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Pete is doing a favor for a friend. Check him out, Joe had said. He’ll be great. Pete is tired of this, but Joe is his friend. Patrick is in socks that climb to his knees and a sweater that is too hot for the weather. Pete sees him swallow, feels like he should know who this kid is already when Patrick chokes out his name.
Patrick is sixteen. His voice cracks when he talks, and his hands and mouth are too big for the rest of his body. He’s smart, though, and has the same sense of humor as Pete and, oh, can he sing.
Joe is stoked when they start practicing. He hugs Patrick, then Pete, then he breaks out a celebratory joint. Pete- who is edge when he can remember it- declines. Patrick smokes though, and his eyes go glassy, and his mouth goes slack, and he falls asleep on Pete’s lap before any of them actually play a note.
Practices go pretty much like that for a few weeks. It’s fun, but it isn’t really all that productive. Pete likes the easy fit of Patrick in his conversations, feels like they were made to just sit and talk and pluck at their guitars all day together. Joe laughs a lot and sends Patrick a lot of looks when he thinks Pete won’t notice.
And Pete. He knows, okay? He can see the way Patrick stares, can see the way Patrick smiles at him, only him, the way Patrick leans in at every hint of a touch. He's not an idiot, and Patrick isn't subtle.
The thing is, Pete could totally love him. Is a little in love with him, actually. But Patrick is sixteen, and Pete is not. So, Pete tucks Patrick into his 'do not touch' file and pretends it doesn't suck leaning away from Patrick's touches, pretends he doesn't notice the long looks from across the basement.
It works, for the most part. Patrick doesn't make a move, and Pete doesn't have to turn him down. Joe sends him confused looks every now and then, looks between them like he knows more than he's letting on. If Patrick seems quiet, Pete says nothing. And it works. Until Patrick corners him.
"Pete," he says, arms wrapped around his chest. Pete winces. Patrick looks small, arms thin, corners of his lips turned down. "Can we talk?"
"Yes?" Pete sits on the couch, right on the loose spring, and Patrick sits next to them. Their thighs touch, knee to hip. Pete sighs and waits.
"I think," Patrick starts, leaning forward on his legs. “I think that I like you, like, a lot." There's a fierce blush across Patrick's cheeks, and he's staring pointedly at the floor. "And. I think that..." He leans into Pete's side, small and sweet. "That maybe-"
"Patrick," Pete says. Patrick looks up at him, then, and Pete's stomach twists. "I think we shouldn't have this conversation." Patrick's face falls. "I think we should hang out, and make music, and just. Not do that, okay?" Patrick leans away, and Pete feels like the biggest asshole ever.
"Is there, y'know, something I did-"
"No!" Pete winces at the sharpness of his voice. He lands a hand on Patrick's shoulder, making him look over again. "It's not that, okay? You're, like, the most awesome kid in the history of ever, okay?" Patrick glares. Pete flinches. "You're sixteen. I just can't-" Patrick punches him and locks himself in his room.
Patrick sulks for a week. Pete gives him space, cowering in the corners during practices, leaving as soon as he's dismissed. Joe books them six shows. Pete is impressed and tells him as much. Joe kicks him and refuses to say why. Pete's pretty sure he knows, anyway.
The first show sucks. Patrick throws up before, and his voice is raw through all of it. Their drummer is off beat, too loud. Joe spins into Pete, smacking him in the mouth with the end of his headstock. Pete bleeds until the next morning. Still, it's a show, and people nod along. Some clap. They have potential.
The second show goes marginally better. Patrick is still a little shaky, and their drummer is still shitty, but the kids whoop and yell and Pete feels like he's actually playing a real show again. After, he throws an arm over Patrick's shoulders, hugs him. When he pulls away, Patrick is frowning.
