

“I don’t know,” he says once he comes up for air, coughing around the icy slush in his mouth. “We just started… talking.”

Talking— about something as stupid as favorite slushie flavors. It had been something to say as they fiddled with instruments and settled down but then Pete was asking about childhood memories and Patrick was laughing around bad impressions. They meandered away from all discussion of music, going further and further off the trail until the small talk was just… talk.

“I don’t think I’ve talked to someone so long before,” Pete says, looking around at the darkened sky. “Not sober, at least.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?” Patrick asks, incapable of stopping himself as he leans forward, nearly spilling his drink across the ground.

Pete grins, eyes like stardust. “Take it however you like.”

There’s an invitation in the way he speaks, a summer day in the tone of his voice, and Patrick’s mouth goes dry at the sound. Is this flirting? Is this teasing? He can’t tell the difference.

“Maybe you are drunk,” he says, dropping his eyes down into the slushie container. “What do they even put in these things?”

“Crack. It explains why they’re so addictive,” Pete says, hesitating enough that Patrick’s drummer heart picks up on the missed beat and tries to make sense of it. Pete waits another second before laughing breathily, leaning back. “Fuck, I’m not going to be able to finish this.”

Patrick glances up, an eyebrow raised. “It was your idea to get the big one.”

“Yeah,” Pete says, smiling. “I know.”

When Pete smiles at him like that— like he’s watching the sunset or listening to rain— Patrick’s insides spin. They twist and they tease each other and, for a second, it’s like he doesn’t exist. 

He tightens his grip on his cup. When in doubt, ignore every emotion that doesn’t make sense.

“You’re so weird,” he says, stirring his straw in the drink, the top of it cracked from his nervous chewing throughout the evening. 

Pete looks at him like he expects for more words to appear— an expectation that Patrick consistently fails to live up to. What is there left to say when his tongue already feels too big for his mouth, when his lips are better fit between his teeth, when his mind is made out of exclamation marks and questions? 

Still, Pete watches. And Patrick says nothing more.

“It’s late,” Pete says, at last, and it’s like placing a period at the end of a sentence. Patrick can take a moment to breathe but only because he’s been reminded the past few seconds are over. “I should… I should go.”

It’s almost a question, the way he glances at Patrick after. Testing the air with his own voice, waiting for a response.

Patrick looks at Pete’s car, his insides as melted as his cheap frozen drink.

“Yeah, I- I guess.” If Pete’s statement was a question, Patrick’s is a misplaced thought. Half-formed and dizzy with their sudden existence, his words tremble in the air. “We can always hang out later.”

“Right,” Pete says, standing. He looks at Patrick, an eyebrow raised. “We have all of summer.”

Summer— it’s as if the word flees from Pete’s tongue to press against Patrick’s, bittersweet and rich as fruit when he shuts his mouth against it. Yes, they have all of summer; why does that feel so wrong?

Patrick keeps his mouth shut, his lips tight against each other, and nods with what he hopes is an agreeing smile. Perhaps he should walk Pete to his car; perhaps he should say something more.

Again, Pete watches as if this is part of some script Patrick is meant to know; Patrick suddenly understands why, for some people, Pete’s name is passed around like a myth or curse.

“Anyway, uh, today was cool,” he says, standing on legs that don’t feel like they should hold him, looking over at someone that doesn’t seem to be hearing him. “I had fun.”

Patrick cringes at his own juvenile words— he had fun? What the fuck is this, a playdate? 

“Yeah.” Pete’s smile twitches and Patrick can’t tell if it’s for better or for worse. “You’re a cool guy but, hey, I already expected that. I’m glad you were up for hanging out, though. We should do it again.”

Fuck, and now Patrick’s cheeks are warm and his smile feels dopey on his face. He nods, stepping forward to accompany Pete to his car.

“Totally,” he says and, shit, he sounds just like the high schooler he was a few short months ago. He clears his throat, nodding to himself and aiming for a lower voice when he speaks again. “I’ll see you later?”

“Oh, of course,” Pete says, leaning against his open car door, ready to leave but not making any move to. “We’ve got limited time, right? I’m not letting you go that easily.”

“You’re—” Patrick’s eyebrows furrow and he means to repeat Pete’s words, to make sense of them like notes in a song, but Pete merely winks and falls into his car, his eyes on Patrick before drifting away to his hands on the wheel.

Not letting you go that easily

Even with those words around them, Pete drives away with little more than a nod from behind the window. Patrick waves weakly, feeling far too much like some damsel watching her knight ride off as Pete fades into the darkness and distance.

Not letting you go

Patrick doesn’t go inside at first, lingering near the porch with pink cheeks and an unsettled stomach. It’s as if he’s expecting Pete to turn around and come back, to make this feeling make sense— to make summer last forever, the way he said he could.

But Pete keeps away and, though it’s summer, the coolness of night pushes Patrick back indoors, two half-filled slushie cups in his hands as he shoulders his way back inside.

“Oh, you’ve come in. We were worried.”

Patrick starts at his sister’s voice, flinching back when he sees her waiting on the stairs, a wicked grin on her face. He blinks but then shakes his head, walking past her.

“I was just outside, Megan,” he says, crossing over into the kitchen to toss out the cups. “And who made you mom? She knew where I was. You didn’t need to wait up.”

Megan follows him into the other room, her voice low for the rest of the family preparing for bed upstairs. God, Patrick knows she has to do this as the older sister but that doesn’t mean he’s at all okay with the teasing glint in her eyes, the joy that there’s another fun thing to prod at.

“Did she know you were out there with your boyfriend?” She asks.

Patrick snaps his head towards her, eyes sharp as his breath.

“That’s not funny,” he snaps. “Look, I’m going to bed, so—”

Megan moves so she’s blocking the way. She’s unfairly taller than Patrick, the few inches feeling like miles as she stands before him.

“Wait, no, I’m being serious,” she says, not that she sounds at all like it. “That was Pete Wentz, right? Dude, I  know  him. Or, well, I know people who know him. And he’s not the kind of guy to just hang out. He’s a heartbreaker, Rick. One of the cool guys who doesn’t know how to just be friends.”

Patrick usually gets along with Megan— she’s the kinder of his two siblings— but it seems she’s insistent on ruining that streak with a few harsh words.

