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Chapter Text

"Oh motherfuck," Patrick mutters, as the stabilizers come on line and the transport ship judders downwards to Drummeril, letting itself be caught in the planet's gravity again. The plasticized armrests are slick under his palms and the material creaks as he clenches. He looks across the aisle but everyone is staring out the windows to watch the ground approach, something he's decided to avoid for the sake of his sanity.

He's too old to be doing this for the first time.

With a series of mysterious and terrifying clanking sounds, the ship touches down and people begin unbuckling seatbelts and turning on their comms. Patrick fumbles in the storage compartment for his bag and guitar case, and stands up on shaky legs to queue for the exits.

The air is the first difference. It's not only hotter than Mith, but heavier, thicker. Deliberately, he breathes in deep through his mouth, tasting fuel fumes and the last of the canned air, as well as a hint of something distant and smoky, and maybe that's the real Drummeril, under it all. Patrick is suddenly a whole lot less sure that this was a good idea. For weeks now, he's been carefully hiding any signs of enthusiasm about the assignment, knowing he wasn't supposed to be eager to leave the Academy. And it's not like he's glad to be gone, or anything. It's his home, for better or worse, and he knows how lucky he is to be there. Just - maybe the idea of seeing something of the rest of the galaxy appeals to him. There's nothing wrong with that, he's sure, even if he knows to keep quiet about it.

No fear of over eagerness now, though, with the dull throbbing of a headache from the two-day trip pounding around his skull, and the curious, watchful eyes of the shuttleport crowd making it abundantly clear just how little he fits in here.

"Hey, Patrick!"

But there's Joe, right where he said he'd be, hair longer and crazier than it had ever been at the Academy, clothes tighter and brighter than anything Patrick has seen him in, but the general impression of laidback warmth is still just the same.

"How was the journey? Fuckin' amazing, right? I nearly puked the first time, but from, like, excitement."

Patrick grins, taking in everything as they push through the port and over to the ground shuttle for transport into the city. They get outside and the night is tangible around them, the orange haze of Shanco's lights warming the sky in the distance. It feels vast, disorienting, and Patrick clutches the handle of his guitar case and tries to ride out the dizziness.

On the platform, people see the Academy insignia on his guitar and move back to let him pass.

"How's Gabe?"

Patrick pulls back from the shuttle window - "he's never seen anything like the hard cracked earth of the Drummeril plains, used to the foggy lush green of Mith, and it keeps catching him off guard - "and blinks himself back into the conversation.

"Gabe is - I'm not sure, actually. He took off about three months ago. Haven't heard anything yet."

"Huh. Him too. I wonder if he'll show up here sometime."

Patrick stays quiet, glad that could be taken as rhetorical. "What about Alex?"

Patrick grins. "Alex is good. It's a recent thing, though. His voice broke about six months ago."

Joe's eyes widen and he coughs out a laugh, "Oh shit. I thought it was never gonna happen. I swear he was holding onto that soprano by force of fucking will. No way he was giving up first soloist position without a fight."

"You fucking know it. I'm pretty sure he kept his balls strapped for the last couple of months. The things that dude would do for the limelight frighten me."

"Was he pissed?"

Patrick drops the smile and stares at his fingers tracing the edge of his guitar case. "He was... yeah. He had to leave the choir, and they were pressuring him to stop singing altogether," - at the academy, a lone singer was of little use - "but he wouldn't. He found... I don't know how he did it," Patrick swallows, "but he got three guys from string and percussion and they made their own collective." He shrugs, still not sure how it happened.

"He got a band together? And they - do they, you know, work?" The amazement in Joe's voice is clear. The respect is less obvious, but Patrick can hear it. And understand it. Finding the right people for a collective out of the thousands of tunnel-visioned musicians at the academy is a rare achievement.

"It's early days. They got preliminary sanctions from the masters, though, so there must be something there." He tugs at his hat and shrugs.

"That's - well, that's cool," says Joe. "I'm happy for them. It didn't work for me, but I'm glad he's doing well." Patrick's happy to be able to believe him. "So what about you, dude? Any prospects?"

And Joe doesn't know that he's probably the closest Patrick ever got to finding something you could call a collective, so he's trying not to let the question bother him. It must show on his face, though, because Joe jumps back in.

"Hey, sorry, no, man, whatever. I'm sure you'll figure it out. There's no one in the place who wouldn't give an arm to play with you, anyway. It'll be cool. I'm just happy you're here, you know?"

A sudden screech cuts through the mechanical hiss of the train and Patrick winces along with everyone else in the compartment. Then a voice comes over the intercom system, halting conversation.

"This is a service announcement."

The voice doesn't sound like any official Patrick has ever heard. It's fast and breathless and weirdly sarcastic.

"This train will arrive at Shanco Central in 7 minutes and 37 seconds. Please remember to keep your belongings with you at all times, to proceed in an orderly fashion to your nearest exit, and, oh yeah, one more thing-" and Patrick can hear the voice pausing to take a deep breath, "FREE YOUR FUCKING VOICES! FREE THE MUSIC NOW!"

Everyone in the compartment seems frozen solid as a wave of sound comes through the intercom system, resolving after a few seconds into a driving backbeat and at least two guitars thundering through a clashing rhythmic song - well, Patrick's not sure it can be called a song, but it's something. Without conscious thought, his knee starts to bob along with the drumbeat, and he jumps as Joe's hand clamps down on his leg. Joe is shaking his head, warning with his eyes. Patrick frowns and looks around the compartment, where every face is pale and scared, eyes pointed down at the floor, or darting around looking for the source of the music.

Over the intercom, the music suddenly fumbles to a halt, and sounds of hasty breathing and the clang of fingers on strings blare into the train. Then the same voice, whispering and elated.

"Don't forget. Don't live in silence. Free the music."

Then quiet.

The train speeds onward, and Patrick turns to ask Joe what had just happened, but Joe shakes his head once, definitively, and keeps his head down. It doesn't keep Patrick from seeing the tiny smile he's hiding, though.

The rest of the ride is silent, everyone staring out the window or pretending to read the endless election posters covering the walls, and it's only once they're off the train and pushing through the crowd at the station that Patrick gets a chance to ask again.

"What the hell was that? Since when is unsanctioned music turning up on the fucking public transport network? And where did they get instruments?"

Joe just smiles, leans close, and tilts in toward his ear.

"Things are changing in the world, Patrick. Welcome to Drummeril."

"Thanks for letting me stay, Joe."

Joe's rummaging in the closet for extra blankets, so Patrick tosses his bag on the floor and then sets his guitar down with considerably more care.

"It's no problem, dude, you know it. We go way back, right?"

Patrick grins, remembering a much younger, much scrawnier Joe from their first days at the Academy together. "Oh, yeah. I remember your old hair, for example."

Joe flips him off, grinning back. "I don't think you want to get into a conversation about changing hairstyles there, Patrick. How many hats do you have in that bag, anyway?"

Patrick narrows his eyes and glares, and Joe laughs unrepentantly. "There's the Stump Glare of Death! I didn't miss that one at all."

Joe throws him a pile of blankets and Patrick dumps them on the bed.

"I guess I'll leave you to unpack and stuff," says Joe, leaning in the doorway. "And you know you can stay as long as you like, right?"

Patrick unbuttons his jacket and throws it on the bed. "Thanks, man. I'm here 'til the Solstice and then I'll be out of your way."

Joe nods, but says again, "As long as you like, Patrick. I mean it." The words sound strangely heavy, and Patrick stops unfolding blankets for a minute to stare back at Joe. There's something more than hospitality in the air, here.

"So hey," says Joe, when Patrick gives up trying to figure out a response, "why are you staying with me, anyway? Why aren't you in one of the Academy houses in the city?"

Patrick drops his gaze and works at carefully smoothing the last blanket over the bed. Truth is, he's not sure. There were plenty of official Academy guest houses in Shanco, and Academy musicians were rare enough on Drummeril that he would have been treated like an honored guest, but still, when the time came to choose, he'd refused the official accommodation and explained that he had a family friend in Shanco who would be happy to house him. No one thought anything of it, unfamiliar enough with his family history not to question his claims. It wasn't much of a lie, really. With his parents dead, Joe was one of the few people Patrick even knew outside the Academy, the closest thing he had to family, even if it wasn't that close at all.

So no one questioned him, and he didn't really question himself, just deciding that he'd like to spend time with an old friend while he could, before he became part of the Academy forever. Not much of a rebellion, really.

He grabs hold of a pillow from the floor and flings it at Joe. "Guess I just missed your pretty face, Trohman."

Joe flutters his eyelashes and hurls the pillow back onto the bed. "Come on, then. My pretty face has some beer in the fridge and the Academy boy probably needs a drink."

Patrick throws an arm out from under too many blankets, a messy ineffective flail toward the trilling sound disturbing his sleep. His fingers graze over his comm and he wakes up with a jolt as it clatters onto the floor. He lurches over the side of the bed and grabs it, shoving it haphazardly toward his ear.

"'lo?"

"Patrick. This is Director Karolan. Do I find you well, Musician?"

Patrick jolts upright, heart thumping. The elegant, clipped tones of the Academy's overseer push him immediately back to Mith, and his training kicks in.

"Lady Director! I - I'm fine, ma'am."

Patrick is not fine. Patrick is hung-over and foggy and suddenly utterly convinced that the Director will know exactly how much he had to drink last night. Oh god.

"That's good to hear." The Director's voice sounds warmer over the comm, warmer than it ever did in person, and Patrick is struck by a strange sense of homesickness. He'd always been in awe of the Director, of her cold, calm tones and shrewd insights, never really understanding what she could have seen in him. "I have a request to make of you, Patrick."

Patrick sits up straighter, waiting for whatever would come next. Technically, he's on leave and free of Academy duties until the first of the ceremonies in two days, but they both know that a request from the Director is a request in name only.

"There's a confirmation ceremony today in central Shanco and the musician we sent to officiate became ill in transit. We were hoping you would lend your skill for the afternoon."

Patrick frowns, confused. "Lady Director, ma'am, is Shanco not abundantly equipped with musicians for just such an occasion?"

There's a brief pause over the comm as Patrick realizes he hadn't immediately complied, as he would have automatically before.

"You are correct, apprentice. But it is my express wish that you should attend this ceremony. The family are known to me, and I wish to send an envoy worthy of the occasion."

Patrick stares at the Joe's living room wall, going very still.

"I - I'm very honored, Director," he says, cursing himself. Honored? Is that it? After what she'd just hinted, he should be on his knees.

"I take it you will be able to find some time to attend the ceremony?" He can hear the smile in her voice. She sounds pleased, if not surprised. Only a fool would resist the path she's just opened for him.

Patrick isn't a fool, so he has no idea why he can hardly draw breath to speak his consent.

"Of course - of course I'll do it."

"Very well. I will have the documents and keys sent to you immediately. Play well, musician. I have sent word of your potential." Patrick hears that loud and clear. Don't make a liar of me, she's saying, and Patrick gets it even as he realizes that things had been arranged long before he'd been approached.

"And Patrick - you will make sure to continue your training while you are on Drummeril, will you not? I may have particular need of you around the time of Solstice."

She hangs up without waiting for his reply, which is just as well, because he doesn't have one. The Solstice will mark the inauguration of the new government on Drummeril, and while Patrick doesn't give a shit about politics, especially ones as pre-determined as the Drummeril elections, the inauguration ceremony will be the most important musical and ceremonial event in a decade.

What the Director hinted... it's one step closer to confirmation of something he'd begun to suspect three months before. While he's always been slated to participate in the ceremony - most of the elite rung of the Academy will be present to perform the official musical rite - he's pretty sure Karolan was talking about something far more involved.

Patrick slumps back against his pillow and wonders why he's not as excited as he'd have expected. His heart is pounding, though, and he takes a few deep breaths and waits to calm down. He's still breathing in concentrated gasps when Joe pokes his head around the kitchen door, rumpled and woolly haired, waving a wooden spoon and what looks like a pair of boxer shorts.

"Pancakes? We're going to Preshy's. Home of the seventeen syrup flavors, dude, it's irresistible."

Patrick breathes deep one more time and pushes off the last of the blankets.

"Not today. I've got to go into the city."

The ceremonial hall is nothing like the cathedral spaces of Mith.

At the Academy, the halls were conceived to maximize the majesty of orchestral music, created to extract every hint of resonance, every chord. Centuries of devotion to the art of perfecting sound had gone into the halls of Mith, and they arched into the sky with a kind of justified arrogance that Patrick had always loved. They knew they were awesome and awe-inspiring, and he always felt humbled anytime he got to play inside them. It's like they connect him to something bigger than himself, to something more important than his own life, and when he plays in them he can become part of it, part of that history of dedication and craft.

Looking at the Shanco neighborhood hall in front of him now, Mith seems very distant. There's no majesty to this architecture, no evidence of care and investment. The halls of Mith are vibrant and proud, built to capture just the right light, to echo just the right sound, to produce just the right effect. The hall in front of him, though, seems entirely free of any such aspiration.

It's... functional. In good repair, and well looked after, which is hardly surprising given the wealth of the neighborhood it services. Patrick feels the beginnings of something profoundly unsettling wash over him. Whatever else, he knows viscerally that he doesn't belong here.

Inside, the hall is quiet, only two or three people moving around quietly at the center point, under the arch. Patrick grips the handle of his guitar case - useless here, where the ceremony calls for the harp, and he can't quite decide why he brought it, except for the comfort of having it in hand - and moves forward.

A small, robed man turns at his approach and bows in what Patrick is shocked to recognize as deference.

"Musician."

Patrick nods, years of protocol lessons kicking in. "Master of Congregants. I am here to witness the confirmation of a new member of this hall."

The new member chooses that moment to emit a startlingly powerful wail, and Patrick turns to greet a well-dressed couple carrying a baby wearing the ornamental robes of confirmation. He straightens up and then bows slowly toward them.

"Mr. and Mrs. Gennet, greetings. Director Karolan of the Academy at Mith sends her regards. I am bid seal the confirmation of your son as part of this congregation, member of the halls of Shanco."

The official words spoken, the couple nod seriously, and Patrick can't help but smile as the mother tries to shush the squalling baby. He comes closer and sees the kid is maybe nine months old, curious and uncomfortable in his formal robes.

"Musician," says the Master of Congregants, "if you follow me, I will bring you to the instruments."

Patrick nods, still off-balance, and agrees to follow. Off to the side of the center section, he spots the harp casing pretty quickly, a decorative box almost taller than him, curlicues of metallic ornamentation covering every inch of its surface. There are two more cases beside it, more workmanlike instruments inside. It's likely they're much more regularly used, by more routine players for more routine ceremonies, but Patrick has trained since he can remember to handle the most delicate of instruments, and he knows what is expected of him.

The Master leaves him to prepare, and Patrick pulls out the key shipped to him from Mith to unlock the case. The lock itself, he discovers with a dull kind of shock, is covered in dust.

He pulls back the casing and reveals the instrument inside, burnished and glossy in its cushioning. It's beautiful in its own way, though he knows it's unwieldy and old-fashioned. Moving carefully, he carries it forward to the center section and starts to pluck gently at the strings, tuning as he goes. The sound is rich and mellow, and when he glances up, the two Gennet parents are staring openly, transfixed. Patrick is confused - it's only a few notes, no tune - and then gets it. How long since they last heard music?

Tired, suddenly, of the pomposity of his duties, and with the Master of Congregants nowhere in sight, Patrick smiles at Mrs. Gennet. "What's the baby's name? He looks like a bright kid."

Mrs. Gennet recovers quickly. "His name is Ian, after his dad," gesturing to the father and coming closer to let Patrick see the kid through the voluminous layers of fabric. Ian is still fussing, understandably enough, and Mrs. Gennet hoists him up on one hip so he can look around and pull at her hair.

Patrick reaches out a hand and gets one finger clamped by a small imperious fist, and he smiles genuinely for the first time since the phone call from Mith. "How old are you, kid?"

"He turns one next month," Ian's father chimes in, coming forward and wrapping an arm around his wife. "We're a bit late with the confirmation ceremony, but he was sick for the first few months, and we weren't sure - well. We're grateful the Academy could send someone to officiate."

"Oh, hey, it's no problem," says Patrick, trying to put them at their ease, prizing himself free from Ian's sticky fingers and feeling like a total idiot now he's off script. "Uh - all part of the service."

They all turn, then, as the Master of Congregants comes into the center and nods to the parents to signal the beginning of the ceremony. Patrick takes a breath and runs through the anthems he'll be playing in his head.

In the still silence of the hall, a deep, clear note suddenly sounds.

