Chapter Text
Patrick was having a good day. He got up and went to both of his classes today, definitely passed his Music Theory exam, and the coffee shop had his favorite muffin in stock. It was cool outside, but not cold, the sun was out with a few pretty clouds, and it was days like this where he just loved Chicago. These kinds of days didn’t happen often. Patrick was determined to enjoy his good day. Normally, Patrick was lucky to be out of bed by noon, and even luckier to have the cash to spare for coffee. One of his professors had recommended him to teach private lessons on drums during his free time, and his first few sessions had gotten him way more money than he expected. All in all, Patrick wouldn’t change much about his freshman year at DePaul University. He felt nice and settled in, and it was only September. Really, on a day this good, Patrick didn’t think anything could dampen it too bad. He walked along the cracked sidewalks, chai latte in one hand and guitar strap in the other, focused on the path down to the music building. His new friend, Joe, had lent him this guitar to learn on since he’d never been able to before. Joe was cool. He had some dicey opinions on his music taste, but he was clearly a good guy. And the guitar was great.
The sidewalk was relatively crowded midday, with everyone in their right mind taking 11am classes, but Patrick didn’t need anything but his knockoff Sony headphones and David Bowie. Halfway through Rebel Rebel, Patrick saw a larger group of people by the bus stop, and moved slightly to the left. This was a completely normal thing to do when seeing a group of people at a normal place that people stop in groups. Despite this, someone’s leg collided with Patrick’s calf, and suddenly his chai latte was all over his own denim jacket and this stranger’s university-branded, incredibly tight, long sleeve sports shirt. “Dude, what the fuck?” Patrick half-shouted, arms wide and tensed.
Pete was not having a good day. He was at the soccer fields at 6:25am, like any good captain should be, setting up cones for warm ups and chatting with his coaches. The boys started rolling in, lazily throwing bags on the benches and taking last swigs of water. They looked like shit. They were probably going to play like it too. He rolled his eyes as Coach Vertes called them into a huddle. He said something about conditioning and everybody but Pete groaned. He bit his lip so hard it hurt. Coach said something else about their first matches going poorly and how they still had time to turn it around, they just needed more stamina and strength. Nobody believed him. Pete bit his lip harder. They broke out into conditioning stations, and all the idiots he called teammates dragged their feet and chatted to each other. Pete got started on his own station, moving quickly and with precision. Maximum effort, he liked to say. That’s how he rocks it. He side-stepped through the cones, never losing his rhythm or knocking a single one. He tagged off the next guy in the group, Michael. Michael did fine. He wasn’t slacking, but his knees could be higher and his posture could be tighter. Michael tagged off Jared, who absolutely was slacking. Pete was sure his teeth could go straight through his lip.
The watch on Pete’s wrist read 7:30. He had another 2 hours to go. He was going to lose it. The guys were supposed to be running sprints. He didn’t see anyone who would win a race with a fat kindergartner. “Hey, Coach V,” Pete started. Coach looked away from his abysmal team to his desperate captain. “Why are you letting them fuck off like that? This is Division I NCAA Soccer. They’re acting like brats.”
Coach shrugged. ”You’re the captain. The one who ran himself into the ground and can’t pass the ball to save his life.” Pete stared at his coach for a long second. This guy was supposed to be on his side. It’s not his fault he has the yips. It happens to every athlete. Not just him. Pete turned abruptly and stomped to where his team was on the rubber track.
“What the fuck is wrong with all of you? You fuck off during practice, refuse to talk to anyone about the sport that’s paying for your degree, and then you get mad at me when we lose every game. What am I supposed to do? If I can’t play right now, then who can? Have fun fucking losing. I’m not pulling for you anymore. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.” Pete felt his voice crack in the last few words. He was not going to cry in front of his team. His team who was currently staring at him like his dick was out.
Pete was crying in front of his team.