“So I’ve heard,” he says, rolling his eyes and folding his arms across his chest. When he’s with Pete, it’s an action that feels stubborn and rightfully defiant; here, he just feels childish. “Let me guess— he’s this popular boy who has no reason to hang out with me other than to, like, string me along? I’m not stupid enough to fall for that, Meg.”

Megan doesn’t answer at first, her mocking gleam fading with each breath until she’s just looking at Patrick— nothing other than concern behind her eyes.

“It’s obvious that you have a crush,” she says, her voice soft as she visibly deflates. “You know that, right?”

They’re the same words Patrick’s been repeating to himself each time he laughed too hard at one of Pete’s jokes or made eye contact for a second too long. 

Somehow, they’re harder to ignore when it’s someone else saying them.

“Oh, whatever,” he says, though his eyes fall to the ground as he shoves past. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“Rick, come on,” Megan says, following him as he storms up the stairs. “I’m not trying to be mean. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“End of summer,” Patrick snaps, turning to glare at her. “I’m leaving at the end of the summer so what can possibly happen before then? It’s… It’s just a fun summer thing, Megan. I’ll be gone before it gets too serious.”

Again, Megan pauses, her grip on the banister tight as she stares up at him. And what does she see, Patrick wonders? Her baby brother throwing a fit, stomping his feet and whining because he wants something he knows he can’t have?

If Patrick focuses, he can see the exact same thing.

“Just the summer,” Megan says, at last. “You won’t let it go past that?”

How could he? Patrick feels hollowed out, scraped empty, but he nods all the same.

“Pete and the band… They’re just summer things,” he says, no longer close to shouting— his voice more a whisper than anything else. “I’m just doing all this over the summer and then… then I’m gone.”

The request for her to let him have this goes unsaid.

Still, with no smile and no words, she nods.

It feels like a promise he didn’t mean to make.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Sometime later— a few band practices later— Pete shows up at Patrick’s door with two more slushies and that stupid smile on his face. Patrick accuses him of using the same trick twice but he takes the slushies anyway and follows Pete to a nearby park.

As they sit and they laugh, sweating but paying the heat no mind, Patrick considers telling Pete about what Megan had said. He considers repeating the summer deadline, the expiration date on this. It’s a reminder they both need, especially when Pete leans back and says their band is going to rule the world.

Reminding him would only ruin this moment, though, and for what? Saying that this is all meaningless would hurt this friendship beyond healing and does Patrick have that right? 

If he’s being honest with himself— which is more than he’s being with Pete— he has nothing more than a lovesickness brought on by summer fever. The skies will cool and he can leave with no regrets between them.

Good sense. Common sense.

Summer doesn’t feel like it was made for sense like that. 

“Not feeling the slushie today?” Pete asks, crushing his cup to toss in a nearby bin.

Patrick looks down at his own drink. It’s still half full, still half melted.

“Oh,” he says. “I guess not.”

He throws it out before it's gone.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick stands outside on his sidewalk, hair plastered to his forehead by sweat. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, grimacing at the sticky feeling. Pete promised to be here an hour ago and Patrick is beginning to lose his mind.

What would Pete have planned? It’s nearing the middle of the day— the peak of the summer heat— and Patrick can’t imagine there are many activities worth doing. The past two weeks have been filled with tongues numb from popsicles and cold drinks, their smiles hot on their sweat-slick faces. Pete talks about making the moments last forever.

Patrick’s started to believe him, agreeing with all of Pete’s crazy plans even as the words burn his tongue. He feels like a bandit with a gun hidden in his mouth, taking Pete’s joy with his lips shut. If he speaks, he’ll ruin everything in the most disastrous way. 

So, laugh. Smile. 

Wave when Pete pulls up in his dusty car and climb inside with the expected gripe. Surely, that will keep things right?

Pete turns the radio down and the air conditioner up. Patrick sighs as the blast of coolness hits his face, dragging the seatbelt across him when Pete starts the car up again.

“So what are your plans for today?” Patrick asks eventually. Pete shrugs, pulling out of the neighborhood with his eyes on the road.

“I’ve got a voucher for buy-one-get-one ice cream,” he says. “We can do that if you want.”

It’s a small shift from slushies and the like so Patrick grins, shutting his eyes and thinking of sugary sweet smiles.

The ice cream spot Pete takes them to is a drive-thru and, soon, they’re fitted with two cones— one chocolate-dipped and the other a simple vanilla. They find themselves back out in the heat once realizing sitting in the car will melt the ice cream quicker than they’d like. The benches they occupy are warm to the touch but they have cool water from a vending machine and ice cream melting down their hands.

“They say it’s supposed to cool down in the coming week. I hope they’re wrong,” Pete says. “It won’t be summer if it’s cool.”

“Just because you don’t sweat or burn doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t,” Patrick says, taking his cap off and setting it to the side as if it’ll help the heat at all. “I’ve been dying all month.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Pete says, biting into his ice cream like a heathen before grinning at Patrick. “I mean, you’re usually pretty red but it’s been especially bad today. I’ve been wondering if you were going to pop or something.”

“Oh, shut up. You know I hate your teasing,” Patrick says, his cheeks most certainly turning a few shades darker as Pete laughs. “You’re an ass.”

“And you’re so easy to mess with,” Pete says. “Come on, you know I don’t mean it. Is the heat getting to you that much?”

Patrick goes to say something else— some defense or biting remark— but it fades into a sigh instead. He doesn’t mean to but he finds himself looking at Pete the way he knows and hates he does— like he’s holding his breath and waiting for Pete to turn and look back at him. Like he needs Pete to look at him.

God, how pathetic. He goes back to his ice cream, finishing it off with all the rage of a child wanting to leave the dinner table early. What he really needs right now is some reason and an excuse to leave. 

He could go, he supposes. He could stand and say he needs to pack.

The trouble is that he could also stay right where he is.

Patrick runs his hands down his denim shorts, wiping the excess ice cream off on them. As long as he doesn’t think about Pete sitting next to him, he’ll be alright. 

Of course, it’s like Pete can sense when people are ignoring him. The sudden disappearance of his bottled water is all the warning Patrick gets before it’s flipped over his head, lukewarm water becoming ice on his scorching skin as it pours over him.

“What the fuck?” He shouts, jumping up. “Pete, what the fuck?”

Pete can hardly speak over his own laughter, doubled over and gripping his side in an image of absolute cliche. “You didn’t answer! I thought you were getting heatstroke!”

