Chapter Text
It was during the last song of the last set that Patrick Stump realized he couldn’t stand it anymore. For all he knew, they would never go on tour again, never stay up another night writing at Pete’s, never record another album—for all he knew, this was their last show. Ever.
He had to tell Pete how he felt.
The mere thought of it sent him into a reflexive panic, the kind he’d learned for the sake of self-preservation the very first time the thought of being forthcoming and honest had crossed his mind, three years ago at least. That was three years of redoubled heart rate, palm sweat, and stammering whenever Pete leaned too close; that was three years of nausea and dizziness every time Pete hit him with that crooked, devil-may-care smile that threatened to spill the truth out of him before he had time to resist.
As a rule, Patrick never thought about Pete during a show. In fact, it was the only time he could exorcise every thought of the man from his mind—the only time he could lose himself in something that wasn’t Pete’s wide brown eyes.
Thinking about telling him now had its usual awful effect. His hand faltered and froze on the fret bar and his throat closed up, dropping him out of the chorus altogether just in time for about a gallon of his own saliva to shoot down his windpipe. The typical Stump luck aimed the resultant choking-to-death fit straight into the mic.
So. Time for a life inventory.
Their last song together was ruined, grinding to a halt as Pete pounded him on the back, Joe tossed him a bottle of water, and 500 preteen girls tried to call 911 at once. He was 24 years old and had been in exactly one long-term relationship and had never held a steady job. His relationship with his parents was absolute shit and, oh yeah, he was the nine millionth member of the Pete Wentz fan club. Beyond all that, he suffered from a chronic hand cramp and an almost pathological fear of zombies (and his mother). The man he harbored illicit love for was oblivious, straight and, to top it all off, a father; and the band that was his life and livelihood might not live to see another day.
In other words, he had a lot going for him.
Patrick wondered idly what the chances of actually choking to death on his own saliva were. Not high enough, it seemed, because his coughing died down and Pete squeezed his arm and whispered “Don’t die on me” into his ear, and Patrick longed for death more than ever.
The thing was, Pete was perfect.
What if they never saw each other again, after tonight? He had to tell him, if only because at this point ‘risking everything’ meant risking less than ever before.
The rational part of Patrick’s brain, even at this proximity to Pete, explained patiently for the nth time that that was ridiculous. Just because Patrick so often bailed on all their plans that weren’t strictly work-related didn’t mean he didn’t get invitations. And even in spite of Patrick’s best efforts, it wasn’t like they never hung out. They hung out all the time. Well—at least as often as a neurotic, lovesick recluse and a famous new parent could manage. Admittedly, the rational part of the Stump brain conceded, that was not as much as if had been back when everything was simpler—when Patrick had never tried to tell Pete how he felt and Pete had never impregnated a pop star. Ah, the good old days. But this was the world they lived in now and the rational bit of Patrick knew he’d see Pete the very next morning, bleary-eyed with hair askew, hungover from the show. They’d drink coffee and Pete would aimlessly dissect a muffin and only eat the blueberries and they’d go over every nuance of the performance and resolutely avoid discussing anything of remote importance, like the band’s future or the rumors Patrick had read in a magazine that they might be breaking up, or the night just before Bronx was born when Patrick had squeaked that he sort of, um, was in love with Pete and Pete had walked out without saying anything and they had never, ever mentioned it again.
Something tightened in Patrick’s stomach and he realized just how much he didn’t want that, realized that he might actually prefer never seeing Pete again. Because after a certain point, what was it but masochism, subjecting himself to the company of the very much straight and very much oblivious love of his life?
WHERE DOES PATRICK GO FROM HERE?
IF HE SAYS TO HELL WITH IT, AND TELLS PETE HOW HE FEELS…
…turn to the chapter 2 and continue reading.
IF HE BITES HIS TONGUE AND GOES TO BREAKFAST…
…turn to chapter 3 and continue reading.