Archive of Our Own ^beta

Patrick Stump isn’t dumb. No ones been telling him he is, but he feels like he needs to reiterate the fact in his own mind. Patrick Stump isn't dumb. In fact, Patrick thinks of himself as a very perceptive person.

Which is why Pete is driving him up the fucking wall lately. Because, surely, he must think Patrick is too dumb to notice the way he's pushing him away–too dumb to notice the way Pete is closing himself off, not just from Patrick, but the whole world. Look, selfishly, Patrick would think that fact was fine if it wasn't for the fact that he himself was included in this seclusion from society. Petes never locked himself away like this, not with Patrick. It's always been PeteandPatrick . Now it's just … Patrick . It's really throwing him for a loop.

Joe thinks he's being stupid, tells him that Pete’s just going through one of his moods, that he’ll get over it in a week and be back to normal–well, as normal as he ever is. “You need to stop stressing, dude,” the way Joe is chewing his barely buttered toast is leaving crumbs on the kitchen top. Patrick knows he's the one that's going to have to clean it, “you’re not, like, his mom. I don't know why this is getting to your head so much.”

“It's- I know I’m not his mom, Joe, that's not what I’m-!”

A long winded sigh escapes from Joe's mouth as he shakes his head, clapping the back of Patricks back, promptly interrupting the argument that was about to spill from his lips, “Look. If you really think Pete is going through some, like, life threatening quarter-life crisis, or even if you're just worried about him because you care about him, just talk to him. I know you guys don't know how to do that with each other. But it works wonders.”

He can’t help but scoff at the assumption that he doesn't know how to talk to Pete. Patrick knows how to communicate his feelings, he's well versed in it, it's Pete that won't let anyone in–Pete that has his heart locked up while keeping it right on his sleeve. Because he might pretend that he's giving the world his whole, vulnerable self, but Patrick knows it's not true. Pete Wentz is a coward when it comes to feelings. He’ll barely recognise he has them at times, so there's no way in hell Petes telling anyone how he feels, unless it's carefully wrapped in prose and metaphors meant to be deciphered like a secret code.

“I know how to talk to Pete, Joe, it's just-”

“Patrick. Just talk to him. I'm not Pete. I can't help you here, man.” It seems like Joe won't let Patrick get a single word in. Maybe Joe can sense the argument swirling around Patricks head. An argument better suited for Pete, sure, but since hes not fucking here and wont talk to Patrick , its an argument thats going be thrown to anyone that can catch it. It seems that Joe definitely does not want to deal with any of Patricks–or Petes–melodramaticism, if the exasperated sigh is anything to go by. “I've gotta go to work. Sort it out. Or don't, whatever. Like I said, he’ll be fine. You're the Pete-whisperer. I've got hope in you, young padawan.”

Look, Patrick knows that Joe is right. He won’t admit it, but he knows. Pete’s moods change like the tides in the ocean and he never knows when a wave is going to crash or if it’s going to be smooth sailing. But as he watches Joe close the door, he can’t help but feel helpless. Like he’s the one lost at sea inside Pete’s mind, with no lighthouse guiding him home. Because usually there’s a flicker of light, a stray star he can follow, but this time, Pete’s completely… left him stranded.

Not literally. Pete is still there. He still lives in the same apartment as him, still talks with his mouth full while eating his cereal, still pisses in their communal shower. But he’s not . He’s not there the way it matters to Patrick. Like he’s just out of reach and, for once, Patrick doesn’t know how to bridge the gap. 

Maybe Joe's right. Maybe he should just talk to Pete. God knows he’s tried, countless times, but maybe millionth times the charm? Patrick’s decided he’s been thinking too hard about this at the early hour of 11AM. He has no clue where Pete is right now, maybe locked in his room pretending to sleep, or wandering around aimlessly, but Patrick has work. Patrick has work, and before he got on this topic with Joe, he was hurriedly throwing on whatever clothes he could find that were clean so that he could rush out the door.

Whatever. Patrick’s going to go to work, aimlessly float through his obligated hours and finish his thought process when he’s home. Maybe even talk to Pete. That’s probably just wishful thinking, though

. . .

Patrick kept thinking about it during work. In the boring lull between customers, his mind would flit back to Pete. About what he was going to do, what he was going to say. And god , Patrick knows he’s overreacting. Pete hasn’t gone off the deep end yet. He’s not refusing to leave his room, or drowning whatever sorrows he feels with whatever substance he can find. That stuff has happened before. It’s not happening now. Patrick just doesn’t want it to get to that point again.