Patrick narrows his eyes. “You fucker, you—”

He launches forward for Pete’s water in the same second that Pete jumps up and starts running.

Forget everything else.

Pete just declared  war.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The moment Patrick realizes just how deeply he’s fallen for Pete is a moment that’s just as stupid as he’d expect it to be.

He’s at the kitchen table, half-asleep over his cereal as he scoops sugary flakes into his mouth. Somehow, he was able to get dressed upon waking but there’s milk already on his t-shirt, a faint stain near the edge. 

Megan walks in and raises an eyebrow.  “Your cereal is soggy.”

“I know,” Patrick says, though he glares at her anyway. “And it’s not the good kind, either. I think mom threw out the chocolate ones.”

Megan shakes her head as she shoves her wallet into her pocket, leaning against the fridge with a sigh.

“I’m gonna go get breakfast somewhere else. I’m meeting with some friends later and I need to get gas, anyway. The shop is sketchy but it has some good pastries,” she says, tossing her car keys back and forth in her hands. “You want something?”

“I’m already halfway through this bowl. I’m good,” Patrick says.

Impossible, Megan raises her eyebrow further. “Not even a slushie?”

It’s quick— like hearing a joke and laughing before it’s fully sunk in. Patrick smiles without knowing why, grinning into his milk with a soft chuckle as something warm and tingling spreads across his nerves. He thinks of blue-tinted lips that shape around his name. He thinks of cold palms and hot bodies, of every time he wondered what that contrast would feel like.

He thinks of Pete. And then he stops.

Fucking  hell . Of all the ways to confirm a crush, his has to be as stupid as the mention of slushies?

“Wait, what?” He looks up, turning towards Megan with an almost offended look. “Why would I want that?”

“Good question,” she says. “You usually hate those things but, around Pete, you can’t seem to get enough. I’ve been trying to figure it out.”

“They’re- Whatever, they’re good, shut up.” Patrick’s face is warm as he looks back down, his spoon stirring restlessly now. “I like them, usually, it’s just—”

“It’s just that it’s better when Pete buys it for you?” Megan asks, pushing away from the fridge. “It’s fine to admit— I told you, I already know. But, like, have you told him?”

“Yeah, totally,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes. “I totally told this infamous heartbreaker that I might have a crush on him.” The  might  is only tossed in there to preserve his dignity and he doesn’t appreciate Megan’s small smirk when she hears it.

“Seems like a you thing to do but, no, that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, have you told him that you’re leaving soon?”

Patrick’s grip on his spoon tightens. “Why would I need to do that? It’s a small crush, not a—”

“Dude,” Megan says, cutting him off with her no-shit older sister voice. “You got blushy and flustered because I mentioned a gas station slushie.”

But it’s not just the slushie, is it? It’s the way Pete bought it for him without thinking twice, and the smile he had when Patrick sighed at the first sip. It’s the fact that it’s just a thing they do— a thing that’s the two of them, a thing that’s theirs. It’s how the slushie reminds him of Pete’s voice and how easily he says nice things to Patrick— the compliments, the teasing, the lyrics pressed into his mind as Pete simply speaks. 

It’s the summer sweet scent of sugar in Patrick’s thoughts when he imagines the way he and Pete would sit, side by side, and stir their melting drinks— too busy talking to think of finishing them in time. 

It’s everything.

Patrick bites his tongue and shoves his cereal away. With the violent butterflies in his gut, there’s no way he’s finishing it.

“You’re making it a bigger deal than it is.” Yes, he sounds pouty but only his older sister is around to hear it so he doesn’t care quite as much as he should. 

“And you’re avoiding the question,” Megan shoots back. “You two are so stupid for each other and that’s going to suck when you disappear randomly in a week or so.”

Patrick winces but focuses on the part that hurts less. “He’s not- Pete’s stupid but, like, not for me.”

Megan grins. Patrick doesn’t see it but he certainly hears it in her voice.

“Sure,” she says. “Because every guy you know walks you home and then lingers on the doorstep like he’s waiting for a goodbye kiss.” 

Again, Patrick flinches but more so because he has wondered— more than once— whether that’s why Pete hangs around so long at the end of another day. Lips wet from the way his tongue darts out across them, eyes dropping to somewhere around Patrick’s mouth— it’s always felt like wishful thinking when Patrick imagined what Pete might be wanting.

Whatever he wanted, he was always left with a goodbye and the sight of Patrick scuttling back inside— back to safety.

Best not to think about that now.

“He’s not waiting for a kiss,” Patrick grumbles. “And, yes, he knows. That I’m leaving, I mean.”

“Oh.” Finally shocked at something, Megan crosses the room to drop into the chair beside Patrick, eyes wide as she leans forward. “And he hasn’t said anything to stop you?”

“Why would he?” Patrick asks. “We just met this summer. I wouldn’t expect any pining to happen.”

“Maybe not but I’d still expect something,” Megan says, her tone more thoughtful than before. “When are you seeing him again?”

Patrick does his best to keep his gaze steady even as he shrinks back in his seat. “Today, I think. He should be here in a bit, actually.”

“Oh. Well. Explains why you’re awake so early.” Megan glances at the clock and then back at Patrick. “Look, I do need to go in a bit but I want you to think about it, okay? If you two like each other, you need to face that. You’re leaving and, well…”

Megan trails off and that, somehow, is more terrifying than what Patrick knows she was going to say.

“What?” He asks, his tone flat. “You don’t think I should? Shit, Megan, I—”

“Language,” Megan says, eyes sharp. Always the older sibling, even when Patrick’s planning to move out and leave. 

Patrick’s voice grows tighter. “I’m leaving. Going to school. Isn’t that what everyone in the family wants?”

“Your family wants you to be happy,” Megan says in an almost tired tone as she stands. “Stop pretending it’s you against the world. You deserve to have some fun in your life and if that takes the shape of Peter Goddamn Wentz, so be it.”

There’s a smile in the corner of her lips— a smile Patrick shoots right back against his will.

“Language,” he reminds her.

Megan laughs and shakes her head. “Talk to Pete. Okay?”

“Ok—”

Patrick’s not proud of how the sudden knocking on the door makes him jump, nor is he appreciate of Megan’s knowing look when he hurries to stand and answer it.

“Is that him?” She hisses. Patrick loves his sister— he swears he does— but, this time, he shushes her as he slips shoes on and opens the door for Pete.