Beside him, Mrs. Gennet gasps, whipping her head around to see her infant son leaning out of her arms and grasping at the strings of the harp, open joy on his round pink face, ready to make more noise. Patrick sees the panic in Mrs. Gennet's eyes and darts a glance at the Master of Congregants, who hasn't quite the view of events he'd like and can't confirm what just happened. Quickly, Patrick pulls back and plucks at the same note again, then again, trying to look as official and musician-like as he can and hoping like hell the Master thinks it is some new aspect of the ceremony.

Just then, the deep sound of a bell echoes above them, and the doors to the hall open as a small crowd begins to stream in for the ceremony. They're obviously some of the wealthiest families on Drummeril, nothing like the world his family came from. Their clothes whisper as they move up the aisle, heavy and crisp, and Patrick is suddenly grateful for the plain dark cloth of his official robes that helps him melt into the background.

People begin picking out seats and Patrick moves back behind the harp, getting settled. In the front rows a few feet away, the Gennets are joined by another family, two parents and three adult children. Two of the kids look somewhere between dutiful and bored, but the third, the eldest son, Patrick realizes in shock, is glaring directly at him. Patrick stares back in astonishment at the guy who has his eyes locked on him, beaming resentment from the front row. Patrick doesn't have a clue what to make of him. He can hardly see him, really, the dark-colored ornamental clothes he's wearing covering him from the high collar of his coat to the tip of his brightly shined boots. But there's no mistaking the look of anger in his eyes, even if it's the first time Patrick can remember anyone directing that kind of antagonism in his direction, never mind someone he's never even met.

The Master clears his throat to begin, and Patrick shakes off the stranger's glower and bends his head to start.

Patrick plays where it's required, plays what he has been taught to play, effortlessly and by rote, unable for the first time to lose himself in the music. It sounds good - it sounds perfect, like always - but in his mind, instead of the usual misty images he gets when he plays - images of the Academy halls, of hundreds of musicians moving in time, of his mother's proud face - other pictures fill his head. He pulls at the harp strings and he sees the blank and boxy walls of the hall, the dusty keyhole on the case, the look of open glee on the Gennet baby's face when he played his first, and probably last, note. And he sees the dark angry eyes of the strange guy in the front row, the guy Patrick knows is still staring as he does his Academy-sanctioned duty and plays the old notes of the ceremonial songs.

Eventually, the Master speaks the last words of the ceremony and Patrick holds the final chords as the congregation claps politely. Taking a deep breath, he tilts the harp back into position on the floor and risks raising his eyes to look at the guy in the front row.

The anger's gone. Patrick's not sure what's replaced it. The guy is still there, though the rest of his family are moving off up the aisle, and his stare is still leveled right at Patrick. It's just as intense, in its own way, as the resentment from before, but now Patrick finds it completely unreadable. He raises a hand, stupidly, to wave, and the guy shakes his head as if to clear it, then turns and hurries off down the aisle. Back at his instrument, Patrick stands for a second with his hand in the air.

He's exhausted and jittery after the ceremony, and he goes back to Joe's and collapses into bed, only to spend most of the night twisting himself up in his sheets, his heartbeat refusing to calm down and let him pass out. When he finally drops off, it's almost dawn, and he ends up sleeping through most of the next day, only waking when Joe comes in at sunset to announce that they're going out. Patrick is willing enough, ready to shake off the fog of tension and too much sleep.

He drags himself to the shower and then pulls on some of his few casual clothes, pulling them out from underneath piles of different ceremonial robes. All his day-to-day clothes are the same neutral colors, soft browns and creams, comfortable and shapeless. He looks at himself in Joe's bathroom mirror and sees, without his glasses, a fairly formless beige blob. Pretty much standard, really, and he shrugs and pulls a cap over his head, heading off to find Joe.

Who stares at him and frowns for a second, before punching his shoulder and pulling his own shiny green jacket tight up his arms. His hair looks even wilder, if that's possible. Patrick decides it must be against the guy code to talk about each other's clothes, and doesn't say anything about Joe's eye-searing coat or about how his outfit would have been received back on Mith.

"Come on, man, let's get a drink." Joe leads them toward his local shuttle port and they hop on quickly enough and sit back while they're sped into the city, the 'scrapers growing taller and taller as they approach until finally they're looming all around them, shiny and impenetrable and making Patrick's neck hurt. "We're going north a bit," explains Joe, strolling ahead once they're off the shuttle, and Patrick is happy to stroll along with him, though he'd thought the shuttle went pretty much everywhere directly in Shanco. "Nah," says Joe, "only the rich stuff is serviced, the fuckin' malls and shit. We're going somewhere a bit more real."

By 'real,' Patrick is pretty sure Joe means 'creepy,' because the streets are getting darker and more narrow as they walk, the streetlights dwindling in frequency, and suddenly there are other people on the street, heading the same direction they are in ones and twos and bigger groups, quiet enough but somehow urgent. Patrick feels Joe pick up the atmosphere, getting primed for something, brimming with stored energy he remembers from their first performances together as kids. But Joe left the Academy over a year ago, and there's no sanctioned music outside of it, so what the hell - "Joe, what the fuck is this?"

"Patrick" - and Joe slings an arm around his shoulder, squeezes him tight and solid - "this is what we on Drummeril like to call fun."

And that's when he starts to feel the vibration.

At first, it's just a general hum, a rumble like an underground shuttle passing by, but all the shuttles in Shanco are overground and the rumble doesn't stop, doesn't fade away. Instead it gets stronger and more distinct as they get closer to the place everyone seems to be heading, a set of rusted double doors in an anonymous-looking brick building up ahead. Suddenly, Patrick can feel a distinct pattern to the vibrations... and then he realizes that it's not a pattern, it's a goddamn rhythm.

His feet stutter to a halt and Joe's arm judders from around his shoulder. "Joe, Jesus. What the - you know we can't -"

Joe turns and glances around, waving once at someone in the growing crowd, and then looks at Patrick, eyes intent. "You're not at the Academy anymore, Patrick, you're not even on Mith. This is the real world. Like, literally. And it's not what you think, anyway. Listen - do you hear any music?"

Patrick can't really hear anything over his crazy breathing, but he forces himself to tune in, training his ear toward the building and the air around them, and Joe's right, there's no tune, no melody, nothing but a driving beat, suddenly familiar. The downbeat and the totally unique ostinato -

"That's the drumfill from Fallah Lymni! It's - none of that is supposed to be played outside the ceremonies, Joe, you know that as well as I do."

Joe actually fucking snickers. "You haven't seen inside yet. It's plenty ceremonial, believe me."

Patrick feels his fingers curling into fists, shock turning into anger. Joe seems to recognize the look and drops the smirk, but he doesn't back down, and that's new. "Listen, dude. Just - fucking listen, okay? I know what they taught you. I know, I was there. Ritual musicianship, the art of interpretation, traditional variations, blah blah blah. And I know that you're probably going back there, and maybe you should, because it's still the only place they'll let you really play, and you should always be playing, Patrick, you've got more talent than anyone I've ever met. But seriously, fuck them. They took my guitar the day I left, man, they took my guitar, because why the fuck would I ever need it if I wasn't playing Shannos for the Counsellors, right? And that's just part of the bullshit, the way they think they're the only place you can feel music, make music. I got my hands on a new guitar two weeks after getting here, because you can find them if you try and because I'm not me without one. I mean - you get that, right?"

And under the complete confusion - he doesn't think he's heard Joe sound anything close to this earnest before, and it's kind of freaky - Patrick does get it, knows that no-one could part him from his guitar, that he'd agree to anything the Academy asked to keep it, to be allowed to play. He just hadn't realized that anyone outside the Academy could actually feel the same way. Joe seems to sense him wavering and grabs his arm, heading in toward the building.

"So, come see. It's pretty fucking cool, even with just the drums. And don't worry, okay, they don't give a fuck what we do as long as we stay away from the shiny places."

There are a lot of people inside, and to Patrick's ears it seems like every single one of them is shouting. He looks around, dumbfounded, and there are hundreds of people crushed close, yelling into each other's faces, gesturing wildly to make themselves heard, flushed with body heat and alcohol. More than that, every single one of them is swaying, a shifting of hips or nodding of heads, all moving with the rhythm of the drums. Patrick feels at sea, almost literally, like the ground isn't solid beneath him anymore, and it's only the feel of Joe bumping and swaying beside him that lets him know he's standing still.

He tilts his face toward the ceiling, looking for a breath of air that isn't full of sound and sweat, and stares up past the shoulders and heads around him to the roof arching way above them. It's only then he recognizes the building's shape, feels the way the acoustics are being formed, how the sound has become so rounded and full. This isn't a warehouse, it's an old church, one of the cathedrals of Danan. Patrick thought they'd all been torn down when the new city was founded. The arc of the ceiling is perfect; even through the steam and noise, Patrick can tell that much. These people, whoever they are, have somehow found the one building in Shanco properly designed for the performance of music. He wants to get closer, check out the types of sound produced in the different parts of the room, listen to the echoes, maybe stroke the walls a little bit.

"Patrick, man, you want a drink?"

Joe is plastered up against his side again, yelling in his ear over the din. Patrick winces, both at the yelling and the way Joe is standing on his foot, but nods readily enough in agreement, and Joe grabs his wrist and drags him off toward the nearest alcove.

For an underground illegal warehouse-cum-cathedral party, they have a pretty impressive selection of booze.

"Whaddya want?" shouts Joe, muscling his way toward the makeshift bar. Patrick stares at the huge collection of half-empty bottles and the weird bulbous bladders that probably hold the infamous Shanco ale that kids at the Academy used to boast about drinking. It all looks pretty dubious, frankly. It doesn't matter, though, because Joe has already abandoned him and disappeared into the crowd, pushing his way to the front. Patrick steps back, finds a nearby wall to lean against, and tries to look for the source of the drumming. It's actually pretty good - frenetic and steady at the same time, a mix of discipline and fervor he recognizes even though he's never heard anything like it before. He taps a counter rhythm against the wall and his toes flex in time.

Joe shows up with an extra mug in his hands, and Patrick grabs it and takes a huge swallow, happily blotting out the strangeness of feeling momentarily at home in a place so alien.

"Blargh!"

When he comes back to reality, shaking his head and reeling from the burn in his throat and the heat in his brain, the drumming has stopped, and the voices around him are suddenly distinct. For just a second, they sound like a different kind of music, an orchestra of babble, and Patrick takes another drink. Then the crowd in front of them pushes back, pressing him tighter against the wall, and he can see a flow of people moving toward the bar to his left. A gap appears and Patrick sees - Patrick sees some seriously crazy looking people.

They're all soaked with sweat, for one thing, covered in it, male and female, more than even the humidity of the room would account for. They're all dressed differently, but they each have a single strap of black cloth tied around both upper arms, and they're all breathing like they've just run a race, like they've just won a race, laughing and pulling at each other and bouncing on their feet. His own heartbeat speeds up in sympathy, and beside him he can feel the same thing happening to Joe.

"Who are they?"

"The drummers? They're just - they're everyone. People take turns." Joe shrugs and turns to shout closer. "They're not a group, not a collective or anything, just - people who have to play. Who can't - who just have to."

Patrick looks at them again and realizes that he's looking at people just coming off a serious performance high. He knows he's felt something like it, but he finds it hard to believe he ever looked anything like the bright and beaming people around him. He turns to Joe, wide-eyed. "Do you do it? Have you played with them?"

Joe shakes his head. "No. I haven't really been around long enough, I guess."

Patrick doesn't quite get that, but nods anyway.

"Trohman."

Patrick jumps and sloshes some of his drink. At his side is a short, slight guy with old-fashioned glasses, long hair, and more tattoos than Patrick has ever seen in his life.

"Andy, hey. You guys sounded good."

And Patrick notices the cloth bands on his arms, and follows his gaze down brightly inked skin to see at least three pairs of drumsticks tucked into the guy's pockets and tied onto his belt.

The guy - Andy - nods, and Patrick quickly realizes that there's nothing casual about it. Some of these guys might just be taking turns, like Joe said, but Andy's not one of them. Drumming is it for him, and some part of Patrick gets that and feels weirdly at ease. When he looks away from Andy's serious eyes and colorful body, he sees that they suddenly have room around them, space where the crowd has pulled back, and he knows it's sure as hell not because of him. Beside him, though, Joe is relaxed and friendly, and Patrick stifles the urge to press further back into the wall.

"And hey, am I right in thinking we heard some of your stuff on the train the other day?"

A glimmer of humor crosses Andy's solemn face, but he keeps silent. Joe laughs and punches his arm. Patrick winces and wonders if Joe is about to get his ass kicked, but Andy just smiles a little bigger. Joe hasn't lost any of his talent for making friends. And then Andy's tugging at the bands on his upper arms and holding them out to Joe.

"Here. You should take a turn later."

Patrick can't decide whether he's scared for Joe - this shit is so, so illegal - or as jealous as all hell. Joe doesn't seem to be as torn; he's already pulling off his jacket and holding out an arm. "Holy fuck, Andy. Thanks, man."

While Joe is busy spazzing with glee over the armbands, Patrick looks up as five or six people from the nearest clump in the crowd stagger outwards, pinwheeling arms and grabbing at each other for balance.

A dark-haired guy wearing tight black pants and not much else pushes through the irate crowd, tripping over the feet of several of them before crashing into Andy's back and throwing his arms around his shoulders.

"Motherfucking hippoisie!" The dude shouts back at the crowd who are throwing filthy looks in his direction, then grapples with Andy in what Patrick hopes is play fighting.

"You're the fucking hipster emperor, Wentz," says Andy, apparently undisturbed by the way he's being climbed on. Personally, Patrick would be worried about the six or so pointy drumsticks hanging about his person, never mind the fact that Andy is obviously some kind of guerilla warrior. The new guy slides down his back without incident, though, and settles with one arm thrown around Andy's waist before turning his head back toward the crowd.

"So they should show me some damn respect, no? I'M YOUR KING, ASSHOLES!"

As he yells, brash and strident, Patrick sees his face for a flash in the light of one of the braziers, and feels a kick low in his gut. The guy's face is illuminated, edgy in a spark of brightness, his features outlined in black and silver. His face is like a shout, like sound and movement are alive inside his skin. And then the light flickers and softens, and he turns back toward Andy and Joe, and Patrick sees that he's small, not much taller than him, and has improbable hair and a goofy grin that's turning into an even goofier laugh.

Nevertheless, Patrick finds himself thinking that the emperor title wasn't too far off, somehow. The guy breathes like he's doing air a favor.

"Hey," the guy says, nodding at Joe, "Trohman, right? You're playing later?"

Patrick, mesmerized, moves a little closer. And then he sees, with a shock that robs his breath, that it's the guy from the ceremony.

To his left, Joe is nodding enthusiastically. "Yeah. Yeah, Andy gave me his bands. I'm no drumming maestro, or anything, guitar's more my thing, but -"

"You play guitar?"

Patrick's new, but he's pretty sure that's a very loaded question, right there. Both Andy and Wentz are watching Joe carefully now, but Joe has obviously decided that discretion is the better part of chickenshit, and he smiles back at them, shrugging.

"Yeah. I'm ex-Academy. Wasn't for me."

Patrick gasps a little at that one. Only Joe would be casual about rejecting an institution most people would kill to get into and few even understood. He regrets it pretty fucking quickly though, because it makes Wentz's head swivel toward him and Patrick can feel himself reddening.

"Patrick just came from there, though. Fresh off the boat."

Peripherally, Patrick can see Andy nodding hello. He's pretty much stuck in a staring match with Wentz, though, who doesn't seem to be interested in looking away. This is becoming something of a pattern, Patrick thinks. And - woah - he's suddenly a lot closer. And still staring.

In his own way, the guy seems as shocked as Patrick. He tilts his head and seems to be considering what to make of him. Patrick watches warily, waiting for - and sure enough, there comes the anger flooding back over the guy's face.

"So, the Academy boy decided to do a little sightseeing, huh?"

Patrick sees Andy's head swivel round to take in the conversation, and Joe steps closer.

Patrick has no real experience with hostility like this, but he knows something about being challenged, and he realizes that's exactly what's happening here.

"You saw me at the confirmation ceremony," Patrick says. The guy nods, eyes narrowed. "I saw you, too. You were in the front row."

"Yeah, I was there. But this is where I belong. What do you think of our humble abode, Academy kid?"

Patrick scowls at the name - the guy can stop calling him a kid anytime now - but sees that oddly, he does seem to genuinely want to know. "It's like -" Patrick looks around at the space. "I've never seen anything like it."

Wentz tilts his head so he can catch Patrick's eyes again. The anger is gone, replaced by the same strange look he'd given Patrick back at the hall. "I've never heard anything like you," he says.