There's a little break between parties, and Pete spends it crashing in Patrick's basement, watching movies and eating popcorn. Patrick still sits too close, still falls asleep on Pete's lap, open-mouthed against Pete's knee. Pete's stomach twists when he touches the curve of Patrick's cheek, when he accidentally knocks Patrick's cap to the floor.
The next few shows aren't in Chicago. They drive in Joe's mom's van, all of them piled in the back like a litter of puppies. Patrick's lost his stage fright, for the most part, and when Pete looks, he seems to be okay. Excited. A tiny, tiny rockstar in argyle and skullcaps. When it's over, Pete tosses himself into Patrick's side and hangs on. He's found his ticket.
Show six is the big one. The show that might get them more shows, give them somewhere else to go. Pete recognizes faces in the crowd, knows the names of too many of them from Arma. He hopes they don't recognize him. He doesn't want anyone to base their success on him.
They play like maniacs, all nervous, excited energy. Pete's worries about stealing the limelight are squashed. It's Patrick's show, through and through. His voice is clean and clear, and his nerves have been killed. He looks like passion, like everything all wrapped up in tight jeans and an ugly cap. The crowd chants for an encore.
At the after party, Patrick disappears. It's fine. It's cool. Pete figures that he's mingling, sharing his genius with potential tour-mates. Pete follows the lead and catches up with old friends, plugging Fall Out Boy with each conversation. It's a few hours later when he realizes he hasn't seen Patrick, and he excuses himself to go on the hunt.
He finds Patrick outside, pressed to the club wall by a solid body. The man- because he's older than Patrick, maybe older than Pete- has Patrick's hands pressed to the brick, fingers wrapped loosely around his wrists. They're kissing. The slide of Patrick's mouth against the man's is wet, his lips red and swollen. There's a dark spot on his neck, sucked into the tender skin above the collar of his shirt. Patrick is pressing his hips forward in a slow rock, eyes closed, groaning softly. Pete clenches his fists. There's a sick feeling deep in the pit of his gut, and he doesn't let himself believe that it's jealousy.
"He's sixteen," Pete says, the bite to his voice more bitter than he had intended. The man jerks back, startled. Patrick looks dazed- all unfocused eyes and pink cheeks and parted lips. He glares at Pete when he realizes he's there.
"Hey, next time you're in town," the man says against Patrick's cheek before walking away. Pete doesn't look at the flash of Patrick's stomach or the bulge in his jeans.
"What the fuck, Pete?" Patrick yanks his shirt down, his voice tight.
"Rick-"
"No, seriously. What the fuck?" Patrick shoves past him to the van. They don't talk on the ride back, and Patrick deliberately shoves himself between the doors and Joe. Pete feels like shit for days.
And the thing is, Pete can't stop thinking about it. Can't stop seeing the curl of Patrick's fingers, the red of his lips. It eats at him, sits heavy in his chest. He feels guilty. Sick. Patrick doesn't call, and Pete doesn't visit.
Joe books more shows, Andy signs on for the long haul to replace their shitty drummer. They practice and yell and party. Patrick doesn't mention the show, and Pete takes it as a reprieve. He's more careful with his affection, takes care not to do anything he shouldn't. Patrick frowns more often than not, and Pete thinks about ways to make him smile that he never goes through with.
They go on tour with some band from Pennsylvania. It's just around Illinois, but it's something. Pete brings his meds, but doesn't take them. Patrick sits up with him during the long nights, the bruises under his eyes as deep as the ones under Pete's. They talk about music and Pete shows Patrick his backlog of lyrics, and Patrick says maybe they can make something out of them. When he sings Pete's words, Pete feels like he's home for the first time.
Patrick disappears after two of the shows and comes back with hickeys. Pete bites his tongue but he can't control his temper. He gets into fistfights that leave him aching for days and ignores the questions Patrick asks as he bandages him up. In his dreams, Pete peels off the bruised skin on Patrick's throat and replaces it with his own.