“Hey,” Pete says, doing a wonderful of ignoring Megan as she obviously hovers from around the corner. “You ready to go?”

No, not really. Not with Megan’s words in his mind and Pete’s smile so close to his face. Patrick’s stomach twists and, for a horrible second, he’s terrified he’s going to be sick.

“Sure,” he says anyway, if only to avoid the scolding Megan would give him if he backed out now. “Let’s go.”

Pete’s grand idea for today’s activity is nothing more than a drive around, radio playing with the windows rolled down. The air’s hot when it comes in and Patrick’s hyper-awareness of Pete’s presence does little to make it any better.

But, still, they talk and they joke and Pete parks somewhere he shouldn’t just so he can face Patrick properly when he insists Patrick’s eyes are brighter when he laughs. 

It’s as they’re sitting there— in front of someone’s driveway on the other side of the neighborhood, windows rolled up now as air conditioning blasts them— that Patrick’s heart does a funny little spin and he thinks of what he talked about with Megan.

“I’ve been trying to book the band some shows but all the clubs want crazy advance notice,” Pete says. “Where are you going to be in a month and a half?”

“College, but—”

But I think I still want to talk to you then, to stay in contact and hear your voice

But I think I’ll be sick if I have to leave

But I think I might want to stay

Pete’s eyes do a strange little flicker, like someone blowing on a flame. “But?”

“I don’t know.” Patrick looks away, stares ahead at the empty street and imagines how lonely he’ll be when he’s packed off states away. “It doesn’t feel like a good idea, anymore.”

Pete’s hand reaching for Patrick’s knee. Pete in his space, leaning over just enough for Patrick to stop breathing.

“Yeah?” He asks. Is Patrick imagining it or is Pete gripping his leg tighter than he needs to— tighter than a friend would? “Why not?”

Patrick might as well be choking on his own voice, forming fists in his lap and struggling to remember which words match what he’s trying to say.

“Because you made summer feel like forever.” It’s barely a whisper, something nearly lost in the rush of the cool air coming from the vents. “And I don’t want that to end just yet.”

Pete’s silent for a second— a long and horrible second— and, then, he laughs. Small and breathless— exactly how Patrick feels.

“It doesn’t have to,” he says and Patrick’s suddenly breathing again, his lungs cooled as he sucks in a relieved breath. “There’s still so much more we need to do.”

Oh, and that sounds like a promise. Like Pete’s been thinking of the same things— of slushies and water fights and the way they look at each other when they’ve run out of breath. Patrick faces Pete with a smile and allows himself to melt when Pete smiles back in the exact same way.

“You’ve been planning this,” he says. Perhaps he should be upset but isn’t this romantic? Something his sister would fawn and gush over? Pete the heartbreaker winning over his crush with the pressure of a deadline looming over him? Patrick can’t help how his smile grows. “You’ve been hanging out with me all this time— planning out all these dumb things and buying me stupid drinks— just to get me to stay.”

Pete seems shocked and Patrick can’t blame him. Patrick had feared he’d be with the one with the crush exposed; there’s some sort of satisfaction in knowing he’s pulled the rug out from beneath Pete.

“I mean, I didn’t exactly plan for you to catch on,” he says, almost cautiously. “You’re— You’re not upset about it?”

It’s fun to see Pete so scared, so hesitant with what he says. Patrick laughs and it tastes like every season they’ll get to share.

“I’m more surprised than anything else.” He pauses and, because things have been going so well, he tests his luck with a self-indulgent question. “You really want me around that much? You’ve spent a fortune on gas station slushies for this.”

“Yeah, but it’ll be worth it if you stay.” Pete’s warming up to the conversation now, smiling easier and poking Patrick’s arm jokingly. “Fuck, I didn’t really think it would work so well, though. The band is gonna be so much better with your voice in it. The others are going to be so pumped.”

And, wait. The band?

“The band? The others?” Patrick’s still smiling, still saying everything with that half-flattered tone he’d been using before. 

“Well, yeah,” Pete says, grinning now that he’s had Patrick’s assurance that everything he’s saying is okay. “We really needed you to stay, man, and I promised the rest that I could get you to do that.”

The silence that hits this time isn’t like the one from before. It’s neither gentle nor shy; it wrecks through Patrick’s being with all the devastation of a quiet storm.

“The band,” he says again, that smile falling— his shoulder slumping. “You want me to stay for the band.”

It’s not a question and Pete must hear that. Patrick looks away but not before watching how Pete’s smile twists into something a little less sure.

“Of course,” he says, uncertainty teetering on the edge of the word. “What else would you think?”

Humiliation is hard. It’s the sweat of summer sticking to the back of Patrick’s neck, the disgusting shade of red Patrick’s face gets. It’s running out of breath and wishing for longer days and holding hands and pretending every summer romance is real.

Humiliation is summer. And Patrick’s had enough of both.

“Well, god, Pete. You were buying me shit and always talking about how nice my eyes were.” Patrick’s determined to be as cold as he can, anger coursing through his veins with all the fury of winter’s worst blizzard. It freezes his voice and he can feel when the icicles hit Pete’s chest. He turns, eyes frozen lakes when he looks at Pete. “What else could I possibly think?”

Even as Patrick’s stomach sinks, he still hopes for Pete to say something  good .

“You— You thought—” A stuttering mess now, Pete’s eyes go wide and a tinge of pink hits his cheeks. 

“You  made  me think,” Patrick snaps back. If they were standing— if they were outside— Patrick would be in Pete’s face now, fists at his side and ready to fly. As it is, he simply grips his seatbelt with white-knuckled hands and hopes Pete knows how lucky he is. “You made me think you liked me and you did it on purpose.”

“I—” Pete’s voice shrinks but Patrick can’t take time to find any pity. “You said you weren’t upset.”

“And you said you made some stupid bet with the band to make me stay.” Patrick hates how his voice wavers, hates how his eyes sting. “And you didn’t care how you did it.”

“Wait, okay, so  this  is the moment where you catch on.” Though his words have the potential to be cruel, Pete’s tone is simply one of desperation hidden beneath a cool facade. “Yeah, this is a bit more what I expected would happen. That makes more sense.”

“Of fucking course it does,” Patrick says, yelling like the child he feared Pete would see him as. “You tricked me.”

“I—”

“Did you or did you not go into this just so I can stay in the band? Was that your end goal?”

Say something— say anything. 

Pete keeps quiet and Patrick has to squeeze his eyes shut tight to keep from losing any of his dwindling pride.