Patrick blushes like an idiot.

"Pete." It takes a second to realize that's an introduction, and Patrick wonders if he should stick out a hand. Doesn't think he wants to risk that much coordination, though, and with how close Pete is standing, he'd probably just push his hand into the guy's chest, which is right there.It's more skin than Patrick has seen on another person maybe ever. It's making him uncomfortable, prickly with heat and nerves. He swallows and drops his eyes downwards, trying to generate a little calm from this freaky situation, but isn't helped by the sight of Pete's chest narrowing down to a pair of pants that seem to be made entirely from strips of old leather tied tightly together across his hips and legs. He hadn't noticed the tattoo before, either.

"So this whole thing must be weird for you, huh."

Patrick jerks his head back up, narrowly missing hitting Pete in the face with the brim of his hat. Oh, smooth, Stump. Pete ducks back and laughs. Patrick finds himself smiling in response, like a dork, and he bites his lip to try and get it under control. Pete's eyes drop downwards and his laugh stops, just like that. Patrick closes his eyes and fumbles for an answer.

"It's - really hot in here."

Oh for - that's what his brain came up with? And Pete's grinning again, and then nodding decidedly, and - shit, grabbing his arm.

"You're right. We should go outside."

And Patrick's getting pulled unceremoniously through the crowd, Pete forging through and Patrick dealing with the filthy looks in his wake, like slaps from rebounding branches. He ducks his head and hurries after Pete.

Outside, the street is quiet, but Pete leads him further around the corner where it's even more silent, only the rumbling vibrations as the drums start up again making any sound in the night. That explains where Joe went off to, anyway, though Patrick can't honestly say he noticed him leave. He spares a second to worry about how he'll find him again later, and then Pete is pulling him down to sit on a stone bench recessed in the wall and huddling up beside him. It's summer, so it's still pretty warm, but Pete presses close all the same. Patrick thinks it should be easier to breathe out here away from the crowd, but he's still having difficulties. At the same time, the warmth up and down his right side where Pete is sitting against him feels somehow comfortable.

"So - what was it like? At the Academy? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Patrick raises his eyebrows at Pete's super serious tone. "Uh, no, that's okay. It was just like a big school, I guess, mostly."

Pete snorts. "Sure, a school."

"Well, yeah. We had, like, classes, and practice, and rehearsals and - learning stuff." Patrick shuts his eyes against the memory of long hallways, huge rooms full of music, and the safety of a lifetime of routine.

"Learning what they told you, right?" says Pete, once again close and intense. "Learning to repeat the same songs, over and over and over. I heard that they make you spend days and days just working on one section of one song, trying to make it sound whatever way they tell you it's supposed to sound."

Patrick frowns, unsure what kind of response Pete is looking for. Sure they'd had long practices sometimes, but the way Pete said it made it sound -

"What did you play? What instruments?"

Patrick looks away, back out toward the light of the main street. He shrugs and tugs at his hat. "All of them."

Pete grips his shoulder to turn him back. "What? Are you serious?"

"Well - yeah. It's not so hard, really, when you class them as groups and get the basics down - a lot of stringed instruments are similar, and with most of the wind instruments it's just a case of developing a good... embouchure..." He trails off, his lips pursing automatically into the right shape for the flute and then reaching up to cover his mouth when Pete doesn't stop staring, the black lines around his eyes exaggerating everything.

Pete reaches up and pulls Patrick's hand away, moving it down to rest against his thigh. He can feel the rough edges of the leather strips of Pete's pants under his fingers, and the heat of Pete's body beneath.

And then Pete huffs out a breath of surprise and his face blazes into a smile that makes him look about eight years old, and brightly, unrestrainedly happy.

"Patrick! Holy shit! Dude, do you know what this means?" And Pete lurches forward and presses a warm, messy kiss to Patrick's cheek.

Everything stutters to a halt in Patrick's brain, and his hands flail out 'til they somehow find themselves pressed against the warm skin over Pete's ribs as Pete pulls back slightly to beam another crazy grin into his face.

"We have to play together, Patrick. It's going to be so awesome. I just know it."

"What?" Patrick might still be dizzy from the - from the heat. And travel, too, the travel.

"We're gonna make a band, oh man. You used to call them collectives, at the Academy, right? Well, fuck that, it's a band. Andy will totally drum. I don't know who else is free right now, but -"

Patrick shakes his head to try and clear it. Because even though what Pete is saying is madness, is totally fucking crazy, not to mention illegal and terrifying, Pete means every word, he can see it, and somehow, for some tiny part of Patrick's brain, that makes the impossible suddenly... not so impossible.

Which maybe scares him more than anything else.

He pulls his hands off Pete's chest - have they been there the whole time? - and jumps up from the bench, putting some space between them so he can think. Pete is still talking, hands flying around in increasingly manic gestures while he comes up with ideas for other possible members, and lyrics he's written, and fuck, names for the band. Patrick laughs a little hysterically against the opposite wall.

"Pete. PETE. Stop - just stop a second, okay?"

Pete goes quiet, and sits back on his hands, smiling recklessly. Patrick is smiling back before he can help it.

"You don't even know me," he points out. Pete just grins wider. Patrick sighs. "Look - it can't - don't be dumb, Pete. It can't happen. For like, a million reasons. I can't believe you even - you don't even know me."

Pete gets up and comes closer, again. Patrick is beginning to have doubts about his grasp of personal space.

"I do know you, Patrick," and wow, he's really, really close now. "I know you and you know me. It's fucking crazy awesome and it's true. I know you've learned how to play ever instrument there is. I know you have a seriously perfect... embouchure. I'm pretty sure you feel music like most people feel temperature." Patrick's sure his gulp can be heard all the way in the street. "I know you stuck it out at the Academy so you could learn, and god knows that can't have been easy, and you got out of there as soon as you could, and I know our band is going to -"

"Wait, Pete - what?"

"Our band, Patrick. It's going to be amazing."

"No - no, Pete. I didn't - I didn't run away from the Academy. I didn't - I'm only here - I'm here because they sent me. I'm probably going - I mean, I'm going back. It's my home."

And then Pete steps back, eyes glittering and shocked in the light from the street. "You're going back there? You think that's where you belong?" He sounds horrified, outraged.

And abruptly, it all gets to be too much. Pete's face, stunned and aghast, already backing away when seconds ago it had been so close, and the disconnect between everything that had happened tonight as opposed to every other day of his life, it all cascades down and suddenly Patrick is furious.

"What the hell would you know about it, anyway?" This time it's him stepping forward, reaching out for Pete. Pete, still shocky, stands and lets him. "You know me all of five minutes, Pete. I've lived at the Academy forever." And all the doubts he's had about it, about his life there, seem very far away, now, in the face of Pete's obvious disgust. "If they hadn't taken me in, I'd be, god, I'd be no-one. Without music - " His throat is suddenly too tight to continue, and he reaches forward and shoves hard at Pete, pushing him up against the opposite wall. He can hear the air oof-ing out of Pete's lungs, and he feels it on his face as he comes right up to him, hands flat against Pete's bare chest. His own breath is coming just as fast, and every muscle he owns is tight and trembling.

"It's how the system works, Pete. It's how music works, and I have to - I need to be part of it."

When Patrick lets him go, Pete sags back against the wall, but Patrick doesn't stay to see if he falls. He can see the street lights at the mouth of the alley, and that's where he's heading.

Rapid footfalls behind him let him know that Pete is following, but he still starts in surprise when Pete grabs him and pulls him back into the shadow of the church.

"You don't have to be without music, Patrick. They don't own it."

Patrick chokes, incredulous. "Says who? Of course they fucking own it, they're the only ones allowed to play! You can't even - god, I had to get a special dispensation just to bring my guitar off Academy property. They have it locked up, Pete. All of it. And it's all I know how to do." He hates the note of pleading that enters his voice at the last. Hates how his hands are clasped around Pete's arms, and hates the desperate, frantic hope that's still in Pete's eyes.

"Patrick, come on - there are other ways to -"

Patrick cuts him off, suddenly angrier than he's ever been. "No, there really aren't. And you might be happy pounding sticks against the floor twice a week and calling it music, but I can't live like that. I won't."

God, the shame of it.

"So that's it?" And Patrick's got his eyes closed again, but it doesn't matter because Pete's hands are suddenly tight around his head, fingers pushing into his hair and lifting his face to the light. "That's really what you want? To go back there and play the notes they tell you to play in the order they tell you to play them, and not one note more? Lock yourself up in a damn tower and do their bidding? You'd sell yourself that cheap?"

Patrick's eyes jump open and he stares direct and unflinching into Pete's furious gaze. For a second, they breathe in tandem and Patrick can feel Pete everywhere, pushy and strong against him, daring him, provoking him, asking too goddamn much.

He wrenches himself out of Pete's grasp. "Fuck you. You judgmental asshole."

Pete makes a move to come closer, and Patrick's hands curl automatically into fists. Pete stops when he sees them and holds up his hands.

"Fine. Enjoy the rest of your vacation, Musician."

And then he's gone, whirling off away from the city and into the dark. Patrick stands alone in the street, shaking quietly with the beat of the drums.

Chapter Text

Patrick has another ceremony to attend the next day, and he heads back to the same hall in Shanco feeling numb and exhausted. The group is much smaller this time, just a few people invited to witness the confirmation of an official promotion for a mid-level government minister. The whole thing is much more low-key, but the music Patrick has to play is just as intricate. Once the official greetings are run through and he can retreat back behind his instruments, he's surprised but grateful to find that he can just play, that he can slip right into the songs with none of the concentration problems he had the last time. He knows the words so well he sings them almost phonetically, just enjoying the way they regulate his breathing and make him calm.

It's only at the end, as he's playing the final sequence of the confirmation song, that the whole mess from the night before pushes back to the front of his mind. It makes him pull the harp a little closer, pressing against it as if it can reassure him that he'll always have this, that as long as he has this, that he can play, then everything else will be okay. That he's one of the lucky ones, and the sacrifices are worth it.

When he chases the very last reverberations from the strings after the fading notes of the final song, he looks up into the stillness, and Pete is standing by the door.

He's too far away to be able to read the expression on Pete's face, but he's caught all the same, staring back across the hall. Patrick can feel his face turning pink, flashes of the night before - Pete's smile, his anger, his skin - rising like a tide and making his heart thump crazily. The instrument in his hands creaks ominously and he realizes he's clutching far too tightly at the frame, so he forces his fingers to gentle and can't help stroking across the strings, hoping for calm. Pete's eyes, hooded and sullen, follow the movement. Then, as Patrick watches, he turns and walks out the door.

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut against the glare of sunshine that breaks the gloom of the hall when the door opens, then jerks at the bang as it shuts in Pete's wake. Then it's dark and silent again, but Patrick's pulse won't stop racing.

"Musician, we need you to witness the documents of confirmation." The Master of Congregants is at his side, waiting. Patrick rests his head on the instrument's frame and wills his fingers to unclench.

"Yeah. I'll be right there."

Outside, it takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the glare of daylight, and he rests against the wall of the hall as he blinks into the sky and dares the sun to blind him.

His hands are already hungry, the reassuring weight of his guitar case no longer a consolation, and he has no idea why he'd thought it a good idea to leave the Academy, even for a day, why he'd wanted to learn more about the galaxy before he gave it all up. Who does that?

The dazzle of sunlight is making his eyes water.

"It's still fucking bogus."

Pete is standing in front of him, hands stuffed in his pockets, and his eyes, up close, are full of too many things for Patrick to read, even if he weren't half-blind with tears.

"It's still entirely fucking bogus, but I guess I can see why you want to go back there."

Patrick lets out a sound that's half laugh and half sob, pulling a hand across his face and trying to get himself under control. Jesus, Pete.

He looks different in daylight. In plain, comfortable clothes that are nothing like the heavy ornamental robes of the first ceremony, or his outfit from the night before. He's paler, out of the dark, tired and weirdly fragile in places - the bluish skin beneath his eyes, the hollow of his throat - and Patrick doesn't remember noticing anyone quite this way before.

He's just as intense, though, and it's still a visceral shock to be so close to him. The constant restless hum beneath Pete's skin is just as clear, and Patrick can't speak through the thick of it. He feels trapped, over-sensitive and terribly, terribly exposed.

"You play really well," says Pete, seriously, stepping even closer, and then he snorts and looks away. "You play really well. Fuck. Patrick -" and his eyes are back, pinning Patrick against the wall, "you play - you play like a sorcerer."

Something inside Patrick goes very still at that; waits.

"Listening to you -" Pete draws in a breath and reaches out a hand to touch against Patrick's, stroking quickly across the place where his fingers clutch at his guitar, "I guess I understand why they try to lock it away."

Patrick shivers, first at the touch of Pete's calloused fingers and then again as he responds, almost against his will, to what Pete's just said. He breathes against the parts of himself clamoring to agree, and sees Pete watching him do it.

"Pete," he starts, and then stops, not knowing what else to say. He lets his head hang forward a little, tired, and bites his lip as two fingers come up to stroke some of the hair falling in his face. "I don't know what you want from me." The fingers brush, just for a second, against his cheek, and then Pete is stepping back, shaking out his hands and bouncing a little on his feet. Patrick looks up, and Pete's eyes are kind in a way he'd never have expected.

"C'mon, let's get something blue to drink. You've earned your keep today, little musician."

They stroll along in silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder, ambling along way more comfortably than Patrick would have expected. He doesn't know how this works, really, how people meet and interact and get along when they don't have music curling around every word they speak.

Then Pete bumps his shoulder, and Patrick suppresses a smile. Then risks bumping back.

"So, uh, how did you know where I'd be today?"

Pete shrugs beside him. "My family is connected to half the halls in Shanco."

Patrick doesn't doubt it. Pete wears privilege pretty easily. And Patrick has to ask -

"How come you didn't go to the Academy?"

Pete looks away. "By the time I was twelve, I'd made it pretty clear to my parents that I wasn't the type of kid you could trust to represent the family."

Patrick digests that one in silence. "I'd been there four years by the time I turned twelve."

At that, Pete's laser gaze is back. Patrick keeps his face impassive, not sure what Pete can be thinking about him now.

"This is your first time outside since you were eight?"

Patrick nods.

"And... last night was your first -"

Pete stops, and Patrick can't guess which of the many firsts from last night Pete is talking about. First time breaking the law? First drink? First contact with unsanctioned drumming?

Last night is, in Patrick's head, already becoming mainly about the first time he saw Pete, but he's pretty sure that's not what Pete's referring to.

Suddenly, Pete snorts. "Dude. Back there in the hall. What the hell was with those lyrics?"

"Wha- you mean the ceremonial songs?"

Patrick grew up with the words of the rite of confirmation engraved on the wall - engraved in the wall and written in gold - "at the head of his dormitory. He used to read them as he fell asleep. He knows every syllable.

"Yeah, seriously. 'Duty to kith and kin/Confirmed with this most hallowed din.' Who the fuck thinks like that? It doesn't even scan properly."

Patrick can't believe he's laughing. It's a strange, shocking thrill, and his laugh is maybe as much a gasp as anything, but beside him, Pete is bouncing, looking thrilled with himself, and how did it take Patrick so long to figure out what a dork this guy is?

"And Patrick, come on, how do you get through that bit about the glory hole without cracking your shit up?"

Patrick really doesn't know. "Pete! It's "glorious whole," you dick. I never had trouble hearing the w there before, Jesus. Thanks for that."

Pete is dancing in front of him now, pulling him toward a bar up ahead, sun dancing off his eyes, his grin. "Whatever you say, dude. Whatever you say."

"But seriously -" Pete says, once they're sitting in a warm, secluded booth near the back window, and Patrick puts down his drink, because weirdly, Pete actually does look serious. Funny how quickly he'd gotten used to the spazzy version. "Seriously. You know - you have to know that the lyrics are ridiculous. I mean, I won't deny that some of the official tunes have a bitchin' beat and I get that you put a lot of work into making them sound amazing, but the words. All of them. They're bullshit."

Patrick feels a hot wash of indignation at that, old loyalties not shaken off so quickly. Besides - "They're not bullshit, Pete. They're ceremonial! They're a thousand years old! They - they carry meaning, okay?"

"Yeah," says Pete, not giving an inch, "meanings from the past. Meanings long dead, Patrick."

"Fuck, Pete, it's -" Patrick scrambles for the phrase, repeated at the Academy in music history classes ad infinitum. "It's cultural memory, okay. That stuff is important."

"Important to who?" Pete fires back, lightning fast. "You know what - forget that. I have no problem with history and whatever version of it they want us to hear, fine. Keep the damn "glorious whole," fine. My fucking problem, though, Patrick," and Patrick grips the arms of the chair, unable to look away, "comes when they try to tell us that the past is all that matters, that the only things worth writing music for are long gone, over before our fucking grandparents were born. That is where they lost me, and that is where they're wrong."