They're halfway through the tour when it happens. Patrick's just finished shoving the last amp into the van, and someone grabs him from behind. He jumps, nearly falls to the gravel. Before Pete can run over to him though, he laughs and throws his arms around the man's neck. Pete recognizes the hoodie before he recognizes the face. He goes from worried to pissed, and he's nearly shaking with it when the man leans down to kiss the curve of Patrick's ear.
Pete's not really sure how he ends up on top of the man, fist cocked, hand wrapped around his throat. All he knows is that Patrick is yelling at him, pulling him back to the pavement. Suddenly, there's pain across his jaw and ringing in his ears, and the man is sitting up, wiping blood from his mouth.
"Gabe- I'm sorry." Patrick helps the man up, pulls him to his feet. "Hey, I'll catch tomorrow, okay?" Patrick presses a kiss to the corner of Gabe's mouth, fingers curled into the folds of his hoodie. When Gabe walks away, Patrick slams his foot into Pete's thigh. Pete rolls away, cursing.
"What the fuck?" Patrick kicks him again.
"You shouldn't fuck around with skeezy guys," Pete says through a cough. Patrick glowers.
"Yeah, Gabe's a fucking skeeze. Sure." He shakes his head, taking a deep breath. "I don't. I don't get you." Pete opens his mouth, but Patrick cuts him off. "No, dude. You just. You can't do that shit." He kicks a tire and the van shakes with it. Pete sits up slowly, curls in on the pain in his stomach.
"Patrick-"
"Fuck you, Wentz. You know what?" Patrick fists a hand in Pete's hair and yanks, and all Pete can feel is Patrick's mouth- soft and hard and full of venom- against his own. Patrick pulls back too soon, and, by time Pete realizes that he's made a giant mistake, is gone.
Joe tells him the next morning over coffee that Patrick's found a ride to the next few shows and isn't going to be in the van with them for a while. He raises his eyebrows when he talks, his voice nasal and harsh. Pete slumps in on himself and makes the effort to keep his phone in his pocket. Calling isn't going to help.
They play on. Gabe is a nice guy, and Pete hates him because of it. He's at all their shows, buys Patrick Cokes and drives him from town to town, following after the van. He laughs loudly and dresses louder, all bravado and wide grins. Patrick smiles a lot when he's around, but he doesn't frown when he isn't. Pete's nasty enough to Gabe, in the same way that he's nasty to everyone, but Gabe just grins at him, throws an arm across Patrick's shoulders and whispers things into Patrick's skin.
Pete is jealous. He can admit it now that it doesn't matter. Now that he's thrown his chances away based on shaky morals. He fucks a seventeen-year-old girl in the back of the van, a sweet-faced sixteen-year-old boy in a bar bathroom. The world doesn't end, the police don't come, he doesn't return their calls. Patrick is careful around him, and it kills Pete a little inside.
The night Pete walks in on the break-up, he feels hollow enough that he doesn't punch Gabe out straight away. Gabe looks tired, and his voice is low and even. He hugs Patrick before he leaves, kisses the top of his head and tells him- sincerely, honestly- that he hopes they can still hang out, can still be okay. He sidesteps Pete, gives him a half-smile that's more sad than anything else.
Patrick doesn't fight it when Pete gathers him up. His eyes are damp, his lips tight, but he doesn't cry. He's stiff in Pete's arms, face pressed to Pete's shoulder. Pete presses a kiss to Patrick's temple, under his hair. The tears start.
Pete gives him a week. A week of careful touches, of pats on the back, and nights curled up on the floor of the van. Things feel like they used to, before. Patrick's smiles are back, aimed at Pete again, however timidly. And Pete, he's not going to miss his chance again.
"So, Patrick," he says, sprawled on the stage, waiting for soundcheck. Patrick folds down next to him, guitar still in his lap. "I think that I like you. Like, a lot." Patrick raises an eyebrow. "You want to maybe try me out for size?"
When Patrick kisses him, Pete knows he's home.