“Fuck you.” Like Pete, Patrick’s voice is smaller now— and that’s worse than anything else it could be. “I hate you so much.”

“You don’t. Don’t say that,” Pete says. “You don’t understand, alright? Okay, yeah, the band was the main priority, right? But—”

“But if you could get some other idiot to fall for you then it’d be a plus, right?” Patrick opens his eyes but won’t look at Pete, won’t look at anything other than the road. “Everyone told me not to trust you and I thought that I knew better. That you were better than they said. Why couldn’t you have just proven them wrong? Been a halfway decent guy for once?”

“The band wasn’t going to go anywhere without you, Patrick!” Pete says and his voice is so urgent that Patrick nearly gives in to look at him. He stays strong, though, tensing with each sound from Pete’s throat. “I didn’t know what else to do. I— It’s like you. I need music more than anything else and you— this goddamn golden ticket— walks in. Do you think I’m going to just let that walk away from me? I’m sorry if you got hurt but I didn’t, like, make you fall in love with me. I just—”

“You just used it to your advantage. You saw a dumb kid with a crush and decided to have fun with it. And it didn’t even work,” Patrick finishes when Pete refuses to. Pete starts to speak again but Patrick cuts him off— ice through fire. He’s melting in the worst way as he says it but at least he knows it’s hurting Pete, too. “I’m leaving at the end of the summer. You’re not changing that, now.”

Pete sounds like he’s drowning; Patrick feels the same.

“You’re so dramatic,” Pete says. “You belong here, Patrick. Our band is going to be fucking magic and you’ll never see that if you leave.”

“I can handle that,” Patrick says, “if it means I never have to see you, either.”

Another silence; another moment daring Patrick to break.

Pete takes a breath, as shaky as Patrick’s hands.

“What if I said I do like you back?” Pete asks in a small voice.

Patrick shuts his eyes, softly this time— as soft as Pete’s words, as soft as his tone.

“I wouldn’t believe you.” The words are fatal but he doesn’t know which one of them is dying as he says them. “Take me home. Now.”

Maybe Pete will say no. Maybe he’ll keep fighting and prove that last thing he said. Maybe he’ll make summer last forever.

But Patrick feels the car start to move, the hum of the engine emphasizing the quiet space between them.

And Patrick tries not to imagine what would happen if Pete’s last confession was real.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

If there’s one thing Patrick’s learned about summer crushes, it’s that they don’t have to last long to be painful. 

He wishes he could say he waited before throwing his fit— that he sat down and spoke with someone like Megan about what happened— but, really, it only takes a day or two for him to start packing everything in his room. He doesn’t quite look at what he’s tossing into the suitcase that’s been half-packed until now but, so long as it’s not reminiscent of hot days and stupid boys, it goes in the bag. 

Kneeling on his bedroom floor, folding shirts with hands that haven’t stopped shaking, Patrick wonders what Pete would think if he saw him now. Ready to leave; ready to disappear.

He wonders if Pete cares.

Megan has come around a few times, peering into his room as if she has something to say, but Patrick’s not given her anything to work with. If his own thoughts sound so empty and hollowed out, he doesn’t care to hear how bad it would be to say each one out loud.

Pete played me.

Pete tricked me.

Pete never cared and I don’t want to be here anymore.

Everything is a reminder of how lonely he is now, though. His room is bigger than it was when summer started, he’s certain. Even his family seems to avoid him whenever he manages to drag himself to the kitchen table. He imagines it’s another sign that this place isn’t for him but only because he doesn’t want to admit how they all heard him crying for hours after Pete dropped him off. Taking turns peering into his room, wincing at the sight of his red eyes and blotchy skin, they’d offered to listen.

Patrick had shut the door— the way he should have long before anyone got involved with his summer plans.

He doesn’t cry quite so dramatically anymore, either. Though, as the days go by, it’d be a lie to say it doesn’t hurt whenever he skips out on band practices in favor of looking up earlier flights from the state. It’s not so much that he wants to leave the state, however; it’s more that he wants to run away from summer.

Patrick imagines it as he sits at the family computer, clicking through each offer. Would the green fade with each mile he passed? Flowers wilting and winds growing? He thinks of swimming pools freezing over as his place goes by above it, of skies darkening not with night but with storms. Everything shifting to match how cold his blood feels when he thinks of how easily he fell for everyone’s tricks.

They want him to stay; they want summer to last forever.

And Patrick just wants summer to be gone. Not over, not done— erased. Scratched out from his memories— his history. Burn it, freeze it, take it— he doesn’t care.

And he doesn’t know what to do.

So. Back to flights. Back to packing. He can’t outrun the seasons but he can, at least, get a head start.

“Okay,” Megan says a few mornings later. She’s at the kitchen table flipping through some makeup magazine and Patrick’s peering into the fridge, frowning at the lack of milk. He looks over, already tired of the conversation. “What’s up?”

“Uh, the sky,” he says in the expected shitty little brother fashion. Megan rolls her eyes.

“Do you really want me to ask it in detail?” She asks, and then continues without his input. “You and Pete. What happened? What gives? I thought you were going to admit your feelings to him and have, like, this amazing rom-com worthy romance.”

“Yeah, about that.” Enough time has passed that Patrick can speak without spitting out the words. He does still slam the fridge door shut, though. “It was a trick.”

Megan’s other eyebrow goes up. “A trick?”

“Uh-huh.” Patrick can’t look at her as he says this, can barely look at his own reflection in the shiny fridge doors. “He just wanted me to stay and sing for his band and, apparently, making me fall in love with him was the perfect way to do that.”

Megan keeps quiet for a second, the only sound in the room being that of the fridge’s frustrating hum. Patrick keeps still, arms crossed over his chest as he glares at his socks.

“Are— Are you sure?” Megan asks, finally. “Did he actually say that or—”

“Oh, yeah, he said it, don’t worry,” Patrick says, almost snapping but biting back the bitter tone at the last second. “Something about telling the rest of the band about it, too. So, I mean, that’s great.”

“Oh my god.” Another pause, this one filled with Megan’s nails tapping on the table and the sensation that she’s going protective older sister mode. “What a  dick .”

“No, I mean, it’s fine?” Patrick says before she threatens to gouge Pete’s eyes out. Not because he wants to protect Pete’s eyes but because he doesn’t trust himself to say no if she asks. “Like, I’m leaving anyway and this makes it so much easier and, like, right? I don’t have to worry about shitty guys or dumb crushes or long-distance dramatics.”