No one said a word to him. He stalked off, grabbing his bag from the bench and heading to the locker room. The shower was freezing cold. He didn’t care. He let his pressed, dark hair hang down to his shoulders, fingers playing along the chain of his gold necklace that held a rubber guitar pick. He pulled his too-tight black long sleeve DePaul Soccer dri-fit on, with black mid-thigh athletic shorts. He liked to feel like the whore kind of athlete, even though he only acted like one his freshman year. He was a Junior this year. 20 years old, eyebags deeper than the Mariana, and only one playoff season where he broke his ankle 2 games in. That was also his freshman year. He missed Jordan, his old captain, the one who passed his title down to him before he graduated in May. Jordan’s team would never act like this. Pete slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked to the dining hall, where he scanned a meal swipe and brooded in a corner booth without eating anything. Eventually, staring at Blackboard wasn’t getting any homework done, so he started the trek back to his dorm. There was a patch of grass behind a bus stop where he and Jordan would pass the ball back and forth before their shared Creative Writing course. Pete took it because he loved poetry, but he just told Jordan he was also taking it for the fine art credit. Pete put his airpods in, blasting Metallica and Invent Animate and Joy Division and whatever else was on that playlist. He closed his eyes, kicking the grass like he used to. Jordan would know what to do. Kick. Jordan wouldn’t have the yips in his first captain season. Kick. Jordan would be so disappointed in him. Hit.
Pete is covered in Chai latte.
Pete’s first thought is shit, I need this shirt before the match on Saturday. Pete’s second thought is shit, I couldn’t have kicked a less cute guy? He doesn’t realize that guy said something until he looks up at him guiltily, like a kicked puppy. Unfortunately, Pete was not the kicked puppy in this situation. “Uhhh… Sorry?”
Guy with cute glasses and cute headphones narrows his eyes at him. “Yes, ‘sorry’ is definitely the word you’re looking for.” He throws his now empty cup into the nearby trash can, and looks back at Pete. “Watch where you’re kicking, ball boy.” He pulls his headphones back up and starts to walk away.
Pete is not thinking with anything above the waist. He grabs denim-jacket-and-rosy-cheeks by the shoulder and stares at him with wide eyes for a second before asking, stupidly, “You play guitar?”
The guy is clearly startled, but shakes it off and hesitantly responds, “Yeah, my friend is helping me learn. I’m a drummer, usually.” Pete nods like he’s learned something deeply serious.
“Cool, that’s cool. Awesome, even. I played bass in high school. That’s cool, right?” Pete was going to suffocate himself with his own pillow tonight. Cutie-patootie-with-the-dimples smiles awkwardly and nods.
“Well, I have a drums private in a few minutes, so I’ll see you around. Hopefully you won’t bruise my shins next time.” Dream boy turns and walks away. Pete stares at his figure walking away, barely even noticing the tea freezing into his skin. He shuffles awkwardly back onto the sidewalk and finishes the journey to his dorm, where he promptly falls face first on his bed and falls asleep for the first time in 2 days,
Patrick finishes the drum lesson with the guy 3 years older than him a bit late, but he doesn’t charge extra because he’s determined to be in a good mood. Alone in the practice room, he unlocks Joe’s guitar case and pulls the acoustic onto his lap. He strums a few chords he’s learned, running some scales and attempting to pick up some more speed. He’s really taken a liking to guitar, it feels natural in his hands. He can’t wait to start composing on it. Patrick doesn’t think about the guy who kicked him in the shins and spilled his tea, because he is having a great day. Patrick is an optimist now that he’s in college. His music scholarship is everything he’s ever wanted, and it’s all up from here. Patrick is doing great.
Patrick is thinking about the tea guy. There’s a bruise on his calf and his favorite jacket smells like chai. He rolls over in his twin xl bed, ignoring whatever his roommate he doesn’t know is doing, and pulls up the DePaul soccer instagram. He looks in the team photos for an obnoxious short guy with long hair and a tattoo sleeve. Surprisingly, front and center on the team schedule post, is the stupid face he was looking for. He scrolls down a little further, and there it is: Meet your captain - #27, Peter Wentz III. Patrick snorts, how obnoxious. It suits him. He decidedly ignores how good he looks in that jersey, hair in a weird bun and “game-face” on. He looks constipated.
That little bit of stalking should be enough for Patrick to move on, but he decides to look through the soccer page’s following until he finds Peter’s personal account. Apparently, he goes by Pete. Pete, it looks like, enjoys showing a bit of skin. Patrick scrolls through his posts, mostly photo dumps with surprisingly decent music attached. He scrolls down to one post from over a year ago, Pete’s soccer shorts hung low on his hips and shirt riding up on his abs, a really ugly, really hot tattoo sitting just above his pelvis. Patrick’s finger slips. He likes the post. Patrick is fucked.