Patrick sits still, fighting with the part of himself that wants to agree. There's something about the look in this Pete's eyes that could make him believe that grass is blue and the sky is only just out of reach. It's fucking stupid, and he can't explain it, and it frightens him, this instant connection and improbable certainty.

"Pete," he struggles, wanting suddenly to explain, to make Pete understand, even if he can't agree, "the Academy is still the only place in the galaxy I can work with music in the way I want. That's not going to change. I get your problems with it. Fuck, I guess I agree with some of them. And - and it would be really..." Patrick feels his voice becoming strained, "it would be really amazing to be in a group with you. I think that could have been awesome. But -"

And he looks up, then, and can't continue, because Pete isn't giving Patrick the remorseful, accepting face he was hoping for. It's pretty obvious that he's not letting Patrick off the hook here. His jaw is tight and his face is set - determined and mulish and still somehow almost as pleading as Patrick.

He sighs and looks away, picking up his empty glass and rubbing his thumb around the edge and making a small sad whining noise with the friction. He stops when Pete snorts and grabs his hand.

"Patrick, you stubborn asshole. Every move you make is music. Leaving the Academy wouldn't change that, it would just free it."

But all Patrick can see is the rooms and rooms of gleaming, perfectly tuned and polished instruments back on Mith, instruments that don't even exist anywhere else. And the Director's voice in his ear, naming him Musician and maybe even someday -

He peels Pete's hand off and stands up, shaking his head. "I think we just have different ideas of freedom, Pete. Sorry."

Confusion bubbles inside him all the way home, and Joe knows not to ask once he gets back to the apartment, just raising both palms in the air in placation when he storms toward his room, kicking the front door shut behind him.

Fucking Pete and his fucking ideas. And his stupid, weird face.

His comm chirping snaps him out of his rapidly escalating freak out, and his heart doesn't slow down any when he hears Karolan's voice on the line.

"Hello, Musician. We have many arrangements to discuss."

Twenty minutes later, when Joe knocks on his door and pokes a tentative head through the crack, Patrick is lying on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling, numb.

"Patrick, dude, are you okay?"

Patrick really isn't sure he can answer that. There's a fucking whirlwind in his head, thoughts jumbled and jostling, the Director's words and Pete's entreaties echoing around, as well as a crazy desperate thrum of homesickness he knows will only go away when he figures out where the hell home actually is. Fuck.

Joe gives up waiting for an answer. "Well, hey, listen, I'm going out ... you know, to the place. I keep my guitar there, which sucks but is safe, I guess. Anyway, I want to play around a bit before the crowds start showing up. I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

Musician, Patrick hears, over and over again. Sometimes in the Director's voice, or the Master of Congregants, or in Pete's, laced with disappointment and derision. Musician. Is that what he is? And if that's what he is, shouldn't he be wherever music is? What could he be anywhere else? At the Academy, he'd be - he'd be Musician and more; he knows that now. Here, he'd be throwing it all away, everything he'd worked for, everything his mother had dreamed of, everything Karolan told him he'd been destined for. Here, he's nobody without the Academy insignia to identify him, nobody without the guitar they'd take from him and the songs they wouldn't let him play.

"Joe. Wait."

Whatever the hell happens, he's on Drummeril 'til Solstice, when he'll play the biggest ceremony of his life. Now it's Saturday night, and he can't face lying on this bed a second longer.

"I'm coming with you."

Patrick leans over his duffel and rummages for one of his black performance shirts, pulling off the Academy symbols and crumpling them back inside the bag. He can reattach them later. For now, he just wants a really big drink, a really big crowd, a lot of noise, and maybe a better look at those cathedral acoustics.

Of course Pete is there. Patrick catches sight of him making his way through the crowd, half-naked and dark-eyed, and he shuts his eyes against the pull in his gut. Turning away, he pushes into a tangled knot of dancers and loses himself in the masses of people bouncing and grinding and shouting. He steers as straight a course as he can toward the nearest wall, and leans back against the cool plastered stone, totally hidden and still feeling anything but safe.

After a while though, the complete lack of attention being paid to him and the solid wall behind him helps to calm him down, and he becomes aware of the complicated drumming patterns pushing out from the center of the floor, and the way the walls and ceiling are bouncing them back and amplifying the whole thing. Above him, giant buttresses left from a much older architecture - older even than the Academy hall on Mith - swoop upwards and out across the ceiling, and through the haze Patrick can just about make out the shapes of old frescoes decorating the sections high above the ground. He moves along the wall, fascinated, until he comes to another of those alcoves, this time filled with sound booming around inside it, filling his head 'til he can't hear anything else. There's a ridge along the back, and he climbs up a little to hear the sounds closer to the roof, and suddenly he can see over the crowd into the center of the hall, where the drummers are playing. He doesn't know he's looking until he spots Pete among them, black bands tight against the tanned shine of his arms and the matching dark swirls of his tattoos.

Pete's out in front, right up against the crowd, banging down with his sticks in a rhythm which only occasionally matches everyone else's beat. Where some players are intent, focused, all their energy directed into the drumming, Pete - Pete pushes it all out, into the other drummers, into the crowd, and Patrick can see it working, can see how he ties them all together somehow, carries them along with him. Not for the first time, Patrick's mesmerized. He can't help imagining what it would be like to be in there with him - would he even be able to concentrate? How long would it take before he could look down at his own instrument rather than constantly staring at Pete?

Patrick shakes his head at his stupid meandering thoughts and climbs down off the ledge, settling down in the corner against the wall of the alcove, and drumming alternate rhythms with his fingers on his thighs.

He stays there a long time, just listening.

It takes hours for the party to wind down, but Patrick is in no hurry to go home, and Joe is obviously still caught up, off in one corner with an arm slung around a pretty girl drummer and the other around Andy, having intense-looking conversations punctuated by even more intense noogie competitions.

Patrick's still full of sound, like his little alcove trapped every beat of the drumming and kept it going, endlessly rattling around just outside his head. His feet and hands won't stop moving, tapping out rhythms while under his breath, melodies start to kick in against his will. Glancing over toward Joe again, he spots Joe's guitar resting beside him, one of Joe's feet pressed protectively against the case. The temptation's too much, and he hardly realizes he's moving before he's over with Joe, asking for the guitar. And Joe is obviously due some kind of sainthood, because after a short pause to reassess his crazy, tetchy friend, he nods and hands it over without once mentioning what a dick Patrick has been lately.

Patrick spares a second to promise himself he'll make it up to Joe later as he half-runs back to the alcove to unlock the case and take out the guitar. He breathes deep once he has it in his hands, running his fingers along the body and feeling its smoothness, its potential. It's nothing like his own Academy-minted instrument, but for here, that just feels right, and when Patrick flicks a finger against the strings, nothing has ever sounded better.

Patrick strums a few chords and catches the beginnings of confusion crossing the faces of the party stragglers. There aren't many here so late, but still, it's obvious he's taking a risk. This makes him pretty nervous, but his fingers stay steady on the strings as he keeps playing, random snatches of tune just to keep himself company.

He knows he's drawing attention to himself, in an abstract way, people glancing over as they make their way to the exits, too exhausted from drumming or dancing to really get excited that some guy is sitting in the corner breaking a few galaxy-wide laws. He knows when he catches Pete's attention, though, somehow. Can feel, without looking, Pete's stare. And suddenly he even knows what he wants to play: the bViann martial anthem, fierce music all about battle and conflict and crazy boasts that prove to be true.

Patrick has always played with his eyes closed before, has always sung, when he has to sing, with his face turned in to his instrument, his cheek turned downward until it almost rests on the polished wood as he plays. He's always needed the security of it, the way it let him feel hidden and inconspicuous. This time, though, this once, strangely, he can't bring himself to look down. He shouldn't be surprised, maybe. Since the first moment he saw Pete, he hasn't been able to look away. It seems that for the first time in his life, he wants to be seen, wants to be heard, more than he wants to hide.

Even so, it's in half glances and darted looks that he keeps one eye on Pete in the far corner, across the hall, as he begins to pick out the first notes of the song. The bViann song he's somehow decided to play is the traditional warrior's song of bravery in battle. The first time Patrick had heard it, it had been played by the martial orchestra at Sigo, a thousand men pouring triumph into the air around him, shaking the blood in his veins. It had been later he learned that a performance like that was the pinnacle of the design for the bViann, that all other imitations were destined to pale in comparison, however faithfully they tried to reproduce its sound. His mother had crushed his hand in hers as she listened to it, and explained to him later how privileged he had been to be present at such an event.

Patrick knows, has been taught since he was eight, that there is a precise art to the performance of the bViann, that the words and melody had been arranged in a very particular way to evoke a very particular effect. So he can't really claim ignorance when he lets his fingers move away from the familiar chords to try new variations, slipping down to minor chords until the usual bombastic tone of the song is almost entirely gone.

Across the room, Pete catches the change, and moves closer.

Somehow, he's started singing. But it sounds nothing like anything he's sung before, nothing like the hundreds of times he's sung this song. The singing, the new chords and tones - what Patrick is doing, it's changing the meaning of the words, turning words of challenge and defiance into something more suggestive, more mournful. Come and stand beside me, he's singing, come and join this fight. His fingers catch on a minor chord and the tone of the song changes again, the words full of swagger but the lament clear in his voice. Come and stand beside me (as we fall, he sings), come and join this fight (that none can ever win).

As he gets nearer, Patrick sees Pete's eyes lock on to him, the shimmer of kohl contrasting with the widened whites of his eyes as he stares, a soft almost unnoticeable shiver travelling across his body.

Patrick keeps singing, watching Pete's face while his fingers pick out slightly unfamiliar chords, trading celebration for contemplation, and he realizes suddenly how little the old words really matter to him, how the guitar and his voice are telling stories in spite of the words instead of through them. And suddenly he wants to change them, wants to change everything, more than a trip from major to minor, he wants, for the first time, to take the song apart and make it his own - no, to make a new song, a new sound. He wants to add in the sound of the drummers, and the look in Pete's eyes, he wants to sing about his fear and the crazy elated feeling zinging all the way through him, he wants to create, not interpret. And he's always felt whispers of it, always heard alternate harmonies and additional movements in the old songs he practiced, but it's never been anything like this strong, nothing like this compulsion.

Then Pete is jumping over the benches between them, coming straight for him, and Patrick loses his grip on the strings and the song fumbles to a halt. Pete stands in front of him, hands clenched in fists.

"Are you still going back there?"

Patrick can't speak, doesn't know how to answer. His throat seals up and the guitar feels foreign and heavy in his hands, giving none of the reassurance he usually depends on.

"Patrick," Pete says, "you can't keep doing this to me."

"What? I'm not doing anyth - mphf -"

Pete's hands are in his hair and his crazy, unbelievable mouth is pressed to Patrick's, soft and hard at the same time, and Patrick finds himself falling back against the platform behind him, Joe's guitar still pressed between them. Pete doesn't seem to care about it, and Patrick can't find any strength to protest when he can feel Pete's chest pushing him down flat, all handsy and rough. The strings twang strangely when Pete presses against them, and Patrick can feel Pete's laugh against his throat as he pulls the guitar from between them and lays it off to one side.

"We're already making beautiful music together, Patrick, listen." But he doesn't give Patrick a chance to do anything except attempt to breathe raggedly through the onslaught as Pete's hands push beneath his shirt and stroke the ridiculously sensitive sides of his chest and belly. Up close, Pete smells like fresh sweat, and his hair is scratchy against Patrick's cheek. Patrick's hands shake as he lifts his arms to slowly curl his hands across Pete's smooth warm back, shocky with the daring feeling of being able to touch, of his touch being so obviously welcome as Pete licks long up his neck and shoves closer. Pete's back is taut and lithe, and when he drops a leg between Patrick's, the heat of his cock pulses through their clothes and makes Patrick push up against him instinctively.

He has less than no idea what he's doing, his mouth already feeling bruised and swollen from kissing, and he knows his movements are awkward and jerky, too fast and too tight and nothing like smooth. But something about it feels exactly right, this hot spiky pushing together, down to the fumbling bite he gives to Pete's ear that draws out a series of seriously inventive curses and a too-hard thrust.

Pete pulls back, panting, and stares down at him wide-eyed for a long silent moment.
"Patrick. Say you'll play with me. Not -" he pushes two fingers across Patrick's lips to stop him interrupting - "not forever. You don't have to decide anything. Just for now. Just - try. Just to see, Patrick. Please?"

And Patrick can't think of any reason why not, none that are strong enough, anyway, with them still breathing in sync and Pete's hard-on wedged tight against his own. It's possible Pete realizes this. Patrick adds sneakiness to the list of character traits he's compiling in his head, alongside pushy, and impulsive, and even better to touch than he'd suspected. Plus, there's nothing in Pete's face that spells manipulation or smugness, nothing that indicates any of this is some power trip for him. He's serious, so much that it shocks Patrick, awes him a little bit. Pete really wants this, wants them to play together, to make something together. He just can't in any way figure out why. Pete's determination, how he seemed so goddamn sure about this, is washing away all of Patrick's fears, or at least putting them on mute until he's alone, no longer covered in a blanket of warm, smiling Pete.

"Patrick, hey man, I'm heading out, can I get my guitar from - okay, woah."

Patrick buries his face in his hands as Pete sniggers on top of him and then starts to peel himself off, Joe standing open-mouthed at the edge of the alcove. He's not sure whether he's more mortified, relieved, or disappointed to be interrupted, and he stifles a whimper as Pete's hand not-so-accidentally grazes his cock as he gets up. He sits up and stares at Joe through his fingers, giving up on any hope of dignity.

"Sorry, dude. Your guitar's right here. I'll, uh, I'll come with you."

Pete sits silent while Patrick stands and puts Joe's guitar back in its case and hands it over. As he runs out of anything approaching guts and starts to follow Joe, though, Pete grabs his hand.

"Patrick. Play with me. Here. Tomorrow?"

Patrick looks down at Pete's hand hooked around his wrist, and bites his lip. "Okay. Tomorrow."

He's not at all embarrassed at how fast he walks to catch up with Joe.

Patrick means to sleep late the next day, but actually finds himself awake early, instantly alert and immediately hit with a confusing rush of images and feelings from the night before. There's a jumble of fear and anticipation in his belly, thoughts about the Academy, about the song he played and the improvisations he'd made, about the crowds of kids who bounced around the night before like they only came to life when the drumming started. Mostly, though, those thoughts are being drowned out by memories of Pete's mouth against his throat, how he'd been able to feel the vibrations of his laughter everywhere they were pressed together.

It's making him feel shivery and breathless all over again, his heart seeming to pump slower and deeper in his chest as he realizes just how turned on he is. His dick is pushing against the band of his shorts, and he reaches down under the blankets to where he feels tight and throbbing, stroking the hot skin under his fingers. He sees flashbacks of the night before, the weight of Pete's body, the small of his back under Patrick's clumsy hands, and the deeply suggestive curl of his tongue behind Patrick's ear. This is hardly the first time Patrick has touched himself while thinking about someone else's body, but it's the first time he's had actual memories to fall back on, instead of his own imagination.

His hands are shaking, and he knows he's not going to last long. He presses his hot face into the pillow, smiling crazily as he puffs out hurried breaths and remembers the hard, bossy shove of Pete's hips down into his lap, and he spreads his legs and straddles the side of the bed like he'd straddled the narrow bench the night before, reveling in the blatant, brazen thrill of it. He comes, pushing up as fierce and shameless as he wishes he'd been last night, his cock throbbing in his hand and the fixed picture of Pete's craziest smile hovering around him.

He lies panting for a few minutes, while all the anxieties and pressures he usually carries around come trickling back, pressing him down into the bed. For the moment, though, the afterglow is putting up a good fight, and he heads to the bathroom to clean up. Once he's dressed, he listens for the rhythmic snores coming from Joe's room and then decides, seeing as he has nothing else to do for the morning, that he might as well get out his guitar and mess around a bit, practicing some old stuff. He heads back to his room and pulls his guitar out of its case. He should keep in practice for the Solstice, right? That seems perfectly reasonable to him. Practice is important in the run up to any serious engagement.

None of that explains why he's entirely ignoring the official ceremonial songs in favor of picking through that same weird version of the bViann song he'd played the night before, though. Patrick thunks his head down onto the side of the guitar and hides the smile that won't go away in the polished wood of its sides.