Megan studies his face for a moment, and her eyes— so much like his— are surprisingly gentle. “You don’t need to pretend like it’s okay, Rick. I wouldn’t judge you for being upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You are. I’m your sister, remember? I could tell how much you liked him,” Megan says softly, standing and walking to stand before Patrick. Patrick jerks away, stiff as Megan leans against the counter across from him. “Those kinds of crushes don’t just go away and having it used against you like that— there’s no way that doesn’t hurt.”

“I’ve had time to get over it.” Patrick’s voice— calm until now— wavers. He sounds stupid, childish— some dumb kid too nervous to talk about his feelings now that they’ve been stepped on. “It happened earlier this week and now I can just focus on  finally  getting out of here.”

“And you’ve been doing a great job at that. Look at you. You spent a whole night crying to yourself, ignoring everyone, and now you want to pretend the past month or so didn’t happen,” Megan says, her eyes flickering with impatience. “Even now, you’re just shoving it all aside. Nothing good is going to come from bottling up how much this hurts, Rick. And I can tell that it’s hurting.”

What right does she have to say this shit to him? To tower above with her arms across her chest, eyebrow lifted as she stares him down? Wasn’t she the one who said it would all be okay? Wasn’t she the one who said there was no way for this to go bad?

Patrick meets her eyes with a glare he feels in his bones, a heat he hates.

“What do you want to hear?” He snaps, shouting in a way that would get them in trouble if anyone else was home. “That everyone was right about Pete being this asshole I couldn’t trust? Okay, he is— So, what? He’s just one guy and I’m not stupid enough to sob about that forever. What? I’m supposed to cry about the fact that he found out about this dumb crush and used it to his advantage, made me think I had a chance and then took it away? What exactly happens if I admit that? If I spend any time to think about how it felt to find out? I’m leaving soon and I can’t wait, I… I don’t ever want to see Pete again and now I don’t have to. It all worked out so well and so there’s no… no point in bringing it up. No point because I’ll be gone and, and, I’ll—”

And suddenly there are tears in Patrick’s eyes again, a knot deep in his throat. His face is hot and his hands are shaking, legs giving out as he sinks back against the fridge and to the floor. His body shakes with the effort of holding itself together as he chokes on a sob. He’s small— this stupid kid with bright eyes and the impossible belief that someone like Pete could ever smile at him and mean it. 

He shuts his eyes but all he sees is Pete. He sees a cruel glimpse of what could have been— what should have been— and it’s an iron branding into his chest. He sees Pete waiting for him outside, toying with Patrick’s name in his mouth, eyes lighting up when Patrick steps into his car. He sees water dripping from their skin, sun beaming down against them; he sees Pete— and then he doesn’t.

Violent tremors wrack through his frame as he gasps for air, eyes flying open to escape the visions in his mind. For a moment, he forgets where he is; he’s lost and alone and as abandoned as he was when Pete dropped him off without a word earlier this week.

But then there’s Megan on her knees beside him, holding him close and rubbing his back in gentle circles. She doesn’t speak but Patrick clings to her all the same, holding tight to her shirt as he cries. He’s humiliated— the little boy she’ll always see him as, just like everyone else. He’s a mess— the idiot Pete fooled.

“I’m sorry,” he hiccups.

“It’s alright. It’s not your fault. You don’t need to do anything,” Megan says softly, pulling back from Patrick as he regains his breath and composure. Her voice is kind— the voice of someone who’s put bandaids on his scratched knees before— but her eyes burn with a fury that has him shrinking back. “Well, I guess you do need to give me permission to kill Pete, though.”

Though he flinches at the name, Patrick finds himself smiling— the kind of smile that only comes after tears and desperate breaths.

“I hate how easily I believed him,” he says, smile flickering. 

For a moment, Megan’s quiet and Patrick can only imagine what she’ll say. Of course he fell so easily— he’s so young, so childish, so eager despite the angry tone he puts on.

Instead, Megan shakes her head. “I hate how easily he decided to trick you. He really didn’t say anything about his own feelings?”

What if I said I do like you back?

Patrick holds the words tight to his chest, curled around his ribs like a scroll waiting to be pulled apart.

Those words are his own to dissect.

“No,” he says, leaning forward into his sister’s embrace. “And it wouldn’t matter if he did.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

What kind of asshole breaks someone’s heart and then shows up on their doorstep a week later with puppy dog eyes and timid words?

Pete Wentz. Apparently.

“Hi,” Pete says when Patrick opens— and promptly tries to shut— the door. It works like a foot or a hand jutting out just in time, pausing all chance of having the door slammed in his face. “Wait, no, listen.”

“I genuinely think I’ve already done enough of that.” Patrick can’t look in Pete’s eyes or else he’ll break; he can’t speak too loudly or else he might say something he doesn’t want to mean. “Get away from here, Pete. You’ve—”

You’ve done enough  is too cliche but it’s all Patrick can think of as he swallows and drops his gaze to their shoes.

“I know,” Pete says. “But, it’s just… You left something. In my car.”

Patrick’s eyebrows furrow together even as this, too, stings. Some forgotten item tossed out of Pete’s life and back into Patrick’s, passed around like a bundle of feelings on a string.

“Then bring it here and leave,” he says, somehow managing to sound like he’s closer to hitting Pete than he is to crying. 

“I, uh—” Pete’s not the stammering kind and his soft stumble over his own voice tempts Patrick’s eyes back up. “Come with me? It’s just parked by the sidewalk so you can leave as soon as you want. I won’t even make you get in.”

“You can’t make me do anything anyway, asshole,” Patrick snarls, finally feeling that horrible heat of shame and anger coiling in his stomach. “I don’t even care about whatever it is you think I left behind. Keep it or throw it away or something— I don’t want it if it has anything to do with you.”

This time when he steps back and swings the door shut, Patrick’s rewarded with a satisfying slam.

Satisfying, of course, only for the one second where the sound echoes through the house, shaking the walls and trembling its way through Patrick’s bones. Satisfying only when he imagines Pete’s stunned face on the other side.

Satisfying— and then silence.

Satisfying, and then nothing but a cold embrace.

When Megan approaches a moment later behind him, Patrick wants to pretend he has emotion left for surprise or indignation. He tries to call fire up to his tongue, to taste a heat he can control. How dare she spy, listen in, wait around to call out his hurt? He waits for those words; he used to be so good at that— warm and pink-cheeked, always.

Nw, though, as he turns to face Megan’s pitying frown, he’s simply empty.

“I can still kill him,” she says, arms twitching at her side as if uncertain about Patrick’s reaction. As numb as he is now, Patrick’s just as unsure about how he’d feel about a hug.

“No, you can’t,” he says. “The other guys still need a bassist.”

Megan bites her lip. “Did you talk to them about this?”

Patrick shakes his head, so stiff he’s almost unaware he’s moving, at all.

“No,” he says. “I didn’t need to hear them say it, too.”

The strange soft light in Megan’s eyes is nothing new but Patrick turns his gaze away from it. He’d seen that look in Pete’s eyes mere moments ago— that silly apologetic shade, that broken glint of a vow once sworn. There’s no use in standing under its weight again.

“He’s still there,” Megan says after a moment, striking Patrick to his core. She nods towards the door as if looking through it. “I haven’t heard his car leave yet.”

“Good,” Patrick says, though the word comes out strangled. “I hope he rolls up all the windows and lets the sun fry his brain.”

Megan’s supposed to laugh and offer homicide again. She’s supposed to lead Patrick away from the door, away from Pete, away from all his foolish mistakes.

But Megan steps forward and she tilts her head in a way that makes Patrick’s shoulders slump.

Her voice is gentle, placating— a brush of breeze through summer days. “I think you two should talk.”

And just like that— a spike of spinning fear falling down his throat. The light snap of his tongue between his teeth.

Patrick nearly convinces himself he feels something.

“Just hear me out.” Megan’s voice is the only sign that Patrick’s forgotten how to respond, how to speak. “I never want to be the one to push you into a mistake— not again. But, I mean, why is he here? What would be the point of keeping this con up? He knows you know.”

“And he needs a singer,” Patrick says, finding his voice again. “That’s all it’s been, Meg. His desperate search for a singer.”

“If he was searching for a singer, he’d move on,” Megan says, caution between each word. “But he came back for you.”

Something wells up in Patrick’s gut— something warm and not entirely unpleasant. Like getting a look from a crush, his skin flares with blushes and overexcited nerves.

“Don’t.” His voice isn’t a whisper— it’s barely there. “Don’t make me think—”

“I don’t want you to go back out there but… But I think that there’s a reason I was willing to believe that  the  Pete Wentz had a crush back on you,” she says as if unaware of how deeply her words cut. “Go talk to him. If he’s still an ass, you punch him in the face and continue with your plan to leave. But if he has something good to say…”

She trails off and Patrick finishes with something like a bubble of hysteria in his throat.

“Then that’s worth everything else.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The car door swings open— unlocked, of course— and Patrick slides inside as easily as he had every time before this.

Patrick listens for the hitch in Pete’s breath, the subtle recognition that Pete knows he here, before doing anything else. His hands fold into fists in his lap; the soft shaking they’d carried as Patrick walked down the driveway to Pete’s car has fled, replaced with tiny red crescents where nails dig in too deep. Sweat collects in his palm, something that has nothing to do with the heat.

“There’s a slushie in the cup holder,” Pete says and, god, his voice is like everything Patrick’s been trying to forget— summer wrapped up in bubbles and light, even when coated with the softest layer of tears. “It’s for you.”

“My sister’s heading to the gas station,” Patrick says, hoping Megan doesn’t come outside and spoil his lie. “I’ll have her get me one.”

“No, but, like,” Pete says, stammering as Patrick watches his head turn from the corner of his vision. Patrick still refuses to look at Pete but he does drop his gaze towards the cup Pete’s talking about. “I made this one on my own.”

Fuck, he sounds like a little kid. Like he wants Patrick to be  proud  of him for crushing ice and drizzling syrup over it. It’s a pathetic attempt at a slushie, anyway— more a sad snowcone than anything else, ice white with patches of blue and red. It’s pathetic and, yet, some stupid part of Patrick still fawns over the fact that this means Pete tried. He mixed it together himself, picked out flavors and brought a cup.

Right. Because a slushie fixes everything.

“Doesn’t matter,” Patrick says, turning his eyes from the cup as Pete makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “Now, what the fuck did I forget?”

“A song,” Pete says without hesitation, spitting out words as if he’s afraid he’ll lose the chance to do it again. “I mean, well. Your song.”

“Fuck off. I didn’t get in this car to be jerked around,” Patrick snaps. “Come on. Even you should know better than that.”

Pete takes a shaky breath. “They’re lyrics, Patrick. You were playing music the first time we really talked— on your porch. And I wrote lyrics for the song I heard.”

There’s a moment where Patrick can barely remember what Pete’s talking about. There have been many porches, many talks, many songs played with no words to accompany them.

But then Patrick’s thinking of a guitar pressing into his thighs, and the notes swirling through his skull. He thinks of how Pete’s face fell when he heard of Patrick’s plans to leave and he nearly chokes on his breath.

“What are you trying to do here, Pete?” Patrick asks, his words more controlled but no less hurt. "You’ve known for a while about how I’ve felt and you did nothing. Now you’re writing songs? Is this part of your con? Because I swear to fucking god—”

“It’s real,” Pete interrupts. “I wouldn’t lie about that. And… And I still haven’t.”

“I’d be a bit more willing to believe that if you hadn’t spent all summer playing me for a sucker,” Patrick says. “So do you have anything better?”

“Patrick— it’s  real ,” Pete repeats, leaning towards Patrick in that way that forces Patrick to glance over at him. It’s brief— enough for him to see the shadows beneath Pete’s eyes— but it’s enough to have him looking back out the window with a tight knot around his throat. “I didn’t spend the summer trying to trick you— I spent the summer trying to figure out how I felt about you.”

“How you  felt  about me?” Patrick asks in a clipped tone.

Pete waits and Patrick knows he’s waiting for Patrick to look at him.

And, so, against his better judgment, Patrick does.

“I really like you.” The words are different when Patrick can see them taking shape— their birth and escape, the way they look when darting out from Pete’s tongue. They almost look real. “At first I thought I just considered you a best friend but I want so much more than that, it terrifies me. You understand me and you write songs like magic and, sometimes, I swear you’re the only person in this goddamn world who can make me make sense. And, maybe, sometimes, I get so scared of ruining it all that I say stupid things that I can’t take back. And maybe I’ve been beating myself up for that. A lot.”