This close, though, the Academy insignia attached to the guitar, an intricate patch with his name and status and the Academy's instantly recognizable symbol detailed in somber colors, is kind of unavoidable. Patrick pulls back to look at it properly, and he strokes his fingers over the material, wondering how this is the first time he's ever thought to really look at it. Before he's consciously made the decision to do it, he's picking delicately at the corner of the patch, unpeeling it just a tiny bit. Underneath, he's shocked to see that the wood is a different color, darker from being covered over and untouched all this time. He sneaks a finger in under the patch and brushes over the new wood, and it feels exactly the same. It was under there the whole time, and he never thought about it, not once.

Patrick shuts his eyes and presses the corner carefully back down, smoothing it back into place.

He's not sure he can do any of this.

Later that night though, he's standing outside the doors of the cathedral, guitar handle grinding into his palm as he clutches it, and he's here, he's made it this far, so it shouldn't be too hard to just push the door open and look inside, right? Maybe Pete won't even show up.

"Hey Patrick, bro, I know you're made of magic, but even you can't make those doors open with your mind."

So Pete showed up. And is throwing an arm around him, oh God. Patrick feels a wave of heat, quickly followed by a swampy mess of guilt, only some of it related to what he'd done that morning.

"C'mon, we'll get set up inside. I didn't bring an amp or mikes or anything, cause it's just us, two dudes jamming in a perfectly normal and only slightly illegal way, so we can get settled and comfy pretty quick, right?" All the time he's talking, Pete's leading him through the doors and inside, back toward Patrick's alcove. "I know you like this place, your little Patrick space," Patrick rolls his eyes, "so we'll set up here."

Patrick nods quickly and sits down on the ledge - the ledge - and pulls his guitar slowly and sort of jerkily out of its case. He grabs the neck of the guitar and gets his other arm caught in the strap trying to get it over his head. Jesus, he's going for businesslike and coming off as mildly retarded. His fingers catch on the slightly unstuck corner of the Academy insignia and he looks up to find Pete studiously not looking at either him or his guitar.

"Ooh, hey, I like yours." Pete's bass is actually pretty amazing. Patrick hadn't really known what to expect from a non-Academy instrument, but Pete obviously has some kind of awesome supplier because his bass is nice.

"That's what she said, dude. And thanks, yeah. It's pretty sweet."

Patrick snorts at the joke he hasn't heard anyone make since early puberty, and spares a second to realize that any nervousness he'd been feeling is gone. Now they're just two guys with guitars, and Patrick can deal with that. Patrick is excellent at that. In fact, now he thinks about it, it's Pete who's looking a bit freaked out.

"Pete?"

Pete actually scuffs his shoe in the dust on the floor, slinging his bass around his back and putting his hands in his pockets. He looks like a sheepish eight-year-old.

"Uh - don't get me wrong, dude, this is very cool and I think it's going to rock, but I guess - I'm a little, like - I guess I'm maybe not the world's greatest bass player, man."

Patrick frowns, not really sure where Pete is going with this.

"Patrick, you're from the Academy. You've been there since you were eight. Joe told me you're playing at the Solstice ceremony, so you must be, like, amazing." Patrick blushes; he hadn't realized Joe had talked to Pete about him. "I've never had any of that stuff. And I'm an asshole, anyway, it's not like I practice so hard, either."

Pete's shoes are covered in dust by now, and Patrick gapes, trying to get his head around this latest incarnation of Pete crazy-ass Wentz.

"I mean, I have ideas!" Pete continues, before Patrick can think of anything to say. "I have loads of ideas, dude, and oh my god, your voice, it's - I have ideas, Patrick."

Patrick nods seriously to show he understands that Pete has ideas. Frankly, Pete standing so close and looking at him so intently is giving him a few ideas of his own, so he starts strumming the guitar a little to distract himself. It works on Pete, too, who grins and pulls his bass back around to the front and settles in beside Patrick on the ledge.

"Play the opener of that song you played last night, dude. The battle one. What did you do to make it sound like that?"

Patrick shrugs and ducks his head down to concentrate on the strings, pulling out the same minor chords and twisting the song into something different. About halfway in, Pete starts a low bass thrum and Patrick darts a smile at him, adjusting his own chords even more to suit what Pete is playing. Pete picks up the speed, changes the octave and the song moves again, Patrick responding and suggesting a change of his own. And they go on like that, taking turns to alter and embellish until the song sounds completely different. Patrick feels the smile stretching across his face, responding to Pete's own huge grin, and at one point Pete breaks off playing for a second and darts a kiss against his cheek, making Patrick's playing stutter until Pete picks up the rhythm again. They finally end the song, which is a new song, and sit back smiling at each other, breathing really hard for two guys sitting almost completely still.

"What do you think it's about?" asks Pete, staring up at the ceiling of the cathedral, deep in thought.

"The song?" Patrick thinks it's pretty straightforward, really. "Uh, it's about wars, I guess, and soldiers and bravery and stuff. I think it was written after the coronation of -"

"No, dude, not the original song, our song, the one we just made. What do you think our song is about?"

Patrick had not actually thought about it that way. He feels a shiver run up his spine, and the hairs on his arms stand up. Holy crap, they made a song. He has no clue what it's about though, and says as much. Pete turns and rests his head on Patrick's shoulder, sprawling out alongside him.

"That's okay, 'trick. I told you, I have a few ideas."

Patrick laughs, and doesn't doubt it. He sits, feeling comfy in spite of the adrenaline fizzing through him, and looks around at the interior of the cathedral, so much bigger now that it's empty. And oh, he gets an idea. "Hey Pete, c'mon. I want to see what the acoustics are like from the stage."

Pete's up and running toward the center of the hall and Patrick grins again and follows. They kick into the last bit of the song they'd been messing with, and go from there. Then Pete suggests they try something new, something from scratch, and Patrick thinks of the clashing noises of the group who broke onto the train his first day. He considers for a second, and then grips the neck of his guitar and rips across the strings in a series of fast, choppy riffs. Pete is suddenly on his knees in front of him, staring up at him and then staring down at his finger work, and weirdly, Patrick doesn't feel embarrassed at all, not even a little, he just wants to keep playing and have Pete watch so he can join in. Maybe he even enjoys it a little. It doesn't take long for Pete to pick it up, and he stands up and faces Patrick so they can follow each other's movements. Almost unconsciously, they move into similar stances, and Patrick watches the concentration on Pete's face and the bunching muscles in his forearms as he plays, the way he sinks his chin into his chest and how his hair falls across his eyes and shakes with his movements. Patrick is mirroring him, humming along with their playing while from time to time he sees Pete murmuring to himself, words he can't catch.

About an hour in, they manage to have their first argument. Patrick is suggesting - pretty fucking reasonably, he thinks - that they slow the tempo of the new bridge section of the piece, and Pete is stamping his stupid foot and announcing that any kind of slowdown is going to destroy the momentum of the song, which Patrick finds to be totally ridiculous and is happy to tell him so. It kind of degenerates from there, and they're in the middle of a very manly version of a slap fight which is maybe threatening to become a little more hands-on than the usual variety, when the bang of a guitar case kicks up the dust beside them and Joe is there, crossing his arms and grinning.

"You guys are different to the other kids, aren't you?"

Pete looks up from where he's clutched in Patrick's headlock and waves. "Hey, Joe. Come to play with us?"

"Strictly in the musical sense, my friends. You're a little too into the freaky stuff for me."

"Oh my god," says Patrick, immediately letting go of Pete, who drops onto the floor and happily winds an arm around Patrick's feet.

"So hey, Joe, listen to this bridge and help me tell Patrick he should speed it the hell up. Patrick, play for the man," Pete commands imperiously from the floor. Patrick shoves him away with his foot and takes an uncertain look at Joe. Joe is looking back, though, and flipping a hand to encourage Patrick to get moving. So, okay. He runs through the bits of rhythm guitar they've picked out already, and Pete follows in with a baseline, moving into the song and the section they're having problems with. They play it full through, and by the end, Joe has his guitar in his hand and is bouncing one leg along in time.

"You assholes better not be thinking of trying this stuff without me. You obviously need the skills of Joe Trohman here to give you a little polish." And he's picking up the same rhythm background and then breaking into new riffs that quickly make the song deeper and rougher, give it a roundedness it never had before. After about fifteen minutes, all three of them are laughing, playing through it and laughing more, because this is the best fucking feeling in the world, the best.

They're taking a break, later, slumped against benches, all sweaty with throbbing fingers, and it's only because they're so tired that they're being quiet enough to hear something stirring in one of the back rooms to the church, like the sound of someone being very careful not to be heard. They look at each other with varying degrees of panic, Patrick suddenly sure that they're going to get caught, that they're in serious trouble, that nothing so good could last. The sounds come again, someone stepping over the crates of junk piled up in the back, and Pete is on his feet, just like that, tiptoeing fast toward the door. Patrick throws his hands silently into the air - what the hell does he think he's doing? - but follows him anyway, because he's just that stupid. Joe brings up the rear and all three of them peer gingerly around the door into the storage room to see who's there.

And holy fuck, it's a ninja. There's a dark shape moving across the room, wearing all black, mask included, and carrying a long black duffel that makes an ominously heavy clanking noise when it's set down on the floor. Patrick's heart is hammering in his chest and he can feel Joe behind him in much the same state. Which is, of course, when Pete loses his balance and they all tumble on their asses through the door and into the storeroom. The ninja pivots around to stare at them, two long sticks gripped in one hand, ready to strike - and, wait, hang on, are those drumsticks?

"Andy, dude, you nearly gave me a fucking heart attack," says Pete from his position under Joe on the floor. Andy - cause, yeah, that's who it is - peels off the balaclava and grins.

"What exactly were you boys up to that made you so paranoid?"

"Probably something less illegal than whatever has you sneaking around in blackout gear with a bag full of power tools," remarks Joe.

Andy cracks a smile and shrugs.

"Actually," says Pete, clambering off Joe and kneeing Patrick in the stomach in the process, "now you're here, you could probably help us out. Got anything that sounds like a drum in that bag?"

Andy studies the three of them for a second, raising one eyebrow while he puts his glasses back on. Then he nudges the bag to one side, walks over to one of the dim corners of the room, and pulls a huge sheet off what proves to be a full size drum kit, gleaming quietly in the gloom.

Pete beams and vaults himself over to Andy's side, grappling him into a one-armed hug and laughing back at Joe and Patrick. "Welcome to the band, man. Welcome to the band!"

Something is slowly breaking apart, or maybe breaking open, in Patrick's mind. He can't really remember what he thought this whole time on Drummeril was going to be like, but he definitely hadn't considered it'd be anything like this. He'd expected to be unsettled and lost, and in lots of ways he is, more confused than he's ever been in his life, the realities of life on Drummeril more alien to him than anything he's encountered before. He doesn't, can't understand how people can be expected to live without music, how they submit to any rules that tell them so, though before he'd come he'd thought nothing of it, believing that people outside the Academy were just fundamentally different, that they couldn't be anything like him and not care about playing music.

But he's here and they do care, they care enough to break laws for it, risking much more than Patrick had ever been asked. And somehow, through it all, he's starting to really think about it for the first time, think about the system he's part of, and those thoughts are the scariest yet.

The cathedral is empty pretty much every morning and afternoon, and sometimes, when he doesn't have a ceremony to attend, Patrick gets there before the other guys to play a bit into the hugeness of the silence, testing out different spots to hear the different acoustics, finding vantage points to see more of the weird but awesome old paintings high up among the rafters, sometimes just sitting quietly and enjoying the calm.

When the others arrive, calm pretty much goes out the window.

"Patrick, c'mon, I've worked out some awesome lyrics here."

"Pete! If you want so fucking badly to play a song about french fries as a metaphor for oral sex, then you can fucking sing it yourself!"

To be fair, he probably isn't entirely uninvolved in how things get chaotic. Andy and Joe are usually the ones sitting off to one side, quickly learning that they should consider the onset of any argument between Pete and Patrick as their own personal free time. Patrick finds himself laughing more and yelling more than he ever has before, not bothering to struggle to hold onto his temper since the first time he'd blown up in Pete's face (after some serious provocation) and Pete had just yelled right back, sulked for an hour, and then announced that Patrick was the biggest douchebag best friend he'd ever had.

It hadn't taken long for Patrick to get over being freaked out by Andy's silent ninja alter-ego. Andy has his causes and Patrick understands them, sort of, and once Patrick works out that he's not doing what he does for kicks and the adrenaline rush, that he believes in it, earnestly and intensely, Patrick's too busy respecting him to be afraid of him. He's pretty sure that Andy is still toning down some of the dangerous aspects of his "excursions" to reassure him, but Patrick doesn't mind, because it works. Plus, once you've seen a dude happily chow down on cactus flesh and organic ketchup sandwiches, it's really difficult to feel intimidated by him in any major way.

Joe is pretty obviously having the best time of his life, and he's playing better than Patrick remembers him ever doing back at the Academy. Joe has always come across as a pretty laid-back character, but there's a different kind of energy to him now, and the bond Patrick felt with him back on Mith, the inkling that they might actually be able to make music together, has kicked in in ways he'd never expected.

But then, nothing about this was expected, for Patrick. Back at the Academy, he'd pretty much given up on finding a collective, settling for the bigger anonymous groups where anyone could join and play with other musicians. He kind of understands why it was so hard, now, to find anyone who might have fitted with him. The Academy collectives he'd so envied were nothing like the riotous crashing of sounds and ideas that he finds with Pete, Joe, and Andy. The collectives were about companionship while each member improved their individual skills through exposure to other musicians, a world away - literally - from this free-for-all mesh of banging drums, clashing chords and his own voice, louder and stronger than it's ever been.

Which is usually where he cuts off that particular train of thought, and tries to concentrate on the next song. There's no point in worrying about Academy stuff here, in this space that has nothing to do with it, that is entirely separate. Or at least, that's what he tells himself.

On the other side of the platform, Pete futzes with his guitar and Patrick realizes that he's fitting in weirdly well, too. When Patrick had first started watching him, one of the first things he'd noticed was the vein of desperation in the middle of his hyper craziness, how he searched for something from people and didn't quite get it, how he'd put them off and how he came on too strong. Here, though, the things that drive him seem to be muted, or satiated somehow, like he's been slightly hungry all his life and now he's finally getting all the food he needs. Patrick doesn't know how it's happening, doesn't know what he, Andy and Joe are doing to make Pete something close to content, but it runs a slow, fierce thrill through him whenever he thinks about it, whenever he sees Pete smile one of his real smiles.

He tries not to smile back too much, though, not if he can help it. From the first time they practiced together, after Patrick had come all over himself thinking about Pete, about Pete's mouth, Patrick tried to keep a lid on it. Because once he separated the guilty feelings about jerking off from the other stuff, he'd realized that fooling around with him just wasn't going to work. It felt wrong to do any of that stuff with Pete, get closer and closer to him, when he isn't going to be staying, when he's just going to be heading back to the Academy after the Solstice. Plus, a small part of him admits, it's going to hurt enough as it is.

Of course, Patrick doesn't actually tell any of this to Pete, he just backs away and freezes up whenever Pete gets too close. At first, Pete had been puzzled and maybe even a bit upset when Patrick had smiled tightly at him and made an excuse to leave with Joe, but as he kept on making excuses, Pete seemed to understand that Patrick just didn't want it to happen. It doesn't stop him, really, and he still drapes himself all over Patrick and rubs careless fingers over his arms, his shoulders, even his cheek, but for the most part, Patrick manages to keep them straddling the line between friends, bandmates, and something more. It helps that Patrick doesn't really know much about what 'something more' might really mean, and he tries to keep from imagining too many detailed possible scenarios for the sake of his own mental health and the muscles in his right arm. It probably also helps that they've both entirely wordlessly agreed that none of those decisions count when they're playing. Then, Pete is all over him, up in his space and thrumming beside him, tugging a free hand under his hat and into his hair, kissing his face and leaning against him. Patrick knew early on that he was helpless to stop it, that it felt too good, too right, and with Joe and Andy there he knows it can't get too out of control. And if it makes it just that much harder to go back home with Joe, to lie in the dark and try not to think, well, it just makes those moments better, and it makes the music they play that much stronger. That, in the end, is what should matter.

Patrick doesn't really know why, but on the subject of the Academy, Pete has clearly decided to let him off the hook, and he isn't pushing him about it, at all. He's pretty sure he's had words with Joe and Andy about it too, telling them to stay off the subject. Patrick has no other explanation for why it would never come up, when their playing sessions get longer and extend into drawn-out meetings where they lie around exhausted and talk about everything that pops into their heads. There'd been a couple of moments early on when all of the unsaid stuff poked its way into innocent conversation, he knows, which was hardly unlikely. It was his own fault, anyway.