“But you already knew how I felt about you. You— You mattered to me. So much,” Patrick says before Pete’s words have fully sunk in, their comfort still appearing too close to the previous burns. “You just— You’re something else, you know? You’re the first person I’ve ever opened up to so don’t talk to me about being afraid. I was so scared it’d backfire and—”

“And it did,” Pete says. “And I don’t know how to say sorry but I do know how to write. So, can you, please…”

A piece of paper lands lightly in Patrick’s lap, crinkled and torn and faded. Mere notebook sheets folded together, the ink from a dark pen seeping through. 

When Patrick picks them up, he imagines he can feel Pete’s fingerprints pressing against his own.

And, as he reads the words, he imagines that he’s seeing his soul outside his body— that he’s been captured on the page.

He imagines the song he was writing and it’s like watching everything slot into its place.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he whispers even as the melody plays through his head with confessions tangled within the notes, promises and dreams stirred in with every chord he’s played. “It fits but… I don’t understand how… how you…”

“The way you feel reading those? That’s how I feel listening to you. Singing or talking or even just laughing at a joke at my expense,” Pete says in a voice just as soft. “It feels like someone has me figured out, for the first time in my life. On a level I can’t even understand, it feels like—”

“We fit,” Patrick finishes, still staring at those pages in his hands. “We fit but that doesn’t mean you had the right to use me like that. You said you just needed a singer, that—”

“I was wrong,” Pete interrupts. “I don’t need a singer; I need you.”

“I was wrong to come out here,” Patrick says harshly, tossing the pages down even as his fingers begin to tremble from the thoughts and emotions flooding through his veins. “Everything you’re saying, everything you’re doing, everything you’re making me feel— it’s all part of what you want.”

“And what if what I want is for you to stay?” Pete presses. “What if I want you here, with me? What if I want more summers, more time? What if—”

“What if I didn’t leave and lost my chance to do everything I’ve been planning? What if I stay and you break my heart?” The same heart that’s beating wildly in Patrick’s chest, racing to escape. Patrick speaks too loudly— breathes too loudly, exists too loudly— and he can’t think, can’t feel, can’t see past the haze of fear clouding over his eyes and—

And then he sees Pete. And he sees the melting drink between them, the one other thing Pete’s brought. Not bought—  brought . A simple change in sound but wholly separate in meaning.

Patrick wants Pete like he wants coolness on his tongue during a heatwave. He wants him like sugar and sweet drinks, and Pete could pretend to be that all he likes. He can buy the store made version, the colorful cups and fancy straws, and he can sell it to Patrick as if it’s sincere.

Or he can be honest. He can make a crappier version of Patrick’s dream, taking the time to find out how to do it right. He can risk melting or being left behind. He can risk it all— the way Patrick risked it when he came outside.

Patrick likes the stronger flavors but, somehow, he’d trade them for Pete’s plastic cup any day.

“Oh,” is all Patrick can say, soft as a kiss on his lips. Gentle as ice melting in his hand. “ Oh .”

“I know,” Pete says, starting to smile. “Trust me, I know.”

Patrick doesn’t know exactly what he knows— only that Pete’s smile is the warmest he’s ever seen.

“Forever,” he says dumbly. “You said you’d make summer feel like forever so do that, please? Tell me how?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Pete asks.

“Of fucking course it is,” Patrick snaps with far less fury than he had before. “But… I still want. I want to see that you mean this, that this isn’t some fucking joke to you. I want— Pete, I want summer.”

Pete stares at him, silent. There’s a horrid moment where he seems to draw back; but then he takes Patrick’s hand and it’s like the world’s forgotten how to spin.

“Summer,” he says, finally. “We make it last forever by making it immortal, something that will never die. People will talk about this summer forever because it will be  ours  and we’re going to take over the fucking world, Patrick, wait and—”

Pete never does finish his sentence because then Patrick’s kissing him, so suddenly that Patrick feels feverish at the contact. Pete fumbles with his seatbelt, tearing it away from himself, and Patrick leans over the middle console without caring how it presses into his stomach. His hands find the sides of Pete’s face and Pete presses closer, their mouths fitting together in the same way everything else about them does. 

Pete kisses him and Patrick opens his mouth to the action, eager— almost too eager but then Pete’s hands are near his neck, fingers lighting fires across his skin. It’s not a perfect kiss— too desperate and messy for that, teeth clashing and Patrick’s eyes shut too tight— but it’s good. It’s good and it’s them and they’re closer with each second, closer with each breath they miss, closer with each sound and move and shift and beat of their heart. They’re closer until they’re almost one.

The spell doesn’t break when they pull apart; it settles over them instead, shooting stars across the sky that is them. Pete gasps for breath and Patrick presses the tips of his fingers to his lips, staring at nothing as a smile slowly stretches across his face. Pete looks at Patrick and laughs; Patrick repeats the sound louder but only because he can. He feels exposed in the best way, his heart and soul shining through his mouth as he teases Pete for his stupidly messed up hair— his stupidly wrinkled shirt, his stupidly perfect face. His own face feels hot— red, no doubt— and there’s the beginning of a new kind of burn across his cheeks, Pete’s stubble standing out to him now that he’s felt it on his skin. Perhaps he shouldn’t feel as satisfied as he does.

But, then, perhaps he shouldn’t be feeling anything other than the elation flickering through him, a fire warming him from the inside out. He kissed Pete; Pete kissed back.

Summer sun fills the window but Patrick doesn’t bother hiding the glare.

“I don’t think I’ll leave just yet,” he says, his smile filling his words. “I might have a reason to stay, for now.”

“For now,” Pete echoes, making it sound like some grand joke they’ve planned, or like he’s taking part in Patrick’s con and not the other way around. But it also sounds like reaching out and holding hands, like falling backward and hoping the net’s still there. It sounds like mistakes made and forgiven, like this promise is more than he deserves.

But the taste of Pete still on his lips is sweet and Patrick doesn’t want to waste summer on the parts that don’t matter.

“I’m good to go ,” Patrick sings lightly, the words fitting into the melody he’s made as if they were always there. His summer song, his masterpiece. “ And I’m going nowhere fast… It could be worse…”

“I could be taking you there with me,” Pete says, and Patrick leans forward to press their lips back together.

He leans forward and lets Pete take him anywhere.