"No, Andy, if you change the fill there, and use the snare more - the Moeller method would probably throw a lot of this back into alignment -"

His temper is hanging by a thread because the song is so close to being perfect, and Joe's nodding in agreement beside him, but Andy looks blank. Pete comes up beside him.

"He doesn't know the fucking Miller Method, Patrick. We don't all have ten years of musical history classes lying around in our brains."

Patrick bites his lip and darts an apologetic look at Andy before turning angrily to Pete. "It's not Miller, it's Moeller, and I'm just trying to help. We need to practice this stuff - "

But Pete doesn't let him finish. "Practice for what, Patrick? Huh?"

And Patrick has to turn away, pissed at Pete for getting up in his face and at himself for tripping over one of the silent boundaries of what they're doing. They don't call it practice, that makes it sound like they're gearing up for something, like they're going somewhere, like this is for real and for keeps. And it can't be any of that, not on Drummeril. They call it playing, or jamming, or just messing around, and mostly it works. Patrick tries not to think about it too much.

Today, nothing weird has happened and he and Pete have only had two arguments, one of which didn't even descend into violence (and by violence, he means wedgies). He's stretched out in his alcove again, listening as Joe helps Andy pack up his drum kit and get it back covered up in the storage room before anybody arrives for the night's events. Pete seems to have disappeared already, probably to go take off some clothes in preparation for tonight. Patrick shifts a little on the ledge, not thinking about it. Maybe he'll stick around here 'til this evening anyway, just hang out and maybe work on a new thread of song he's got brewing in his head. Joe and Andy shout a goodbye, and then everything goes quiet.

A little while later, Patrick's thinking through some new riffs, not even trying them out on the guitar yet, and wishing he had access to a couple of violins and a piano, when shuffling footsteps let him know he's not as alone as he thought he was.

"Joe and Andy went home?"

It's Pete. He's not standing too close, but he's in the mouth of the alcove and the light behind him blots out the sharpness of his features, outlining him brightly while his face stays in shadow. Like this, he reminds Patrick of the guy he met that first night, the one he's been working hard to forget over the past few weeks. "Yeah. I thought you were gone too."

"No," says Pete, simply, and he seems to hover for a second, ready to go one of two ways, before he grabs hold of a bench, drags it in alongside Patrick's ledge, and lies down.

Patrick is more than a little unnerved to have him so close. Not just because being close to Pete always throws him completely for a loop, but also because it hasn't been happening for a while now, not like this when they're alone, and he was getting used to the idea that it wouldn't ever again. He's mostly fine with it. When he thinks about it, it's hardly like Pete's been pining for him, or anything. He's probably, Patrick realizes with a sharp flicker of pain, relieved not to have to get too full-on with him. Patrick remembers that first night, and he knows he must have been giving off some seriously desperate signals when they first met. The little musician on his first trip to the real world. He can't blame Pete for giving him what he was so obviously begging for. It worked, anyway, and he's glad about it, he is. It got them playing together, and that's what counts. Pete's been really good about just letting it go, and Patrick doesn't really feel that stupid about the whole thing, how he must have looked underneath Pete that day, with Pete's hands up his shirt and Pete's mouth on his neck. It's over and forgotten.

Pete's pulling that bench pretty close though.

Pete settles the bench and stretches out so his head's beside Patrick and there's a gap of less than a foot between them.

"You thinking about music?" Pete's staring up at the ceiling pretty intently while he speaks, so Patrick decides to follow his lead and look up there, too. It's really a nice ceiling.

"Yeah, just a spin off from something Joe suggested earlier, I'm just trying to see if it goes anywhere, really."

Pete doesn't turn his head. "You're pretty much always thinking about it, right?"

Patrick wonders what Pete's driving at, all solemn-sounding. "Well, sure." He shrugs. It shouldn't be a mystery to Pete that he's kind of obsessed. That's the whole reason Pete wanted to play with him anyway. "You know me."

He says it lightly, then cringes, thinking of their first conversation. Pete doesn't respond to it, though. Instead, he says, "But that's your first priority, right, the music stuff."

He seems really intent, and Patrick isn't sure what he's getting at, but he knows he isn't sure how to answer. After a second, he says, "It always has been," knowing that it's no answer at all. Pete seems to take it as one, though, and finally turns so he's looking at Patrick. Patrick keeps his eyes upwards for as long as he can, feeling Pete's stare, then gets up the courage to look down into Pete's weirdly sad-looking face.

He's startled when Pete reaches up a hand close to his jaw, but Pete doesn't actually touch him, he just hovers there, waiting. Patrick moves, just a tiny bit, and Pete seems to take it as permission, grazing his fingers against Patrick's face, down his cheek and jaw and brushing just barely over his lower lip. Patrick doesn't mean to open his mouth, it just happens, and Pete lets out a small noise and strokes across his lip one more time.

Then he's up and gone, backing out of the alcove while the bench rocks crazily behind him. Patrick has to scramble to keep it from falling over, and by the time he has it settled, Pete is gone.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Patrick is lying in bed having careful words with himself about the advisability of drinking any more of the hooch from the cathedral bar. He'd been planning to head in early again to play some more with Andy, who may not have been Academy trained but who, it turns out, knows some stuff about drums Patrick's Academy teachers have either forgotten or never learned. But the thumping in his head - easily as chaotic as any of Andy's fills - has convinced him that maybe he should stay right where he is.

He smiles, remembering the night before, when all four of them had taken a turn drumming together. Pete seemed to have shaken off whatever had been bothering him, and was pushed up alongside Patrick and battering the toms with a kind of joyful fierceness that swept Patrick along with him, like the two of them were on an out of control shuttle whirling through space. It made him giddy and gave him a feeling in his stomach a bit like vertigo every time Pete threw him one of his wide open grins. He's still grinning now, even through the hangover, thinking maybe he'll get up after all, and maybe Pete will show up early too, and he can bring Joe and the four of them can have a proper - can play together more, sort out the ending for the latest song about Pete's scene encounters.

The front door to Joe's apartment bangs shut, and Patrick starts to man up for the business of getting out of bed and placing his head in a somewhat vertical position. Joe doesn't give him much of a chance though, barging into Patrick's room without knocking. Patrick's on his feet before he knows it, hangover forgotten and staring in horror. Joe is - Joe is gray, covered head to foot in some kind of dust, except for his hands, which are scraped and bloodied, and it's only the crazy hair and Joe's brown eyes, wide in panic and rage, that lets Patrick recognize him so quickly.

"Joe - what the fuck - are you okay? What happened? Are your hands okay? What is all that stuff?"

Joe looks down at his hands, which are shaking now, fresh blood oozing out of the cuts and welling up to mingle with the dirt.

"Patrick. Those sons of bitches tore down the church."

Patrick goes still, not really processing what Joe's just said. Some kind of white noise starts up inside his head. Joe is trembling all over and Patrick steps closer and grabs his arm, pulling him over to the couch.

"Joe. What happened. Who - who tore -"

"They did. Who do you think. The fucking government pulled it down, all legal and above board, said it was a dangerous building and the space was needed for some redevelopment bullshit, probably another fucking mall."

Patrick flashes back to the cathedral, to the cool walls and the arches of the ceiling and the way centuries of acoustic knowledge had gone into making it the perfect place to play music, flashes back to his alcove, his alcove, and the grit from the stone ledge that was still in his hair this morning from when Pete lay down beside him to talk.

"They must have known all along, Patrick. They must have been paying more attention than we thought."

Patrick can't think about that right now.

"Joe, come on, you need to get in the shower, man, and then we'll fix your hands." He leads Joe into the bathroom and helps him get his jacket off, both of them shell-shocked and strange. He leaves Joe to wash off the grit and goes back to his room.

They must have been paying more attention than we thought. God. So they know. The government knew all along. And if the government knew, then the Academy - and Karolan - certainly knows as well. Patrick feels a sick wave of nausea roll over him and, clammy with sudden fear, he sinks down onto his bed. His head is thumping again, red behind his eyes.

Does she know what he's been doing? Could she know? About the huge gatherings, or fuck, the sessions with the guys? If she does - god, what she must be thinking. What must any of them at the Academy be thinking, quiet little Patrick breaking all the rules, making a fool of himself out in the world. Patrick feels a wave of hot shame rise through him, making him flinch.

The inner monologue of recrimination continues until Joe emerges, dressed in a clean but dampening t-shirt and jeans. He looks totally out of it, defeated, and Patrick snaps himself out of his daze to go get some bandages and ointment for his hands. He sits Joe down on the bed and kneels in front of him, getting his first good look at the cuts.

It's as the blood wells up sluggishly from the cuts that, for the first time, it hits him.

"Joe," he says, gripping urgently at Joe's wrists to get his attention. Joe blinks and looks down at him hazily. "Joe - why are your hands cut? Did you try and stop them? Were you inside? Joe, were other people inside? Was anyone else hurt?"

For a long couple of seconds, Joe frowns in thought. Patrick seizes tighter at his wrists and tries not to shake him. God, anyone could have been there - Pete could have been there - and then Joe shakes his head muzzily.

"No one was inside when they came. Andy - Andy's friends had some kind of warning, I think, and we were able to get everything out of the back room before they got there. I shouldn't have been standing so close, I nearly got a face full of shrapnel when it went down. Stupid, I guess, but I couldn't - I couldn't walk away. Mostly everyone else was gone - Andy went to hide his kit. But I stayed to watch. I saw it go down."

Patrick secures Joe's bandage, sticking down the last bit of tape with shaking hands and then standing up to face the wall. In the corner, his guitar sits waiting to be played. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to grab it and smash it hard against the floor, watch it crash and shatter.

Christ, why is he feeling ashamed? He's done nothing wrong. And they've torn down the cathedral, the last purpose-built music chamber on the planet and the last place for people to play music of any sort outside the control of the Academy. The government, Joe said, whoever they were, a gigantic distant bureaucracy, the same one whose re-election victory ceremony Patrick is supposed to be playing.

This is what it comes down to, it dawns on him, dimly. And who had he been fooling? Thinking those jam sessions with the guys were some out-of-time holiday from reality, a happy pause before he went back to doing what he was always supposed to do, before he went back to the Academy and started practicing his scales all over again. Thinking he could play music with them, with Joe, Andy, and Pete, thinking he could make music with them and nothing would change, he wouldn't change, and the world would continue to ignore him and he could float along without ever making any kind of choice.

He's been blind. He's been blind and stupid and he knows it, but suddenly he can't find it in himself to believe that he's done wrong in making music, in playing new songs with his friends. What they made was good, in intent if not always in performance, not yet.

And the cathedral is really gone. Patrick feels a hot rush of grief for the beauty of it, and then more for the community that had grown up around it. All those hundreds of kids, packed in there every night taking all kinds of risks to be there, to be free, even if it's only in the unmeasured beat of a drum. They were all so brave, Patrick thinks, any of them who actually knew what they were doing, who knew the stakes in the game and decided to play anyway. He's been tripping along like a kid, pretending nothing important was happening, and they knew all along and chose to fight all the same.

A whirl of images flies through Patrick's mind. He thinks about the downcast faces that first day on the commuter train, and he thinks of Mrs. Gennet and her fright, of the glee on her little kid's face when he clanged against the harp. He thinks about how he's been so caught up in his own uncertainty, his own selfish problems, that he never saw how everyone else was suffering, how he was part of it. He thinks for the first time about music and freedom, about Pete's shining smile when he hits on the perfect lyric, of Joe whirling with his guitar, of Andy's intensity channeled into motion.

He thinks - no, he knows - that no one has the right to take that away.

He thinks of everything he's seen on Drummeril, really looking for the first time, and he thinks about the Academy and what it's been offering him his whole life, and what it's been demanding in return. He thinks about Karolan and her place on the ruling council, and what she wants him to become. He thinks about the anonymous government that rules, unopposed and untouchable, over every human in the galaxy, about an uncontested election and how no one in his lifetime has ever even thought to challenge them.

And suddenly, he thinks - no, he knows - that it's time for that to change.

"Joe. Where's Andy? Where is he right now. We're going to need him, and his friends. And everyone else's friends, I guess. I'm going to call Pete, he'll know somewhere we can meet. You find Andy, and tell him to meet us there."

"Patrick? What do you mean? What are you planning?"

Patrick walks over to his guitar, picks it up, and rips off the Academy patch with a kind of cold, vicious resolve. "They hijacked our music," he says, grimly. "I'm thinking we should return the favor."

"Welcome to Casa Wentz," says Pete, standing back to let them in. "My parents are on safari on Gort 'til after the Solstice, so we've got the place to ourselves. Well, us and that lot." Pete throws an arm out expansively across his living room, where a huge pile of instruments lie heaped in various corners. "I suggested Andy bring them all here. I've got the room."

Pete isn't kidding. Patrick knew he was a well-off guy, but his house is pretty fucking expansive. "Well, I hope you've got another spare room around here somewhere, because we're going to need a place to plan."

Pete looks to Joe for some kind of sense of what the hell Patrick is talking about, but Joe just shrugs.

"Patrick. What the fuck, dude."

Patrick feels the smile move across his own face and watches as it's echoed on Pete's even though he hasn't got a clue what Patrick is about to say.

"There's a party coming up in a couple of weeks. Some government guys are going to be celebrating something, I couldn't tell you what. I was supposed to be there to play a couple of old classics, but actually, I think we've heard enough, don't you?"

There's a kind of awed comprehension beginning to show on Pete's face.

"I think," continues Patrick, "that the old songs have been played long enough. I think that they stole the one place on this fucking planet that let people express something real, something everyone should have the right to do. And so we're going to steal something of theirs."

Pete is staring at him with a look Patrick has only seen once before. Pete looked at him like that the first time he played, and until now, Patrick didn't think he'd ever see it again.

"Patrick," says Pete wonderingly, and he steps closer, stretching out a hand to grab Patrick's arm. Patrick goes very still.

"Oh, here we go," says Joe faintly, from the other side of the room.

Pete wraps his hands around the back of Patrick's neck and Patrick shivers at the contact, Pete's warm, strong fingers pushing into his hair and his thumbs brushing the underside of his jaw. "Patrick," he says again, pulling him close and resting them forehead to forehead, breath coming fast and his mouth only inches away. He's starting to laugh, short giddy huffs that are part panic and part exhilaration, and Patrick clutches at the sides of his body, pulling Pete's t-shirt into his fists. "Patrick, do you realize what this means?"

Patrick keeps laughing, nuzzling his forehead into Pete's ridiculous hair, but all of a sudden the smile starts to fall off Pete's face. His hands loosen from Patrick's neck and Patrick shivers again, this time from the chill.

"Patrick. Do you realize what this means? What this would mean for you?"

Patrick frowns, puzzled. Why isn't Pete stoked about this? Patrick is offering him an opportunity to cause the greatest mayhem of his life and Pete wants to reason him out of it? He pulls away, mulish, and crosses his arms.

"I'm not an idiot, Pete. This shit is important. They weren't playing games when they took down the cathedral, and I'm not playing games now. I thought you'd understand that. I thought this might be important to you too. But if you don't get that, then -"

"Hey, hey, woah dude, chill, Patrick. I'm in, you know I'm in."

Patrick examines him for a second or two, testing his sincerity, but Pete stays serious. Patrick nods, resolved. Maybe he thought Pete would be more excited about this, and maybe he'd hoped that now he was staying, they'd - well. Whatever. It doesn't matter. The concert is what matters now, and Pete is going along with it, at least, so that's the important thing. "Okay, good. Then we need to get started right away."

"Actually," says Andy, from where he's leaning against the wall beside Joe, twirling his sticks nonchalantly, "if we're planning a musical ruckus, I think I might know some people who'd be interested in helping out."

Patrick decides it's a little too late to be frightened of Andy now, but that particular smile is still pretty scary.

Patrick's on the couch in Pete's enormous bedroom, pretending to watch whatever's on the screen across the room. Most of his attention is actually focused on holding himself back from touching Pete. Well, touching him more. Pete is pressed up against his side, laughing at Joe who's on cushions on the floor beside them. Patrick can feel him move and breathe, but it's not enough, not nearly. The thundering speed of his pulse has receded a little from this morning, but the adrenaline buzz is still in his system, making every color brighter, every sound sharper. Andy had left a few hours ago - Patrick's pretty sure he's gone off to make contact with some of his sabotage-ninja friends to see what he can find out about the Solstice ceremony - and since then the three of them have been goofing around, agreeing not to make any decisions without the whole band being present.

The thing is, though, that this morning, Patrick's entire world upended. He's not going back. He's pretty sure that one is going to take a while to sink in. He keeps waiting for a real reaction, for sadness or fear to kick in and overpower him. And in some ways it is hitting him, darting and sharp like little electric shocks - I'll never sleep in my old bed again, never hear the tower bells, never play the chapel organ - but there's none of the mourning he expected. Instead, it's like each little shock fizzing inside his skin is waking him up, bringing him to life, and it's unbearable, but unbearable in the best kind of way.

He's really not going to be able to sit still much longer. Beside him, Pete is waving his arms about wildly, explaining something to Joe, and before Patrick knows it, he's grabbing one of Pete's wrists and pinning it between them on the couch. He's hoping it looks like irritation, but really, he just can't help it. The second he touches Pete, a different kind of electric shock prickles along his spine, and something very basic inside him surges happy and possessive. Pete's mouth snaps shut mid-sentence and Patrick can feel him staring. Patrick concentrates on not stroking his thumb along the veins of Pete's wrist, and keeps his eyes on the screen. There's no part of him that's thinking about letting go, though.

He's still staring resolutely forward when Andy pushes open the door to Pete's room and gestures for them to follow him, holding up a black briefcase marked with the discreet insignia of the government of Drummeril.

"Hey, guys. I might have something for you to see. Pete, there's a big table down in the basement, right? Pete?"

Patrick turns to see Pete's eyes still latched for a second on Patrick's hand wrapped around his wrist, then he's up off the couch and Patrick lets go, unclenching his tight fingers and rubbing his palm against his shirt.

Down in the basement, Andy unzips the briefcase and lays out a series of blueprints, sifting carefully to try and put some sort of order on them. Patrick leans over and squints at the tiny writing. It seems to be some kind of schematic, and he stares at it blankly until Andy layers one last piece and Patrick sees a huge layout of concentric circles, with notations he recognizes like his own name.

"This is the orchestra formation for the Solstice Ceremony."

Andy nods. "Yeah. Should come in handy, right?"

"How did you get all this stuff, man?" asks Joe.

Andy just shrugs. "You probably don't want to know."

Patrick traces his finger over the page, following the tiny markings for each orchestral section, down from the percussion section, through wind and brass to string and, below them, the choir.

"Patrick, you can read this?"

Patrick nods. "Some of it." If he squints, he can even make out the notations beside each individual space. "I don't know about the other schematics, but this is the layout of the orchestra for the day of the ceremony. It's amazing, actually." He shakes his head, marveling at the intricacy of planning that goes into every Academy event. "If you look closely, you can even see the initials of each musician showing where they're supposed to be seated."

Beside him, Pete leans over the page and looks more closely. "So where are you, Patrick?" He turns from the page and tilts his head to look at Patrick, his eyes very intent. "Where would you have been?"

Patrick has his hand up by the percussion section, and they watch him as he runs his finger slowly down the length of the document, down through the sections, and then past the musicians and through the choir. At the base of the sheet, dead center, there's a large square sketched out, with markings to indicate a raised platform. At the top of the square, in large legible writing, is the word "conductor."

Inside the square, printed small but clear, are the letters 'P.M.S.'

"That's me, there. Conductor."

For a second, the only sound in the room is their breathing.

Patrick smiles ruefully at the three stunned faces staring at him. "Yeah. Kind of a trip. They called last week to tell me."

Andy recovers quickest. "You know, that actually makes things a lot easier. You'll have pretty unparalleled access. How often will they want you on-site before the event? What's the rehearsal schedule?"

Patrick considers for a second. "Not as heavy as you'd think - we're kept in a fairly constant state of readiness for this kind of thing. I'll probably have to be at the venue -"

"Wait just one fucking minute," says Pete, suddenly. He slaps a hand into the middle of the blueprints and shoves, sweeping them off the table and onto the floor. Everyone startles to attention. "Is everyone here gone fucking crazy? Patrick, you can't do this."

Patrick may have only recently realized that he doesn't like being told what he can and can't do, but it's a lesson well learned. He crosses his arms across his chest and says, "Oh, yes I fucking can."

Pete gestures at him helplessly, looking to Andy and Joe for support. Joe just shrugs, and Andy looks watchful.

"Patrick - Patrick, look. Look. I think it's beyond awesome that you want to do this, and I think you have more right than any of us to want to. You seriously have no idea how much I love - how much I love that you are willing to go through with it." Pete hops up on the table and pulls Patrick close. "But I can't let you do it, dude. You're the conductor, Patrick. You lead the entire orchestra of Mith. There's no limit to what you could do, what music you could play. You shouldn't have to give that up just to play some prank - sorry Andy - it's just not worth it."

Patrick knows there's something in there he should be paying more attention to, but he can't get past the deep penetrating irritation at Pete trying to tell him what's good for him. His hands, which have somehow ended up on Pete's thighs, grip tighter, and he leans in further.

"Don't try and tell me what it's worth, Pete. This is maybe the first decision I ever made in my entire life, and I'm not going back on it now."

Pete throws up his hands. "Oh well, shit, if it's your first time then of course we should go along with it."

Patrick pulls back, stung. "Fuck you."

"No, Patrick. Fuck you. You came here, what, two months ago? We've lived here our whole lives, man. You might be in the first flush of some really righteous rage, but it's no fucking news to us what the government is capable of. I'm not going to stand by while you throw your life away because you're shocked at the big bad world and you want someone to pay for it."

Patrick is dimly aware that Andy and Joe are flanking his sides. He realizes they're not there to support him; that they're there to hold him back. His breathing is out of control, and he's barely restraining himself from punching Pete's infuriating face.

"You can't stop me."

"Like hell," says Pete, and scrambles down from the table to grab the blueprints. He grabs them off the floor and dances out of the way of Patrick's enraged swing, clenching them in his hands.

Patrick feels Andy's slim, strong hand tight across his upper arm, and he stops, panting. Anger rushes away and in the wake of rage, he just feels defeated and desperate.

"Pete. Shit. I have to - I have to do something. They don't deserve it anymore. They don't deserve to own keep the music for themselves. They shouldn't be allowed to celebrate while everyone else suffers."

Something on his face or in his voice must get to Pete, because the fierceness goes out of his expression and he looks down at the blueprints in his hands, lost.

Then he frowns as something catches his eye, and he smoothes out a corner of the mangled plans, looking closer. When he looks up again, his face is entirely different.

"Huh. My dad's company is handling the broadcast of the ceremony."

Patrick's pretty sure the confused looks on Joe and Andy's faces are reflected in his own. Pete frowns and keeps talking to himself.

"Camera hookups will be all over. Centrally located though. Where will they hook in the audio? How many in the live crowd? Hm."

Patrick, Joe and Andy watch as Pete stares intensely at a spot on the far wall. As they wait, Pete's features run through about fifteen different emotional states, suddenly going still and blank for a few seconds of furious thought before beginning to brighten more and more until he's smiling hugely and beaming over at the three of them, eyes glittering.

"Patrick. Your plan won't work. We're scrapping it." Patrick frowns thunderously, and Pete waves a hand loftily in response. "No, man, listen. I'm right. Your idea - fuck them up and piss them off - it's great, but it's not good enough. It's sure as hell not worth what you'd have to sacrifice. And I - I still don't know if you're right to throw it all away, but that's your choice, I guess, and I do fucking hate them, so, you know, good for you."

Pete grins in a way he probably believes to be charming.

"But it's not good enough just to shut down their concert. I want to show them what they've lost."

Patrick feels Andy shifting beside him and sees him nodding slowly in thoughtful agreement. Well, good for him, because Patrick sure has no clue what's going on.

"Pete, just - what?"

"Not just destruction, creation. We don't just tear down the old, we showcase the new!" Pete opens his arms expansively and announces, "I think we've got our first gig, you guys."

Patrick gapes, flabbergasted. Joe starts laughing and actually punches the air. Andy has one hand on his hip and is already talking to someone on his comm.

My god, thinks Patrick, as his world gets tumbled crazily on its axis for the second time today, we're gonna change the world.

Two nights later, the four of them are standing at the top of the stairs leading down to Pete's basement. Patrick is helping Andy get grease marks off his face with a washcloth.

"Your Academy people might keep everything all shiny where people can see, but it's a fucking disaster area under that stage," says Andy, taking off his glasses to rub at the lenses. He's just back from a reconnaissance mission, scoping out the layout for the ceremony.

"I don't think they planned to have anyone actually crawling about underneath there," says Patrick, wryly.

"The wiring is a maze. Schecter nearly cried when he saw it."

Patrick grins, picturing the completely self-possessed guy he'd met the day before. He's still amazed Andy trusted them enough to introduce them to some of his friends. Patrick's about as embedded in the Academy as you can get, Joe only left a year ago, and Pete's parents, he's recently discovered, own about half of downtown.

"Were you able to find the circuits?" asks Pete.

Andy nods. "Yeah. I can't guarantee they won't spot what we did, but if not, it should work okay."

"They won't spot it," says Patrick quietly. "They won't be looking. As far as they're concerned, the rest of the galaxy is lucky to be hearing them play. They'd never believe anyone would want to shut them down."

Pete smiles sharply. "They'll find out soon enough."

It hadn't occurred to Patrick 'til now, but - "They're going to be pretty freaked out. The musicians. Some of them are still kids, really. They don't know what they're part of."

Joe meets his eyes, and he knows they're both remembering what it was like to think the whole universe was orderly and kind.

"They have to find out sometime," says Joe, ruefully.

"Yeah," says Pete, "this time."

Patrick nods. He knows they're right.

"Okay," says Pete, grabbing Patrick's arm. "You ready?"

Patrick grimaces. "It really has to be me? I mean - you're the frontman, dude. And you know some of these guys. I'm a total stranger." Pete sighs patiently and Joe - "I can see you rolling your eyes, Joe."

"Yes, Patrick," says Pete, "for the fifteenth time, it has to be you. We agreed. Band decision. We took a vote, remember?" - "It was rigged," mumbles Patrick grumpily - "They'll love you dude, don't worry."

Patrick looks down the stairs and thinks about the gang of people waiting down there to hear from him, to be persuaded by him to join in a crazy, wildly illegal scheme that's likely to enrage every government body across five planets. There's no way he's ready for this.

"Woah!" That doesn't seem to be up to him, though. Pete grabs Patrick's arm and ushers Patrick down the stairs, pulls open the door to his basement - more a warehouse than a room - and pushes him inside.

"Oh," says Patrick, dazedly.

There are about fifty of them. A pretty even mix of guys and girls, but in all shapes and sizes. Some of them are the most colorful strange figures Patrick has ever seen - toweringly tall and skinny, dressed in yellow and scarlet and gold, arms tight around each others' shoulders, effortlessly commanding attention. Then there are others who wouldn't look out of place at the Academy, quiet and unnoticed behind the front men; nothing out of the ordinary, until he catches the look in their eyes.

As a group, Patrick realizes, they are profoundly dangerous.

Suddenly, the whole endeavor seems a little beyond him. Pretty much every eye in the room is on him, and lead singer or not, Patrick is not really comfortable in the spotlight. He turns his eyes on Pete, beseeching, but Pete just raises an eyebrow back in challenge. Thanks a bunch, Wentz.

Patrick looks back at the crowd, and clears his throat.

"Uh, okay. I - I, uh, I'm Patrick Stump. I -" He shuts his eyes, wincing internally, and adjusts his hat. This is harder than he thought. Man up, Stump. He draws in a breath, and tries again. "I haven't been on Drummeril long. I've spent most of my life at the Academy on Mith, and for most of my time on this planet, I was pretty sure I'd be going back."

At his side, Pete stiffens.

"But things changed. I met some people who showed me that music doesn't just have to be about the past, that it can be about now, about us, about our lives. And when the government tore down the cathedral, they tried to steal that from us. That pissed me off." Patrick takes a quick breath, just trying to get through it. "So I think we should stop hiding. I think we need to come out of the dark. I think we need to show them who we are and what we have to say. And I think there'll be no better time for that than at the Solstice next week."

Patrick stops, winded and flushed. The crowd stares back at him in silence. Then -

"Uh, who exactly is this dude, and why should we listen to him?" The voice comes from somewhere at the back. Patrick can't see who it is, and he's terrified to see the same skepticism on various faces throughout the room. "He's been here all of two months and he wants to change everything? We've been doing just fine. Why would we risk getting locked up just because some kid with a hard-on for Wentz thinks we need saving?"

Patrick feels himself go cold in horror. A couple of snorts from the crowd don't help, and he hides his face under as much of his hat as possible. God, why did he think this would ever work?

"Well, the dude in the hat has my vote." Patrick whips his head back up as one of the brightly dressed beanpoles detaches himself from the group he's clinging to and steps forward.

"Holy fuck, Gabe?"

"Hola, little Stump," says Gabe, coming forward to kiss him wetly on the mouth. Slinging an arm around Patrick's shoulders, Gabe turns back to the crowd and cocks one hip.

"You know this guy, Gabe?" asks one of them.

"Yeah," says Gabe, jamming Patrick's hat further down on his head. "Patrick here is not the only one who hails from the mysterious Academy. Believe it or not, before my now-legendary encounter with the mystic cobra in the desert of Gort -" Patrick looks up at him, baffled, as various groans come from the crowd, "I too was a slave to the music machine. But I escaped, and so has mini P. here."

There's silence while people seem to be giving that some thought, and Patrick isn't really sure whether Gabe's intervention helped or not. Then one of the people Gabe had been hanging on to, a beautiful dark-haired girl with enormous eyes, asks, in a pretty reasonable voice, "But, Gabe, even if he is who he says he is, how would we ever do what he's suggesting? He seems like a nice guy -" and here she turns an undeniably stunning smile on Patrick, who smiles back helplessly, "and I believe him, but the Solstice Inauguration ceremony is a pretty huge affair and one guy from the fourth violin section - no offence, Patrick - is not going to be able to pull this off."

People are nodding their heads and there's a general shuffling of feet as if the discussion is over. Gabe looks down at Patrick and shrugs apologetically. "Sorry dude," he whispers, "I wanted to help."

Patrick looks up at him and smiles. "Actually, you did. Excuse me, everyone?" There's still a lot of shuffling around, and he's pretty sure someone at the back has broke out a hackeysack, so Patrick takes a deep breath and lets his singing voice kick in. "HEY. I'M NOT DONE."

There's a startled silence, and all eyes are back on him. Beside him, he hears Pete snicker quietly. He leans up to ask Gabe a quick question, then detaches himself from his spider-long arms and steps forward.

"Vicky asked some good questions. This is a big operation we'd be planning, and I'd need a lot of help. I've already got some stuff lined up," he says, thinking of Andy and his guerilla friends working hard as he speaks, "but if you're concerned about access on the day, I'm pretty sure it won't be a problem. Because I'm not," he smiles, "a fourth violinist. In fact, as of last week, I've been appointed chief conductor of the ceremonial orchestra of Mith."

The silence sharpens, except for one long lone wolf whistle coming from off to one side.

"It's a position I'm probably going to have to resign," he finishes, shrugging and grinning, and all around the room, slowly but surely, crazy smiles are breaking out and people are turning to each other to grab hands and heads, finally beginning to see that something huge and brilliant might possibly be happening at last.

The concert's in the morning, and there's no way Patrick can sleep. Everything's about as planned as it can get, and they've successfully convinced most of the bands that it would be a good idea to go rest up before the big day. Patrick is reveling in the silence. He's lived with musicians all his life, but it's never been anything like this. Most of these guys seem to feel that the best way to brainstorm new material is to mooch around in Pete's basement eating more junk food than Patrick's ever seen, hooking up with members of other groups, and sharing notes on the best ways to get cripplingly drunk. Everyone had agreed that the groups would all open with the same song - scoring the damn thing for 47-odd players has been Patrick's particular challenge - but after that everyone is playing something of their own, and most groups wanted to put together something new. Patrick never knew creativity could sound so loud.

People seem mostly happy with their sounds now, though, and the house has gone quiet at last. Patrick's staying over at Pete's, as are Joe and Andy. It seemed important to stick together.

Patrick's pretty sure Joe and Andy are asleep, though he saw the light from under Pete's door on his way down the hall, so he's not the only one finding it impossible to relax. Patrick shuffles across the plush carpet of the living room and flops down onto the biggest couch, his eyes losing focus in the dim half-light filtering in from down the hall.

Soft footfalls moving sluggishly into the room are his only warning before a small table light clicks on, making him wince. In the corner by the lamp, Pete jumps, startled.

"Shit, sorry, man, I didn't know you were down here. You okay?"

"Temporarily blind, but otherwise fine," grumbles Patrick, rubbing his eyes.

Pete sighs and curls up in the opposite corner of the couch, tucking his feet underneath a cushion and blinking sleepily. Patrick finds himself staring stupidly at Pete's bare toes.

"Big day tomorrow," says Pete, ruminatively.

Patrick snorts. "It's not a calc mid-term, Pete."

Pete's eyes sharpen and Patrick realizes he's not as sleepy as he thought, not at all. "So what would you call it, Patrick? What we're about to try?"

Patrick considers, then shakes his head. "I don't know. You're the guy with the words."

Pete plays with the woven edge of his cushion. "They'd call it an insurrection, I think. They'll call it that, if we pull it off."

Patrick rolls that one around in his head. Insurrection. "It'd make a good song title," he says.

Pete's smile is fond. For a minute, Patrick forgets not to stare back, and they sit watching each other quietly. Then Pete takes a breath, looking suddenly nervous. Patrick tenses in anticipation.

"Patrick, I've been thinking," he starts. Patrick grips his cushion. "About tomorrow - I was thinking that maybe you could wear some sort of disguise."

The cushion falls onto the carpet. Pete sees his face and hurries to continue.

"It's just - dude, you're kind of high profile. The rest of us - to them, we're nobodies. But you're the conductor, man, your face is going to be everywhere. And realistically, we have no idea what's going to happen tomorrow, right?" He's talking very fast now. "The plan could fall apart before we even get to play - Brian and Zack and those guys know what they're doing, but there's a lot of shit that could go wrong. And then you'd be throwing it all away for nothing. I just thought - I just thought if you wear a disguise, then maybe you still have options, you know?"

Patrick feels suddenly cold, the shock like being pushed out a door into the frost.

"What kind of options?" he asks, his lips numb.

Pete looks abashed, but still determined. "Just - options, Patrick. So maybe you don't have to give it all up if something goes wrong."

The chill is washed away by a sudden and welcome wave of heat as Patrick catches Pete's meaning. He launches off the couch and stands over Pete, half-mad with rage.

"What kind of cowardly asshole do you think I am? I'm not going to stand there with a fucking bag over my head while all of you risk everything!"

Pete jumps up and tugs at his hair, wheeling around wildly. "You're driving me totally crazy! Why won't you listen? I'm just trying to - Patrick! You shouldn't have to do this. It's too much to ask!"

Patrick nearly chokes. He can't believe this shit.

"What is your fucking problem? The only person around here who thinks I'm going back to the Academy is you. The dogs in the street know I've burned those bridges, Pete, and I'm happy to do it. I'm done. I'm out. Why are you fighting it?" Patrick throws up an arm and points accusingly at Pete. "The first night we ever talked, you bitched me out about the Academy! You hate that place! What's so different now?"

"I love you now!" yells Pete, incensed, and launches a vicious kick at the couch.

Oh.

Patrick presses a hand to his chest, feeling the echo where his heart seems to have stopped beating.

Pete's not done, though.

"You deserve better, you asshole," he growls, half-running in tripping steps back and forth in front of the couch. "You should have the stuff they can give you, all those instruments and songs. You shouldn't have to be in danger, or in trouble. You shouldn't have to be stuck with us, with me, when you could be playing with the, the best there is. I was fucking selfish to even let it get this far, but I couldn't help it, I just couldn't help it, couldn't send you back. But I'm not risking you, Patrick," close now, gritting out the words, wild eyed. "You should -"

Patrick will never know. He'll never know what he should, because the second Pete gets in range, he wraps a hand in his t-shirt and reels him in, kissing him stubborn and soft.

Patrick is bursting, completely overwhelmed. Under his hands, Pete is completely still, shocked into silence. Patrick kisses him the best he knows how, with his whole heart, profoundly grateful to the universe for letting him have this one chance to do it right, to show Pete what he feels, how much he feels. He runs shaking fingers through the raspy strands of Pete's hair and presses closer, glad, glad, glad.

When he pulls back, forehead to forehead, Pete's eyes are darker than he's ever seen them, and Patrick has to look away so he can get the words out, so he doesn't just kiss him all over again. He concentrates instead on the jumping pulse at the base of Pete's throat, and strokes his thumbs into the hollows of his shoulder blades.

"Pete, listen," he whispers, fervent. "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry." He can feel Pete's frown of confusion crinkling the lines of his forehead. "This whole thing - these past few months have been... kind of crazy. I didn't expect any of it, and it threw me for a loop. I guess for a lot of the time I forgot that I wasn't the only one this stuff was happening to. I thought that - I thought if I just kept my head down and pretended, then everything would just work out and I wouldn't have to decide anything, or change anything, or take any risks."

Pete jerks under his fingers then, but Patrick grips him tight and keeps going. "But I was wrong, I was wrong, and I'm sorry. I let you take all the risks, all of them, and I didn't really believe that any of it was real. I didn't believe in myself, in you, or the band or any of it. But Pete," he says, tilting up to look him in the eye at last, "I do now. I'm ready now." Patrick smiles, shaky but real. "So I'm in. I'm in, if you'll have me. You always believed in me and I never returned the favor, but I'm in now. We're going to do this, and whatever happens, we'll be in it together, okay? Even if -" and it only just occurs to him, and it hits with a pang, but he soldiers on "and even if you meant, even if you didn't mean love love, well, that's okay, because the band is what counts, and I'm in - I said that, right? I'm in."

Wow, he's kind of out of breath now. He's never actually said that much outside of a song before.

Pete is standing still, staring back at him, unreadable. Patrick doesn't move. Then down at his hips there's a slow movement, and Pete slips his hands under Patrick's shirt. Then there are fingers stroking along his sides, and Patrick tries to breathe as his world opens up all over again.

"I couldn't stand it," Pete is whispering as he leans in and kisses carefully at Patrick's throat, his fingers still tripping softly up and down Patrick's skin. "I hated thinking about you going back there."

Patrick tilts his head up toward the ceiling and blinks to clear the moisture from his eyes. He's shaking, hands just cupping Pete's elbows, standing still while Pete presses endless careful, reverent kisses to his neck. And then suddenly, a bite.

Patrick jumps, shuddering against Pete who is now grinning wolfishly into his face, hands gripping tightly at his hips. "You're staying," he says, mouth stretched impossibly wide.

"I am," agrees Patrick, smiling back.

Pete breathes out in a whoosh and then pushes his hands into Patrick's hair and tugs him forward to be kissed. Patrick's eyes fall closed and his cock starts to ache as Pete shows him what five years as scene king has taught him about makeouts.

Whatever about his mouth, though, Pete's hands stay frustratingly soft and gentle on Patrick's body, stroking his shoulders and chest with tiny, maddening movements of his thumbs. Patrick pushes into the touches, demanding without words, but Pete seems determined to keep things light and slow.

Patrick is done with slow. He's been obsessing about Pete's body for months now, and now he has it under his hands and there's no way he's letting go until he's touched every part of it. Twice.

With single-minded intent, he pulls back from Pete's mouth and goes for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up past Pete's startled face and leaving him to handle the rest as he finally gets his hands back on Pete's body, his to explore.

Patrick hadn't known he was paying this much attention, but as his hands pass over the shivering muscles of Pete's stomach, every part of it is familiar to him, like he's been doing this, just this, all along in his own mind. He hadn't known he was waiting for the chance to do it for real.

Pete manages to get his shirt over his head and emerges dark-eyed to pull Patrick back into a kiss. "I'm not the only one around here with ideas, huh," he murmurs, smiling. Patrick smiles back, his hands never leaving Pete's skin.

Pete nods decisively. "Okay." Then he's grabbing at Patrick's shirt, popping the buttons and dragging it off Patrick's shoulders, hooking one leg around Patrick's knees and tumbling them both onto the carpeted floor.

Patrick lies on the carpet, shocked and exposed for a second before Pete rolls over and stretches out over him, blanketing him with his body.

And then Patrick's lost. Happily, crazily lost. Pete is writhing above him, and from underneath he's pushing up, demanding and grabby. Pete's skin feels even better like this, and Patrick strokes mindlessly at his tattoos, the heat between them reminding Patrick of the cathedral, how it used to feel when people were drumming their hardest and dancing their wildest.

Pete's sharp teeth are scraping down his neck to his chest, and Patrick gasps aloud when he darts a bite at Patrick's nipple. Patrick has one hand still fisted in Pete's hair and his hips are grinding up, muscles in his thighs tightening and bunching with the strain. Pete licks wide rings around Patrick's belly, sucking open-mouthed kisses to his skin.

"You're so pale," he says, his voice low and wrecked, "god, you're perfect, so smooth, it's like you're new, Patrick, like you're straight out of the box, just for me."

Patrick gasps through a laugh at Pete's particular brand of sex talk. "You're - fuck, Pete - you're not far wrong."

And Pete stops completely still, not moving a muscle. Patrick whines a little and pushes up into Pete's hands, but when he gets no response, he angles his head off the floor and finds himself staring into Pete's shocked face. For a second, it reminds him of that first day at the confirmation ceremony, and he figures out at last what that look on Pete's face had meant.

He reaches down a hand and tugs at Pete's hair, shaking him a little out of his daze. "Yes, virgin," he says, rolling his eyes, "get over it."

Pete hauls himself up and stares down at Patrick seriously. "I am going to take such good care of you Patrick, for real."

Patrick snorts. "You are such a perv."

Pete just tilts himself on one elbow to free up his right arm, reaches down, and rests his palm lightly over Patrick's cock. Patrick shudders into silence, baring his neck and letting his legs fall open.

"Yeah," says Pete, maybe in reply.

There are hands at Patrick's belt buckle, undoing it and slowly easing open the buttons on his pants. With every dim popping noise, his cock throbs and pushes up toward Pete's hands, and Patrick shivers, throwing an arm over his face. Pete moves so slowly, pushing the material of his pants out of the way and nudging his underwear down, baring his cock to the air. Patrick bites his lip and feels torn between urges to cover himself up and open his thighs even wider. Pete pushes his pants down his legs at last and he's naked, trembling and flushed.

"Patrick," whispers Pete, trying to get his attention, but it's only when he hears Pete fumbling with his own pants that he can bring himself to move his arm from his face. When he looks, Pete is kneeling over him, breathing fast, sweat shining on the ring of thorns around his collarbone. He's straddling Patrick's thigh, the heat of his body tangible in the room, and Patrick can't take his eyes off his cock, stiff and insistent, a match for his own. He reaches out a hand, blindly, and Pete catches it in his own and presses it onto the hot skin of his hip, just away from his lowest tattoo. Under Pete's hand, Patrick drags his fingertips slowly inward, then runs them down through the hair pointing from his navel to the base of his cock. Pete holds very still as Patrick strokes along the vein running up the underside, his trembling only becoming apparent when Patrick wraps his fingers experimentally around the head. Patrick glances up from under his eyelashes and Pete whines and pushes into his palm.

"Oh," says Patrick in wonder, and grips tighter, reaching up his other hand to circle the base. Pete collapses forward, catching himself with his arms on either side of Patrick's shoulders, head hanging down over Patrick's face, his hair brushing down with every thrust. Patrick loses his view but he's okay with it when Pete groans deeper, latches his lips onto Patrick's mouth, and comes over his fingers in messy, uncoordinated spurts.

Pete hangs over him for a few seconds, panting and laughing to himself. "Should've known," he says, kissing Patrick's cheek. "Should've known."

Patrick is still wide-eyed - he just made Pete come - when Pete lifts his head and glints him a wicked look before pushing down his body and settling between his outstretched thighs.

"What are y- oh my god," says Patrick, as Pete hauls his leg over one shoulder, pressing another messy open-mouthed kiss to his inner thigh before running his tongue over the needy head of Patrick's cock. Patrick's head thunks back onto the carpet as Pete's mouth surrounds him, waking up nerve endings he never knew he had. He's sprawled, helpless, while Pete covers him and takes him apart, his wet mouth doing a hundred unnamed things.

Then Pete pushes his tongue firm and insistent under the lip at the head of his cock and Patrick heaves his hips up, thrusting uncontrollably into Pete's welcoming, maddening mouth, and coming with a ferocity that completely wipes him out.

He falls back against the floor, every muscle relaxing at once, his lungs working crazily, and he's dimly aware of a very smug-looking Pete crawling up his body to curl around him and rest his head close beside Patrick's, his jaw snuggled into Patrick's collarbone. Patrick can't help it, he starts laughing in ragged, breathless pants. Pete makes a sleepy enquiring noise, but Patrick just shakes his head and grins manically at the ceiling. He's on the floor. He's naked. He's naked on the floor with Pete, who just gave him a blowjob. Oh my god, he's in a band.

They've set up a huge screen in the eaves of the basement, bastardized from the entertainment system in Pete's dad's den. It's high enough that everyone can see it from their positions, standing grouped in their bands, with the odd individual singer or musician dotted in between. Even with the size of the room, it's cramped with forty-seven musicians and their kit, and Patrick hopes the stern talk he had with some of the more... flamboyant players worked enough to keep them from doing too much damage. He looks across at Pete, who is currently straddling Andy's shoulders and telling some story involving free-wheeling arm movements to an enraptured gang, and thinks it's probably a lost cause.

The door to the rest of the house pushes open, and Gabe flashes Patrick a thumbs up. Patrick sucks in a breath and nods, then hops up on a nearby amp and grabs a microphone.

"OKAY GUYS, PLACES. We just got word it's about to start."

Across the room, everyone shuts up, and Patrick watches them begin to realize what they're about to attempt.

"We'll know in the next few minutes whether the sound and visual hook-ups worked, and then when Zack -" Patrick pauses to wave a hand at the big guy in the corner - "when Zack flicks the master switch we should see on that big screen there whatever the rest of - well, the rest of the galaxy is seeing. We'll know then if it worked. And then, all we have to do is play."

There's one or two whoops and yells from the crowd, but mostly people are nodding grimly to themselves and getting into position, certain now of what they've come to do. Patrick hops down off the amp and makes his way over to the center group, where his band is waiting. Onscreen, the opening of the Solstice ceremony is just kicking off, and they all turn together to watch.

Patrick sees Director Karolan move into view, and beside her the guy they must have chosen to take over the Conductor position at the last minute. Patrick grips his guitar and rubs his fingers over the shiny dark spot where his Academy insignia used to be. To his left, Pete moves closer and catches Patrick's fingers in his own. Patrick looks away from the screen and into Pete's eyes, and smiles.

They turn back together and watch as the orchestra settles in to start playing. There's no sound from the screen, and all through the room, a heavy, weighted silence settles over them.

A clattering cymbal knocked off its stand and a hissed "I will end you, Iero," from the back of the room draws a few titters, but then the quietness moves in again, the only sounds the occasional shuffling footstep or nervous throat-clearing.

"Okay," says Zack, from the front, listening to his comm, and everyone watches as he takes a deep breath and flicks the switch.

Above them, the screen goes completely black.

In the silence of the longest wait, Patrick turns to Pete to find him staring right back. Patrick feels his heart thundering in his chest and thinks about how, before he left the Academy, the only thing that moved him was music. He hadn't minded, because he'd been told it was the only thing that mattered, anyway. But he'd only been shown half the story, only been offered a fraction of a glance at the immensity of what was possible, with music and everything else. Then these people taught him that sometimes, what you're not offered, you have to find a way to make for yourself.

With just that in mind, Patrick leans forward into Pete, but Pete's attention is captured above them, and Patrick tilts his head to see himself on the huge screen, about to kiss his lead guitarist in front of the entire galaxy.

He sees Pete grin beside him and then turns to watch the same smile blown up huge onscreen. Turning back, he catches Pete's eyes and they nod in unison, ready. Patrick steps back, and Pete moves up to the center mike.

"Yeah, hi," he says, talking to the people of five planets like they're in the next room. "Sorry, you're not going to be returning to your regularly scheduled programming anytime soon. See, a lot of people, from our parents to our governments, have been telling us for a long time that they know what's best for us, that music belongs to only one group of experts and that tangling with it will only get us into trouble. And, for a lot of people, that doesn't seem like a big deal - you've got jobs and families and other shit on your mind, right? But for us, and for millions of people like us, or people who would be like us, given half a chance, music isn't just about ceremonies and procedures. For us, music is the biggest part of who we are. When you take that away, we get lost."

Patrick listens, head down. They'd agreed that Pete should be the one to speak, but he'd had no idea what he was going to say.

"And so, for the people watching this totally confused at home on your couches, I guess I'd just tell you to enjoy the music and maybe consider what parts of yourself you've locked away because some outside authority told you to. And for the Academy peeps and government types listening to this, hey, sorry we messed up your concert. But, uh," and Pete turns grinning, and gives Andy the nod to start counting in, "this is what happens when you try to regulate a piece of people's souls."

Patrick listens for the count and moves back up to the mike, pressing in beside Pete, who turns one last time to smile at him as he says, "You've lost your hold on silence, guys, and we're the fallout."