As Patrick toes his shoes off he lets his body dramatically fall across their almost decaying sofa. He can see loose threads littering the cushions, stains that definitely weren’t there when they bought it- or, well, found it on the street. He tries to detect any movement throughout the apartment, tilting his head to the side to see if he can hear anything. Joe told him earlier he’d be out tonight, at some gig watching some band. He can’t really remember. Andy wasn’t supposed to be home either, spending time with this girl he’s started seeing- it’s been a few weeks, so Patrick guesses it’s getting at least semi-serious.

Pete, though, he has no clue. He definitely can’t hear any movement inside the apartment, can’t hear the telltale signs of Pete’s computer keys being tapped away on, or the rustling of sheets on a bed that hasn’t actually been slept on in days. There’s nothing. Just the sound of his own breathing, some strange beeping that he’s too lazy to investigate, and the distinct lack of Pete.

Patrick never realised how much space Pete took up in his mind. Or maybe he did realise, and now that he’s deprived of him, it’s become ten times more obvious. He doesn’t really want to think too hard about that fact.

But as his head is tilted, a comical maneuver to detect any sort of noise, his eyes land on a tattered journal on the coffee table right in front of him. There are journals scattered around the apartment, most of them taking up space in Pete’s room. So, obviously, Patrick can use his subpar deduction skills to determine that it’s Pete’s. This is one of Pete’s journals, resting on their beaten up coffee table. It’s just, it looks different. Definitely not one of the journals Pete has ever graced Patrick with. Patrick feels left out of some cruel joke, in his inability to place which journal this is. He also feels like a Pete Wentz fanatic in this moment, like one of the girls that follows him around after shows, just asking for a sliver of sun, for the slightest time of day.

Patrick probably shouldn’t look. If it’s something that Pete’s never shown him willingly, he shouldn’t pry. But Patrick’s the cat that curiosity killed. And, like in the fable, he knows that satisfaction was the only thing that brought it back. So, he figures, one look wouldn’t hurt. One look, and then he’ll place it neatly in the spot it’s been laying in all this time, like it was never peered into at all. That’s exactly what he’ll do. He’ll do that, and no one will ever know. Pete won’t know, Patrick won’t tell, and it’ll be like nothing ever happened at all. A foolproof plan.

Even if there’s no evidence left behind, though, no trail of breadcrumbs to ever alert Pete of a prying eye, Patrick will know. Fuck, he doesn’t even know if there’s serious stuff in there or if it’s just, like, a grocery list. Definitely not that, Pete hasn’t gone grocery shopping ever since they moved in here. But something along the same vein as that.

He barely even registers picking up the journal and cracking it open. Patrick’s opening this journal like a bomb being defused, like turning a page is cutting some sort of a red wire. He bites his lip as he sits up, crossing his legs as just stares at the leatherbound book resting in his hands. One look can’t hurt. One look, just to see what’s going on in Pete’s head, and then he’ll put it down. He’ll put it down, he won’t bring it up to Pete, and he’ll wait for everything to get back to normal.

. . .

Patrick has more than one look. He has more than a few, even. The rest of the night is spent like that—Patrick sitting on their dingy couch, in front of their dingy coffee table, reading Pete’s….. He’s not sure what to call it. They’re not far from the words he usually trades with Patrick, but it just feels… different . Like Patrick’s looking through a microscope right into Pete’s brain, all the parts he kept carefully hidden away now raw and bleeding, grotesquely on display.

Patrick’s not saying the words are grotesque or ugly, and he’s definitely not saying the feelings that Pete’s been vomiting onto the page are that either. It’s just- This is real . This is the real Pete Wentz, translated through chicken scratch on paper. It feels voyeuristic as his eyes scan along pages upon pages of writing.

But it clicks, in Patrick’s mind at least. Not the whole story, not the completed version of why Pete is now shutting him out alongside everyone else. But Patrick feels like now he can fill in the blanks. The words boring into his eyes help Patrick fill in the puzzle, at least halfway to completion, like he finally found some missing puzzle pieces that have been hidden under a cushion or behind a bed.

Pete thinks he’s too much , this is obvious in so many words. It’s not a new concept that Patrick’s realised about how Pete views himself. But, Pete thinks he’s too much for Patrick , thinks he’s some sort of slow dripping poison that’s going to rot him from the inside out. Thinks that he’s ruining Patrick’s life, day by day, just by being around him . That if he doesn’t keep his distance, Patrick’s going to be the one that leaves, the one that gets sick of him and throws him to the wolves.

Which is fucking stupid , okay? Patrick wouldn’t do that. Not only has he invested so much time in this band he didn’t even think would last a day, but Pete is his best friend . Sure, annoying and insufferable could be choice words Patrick would use to describe him on some days. But still, his best friend. There’s not any reality, in Patrick’s mind at least, where they aren’t that. Patrick has never thought Pete was ‘too much’, at least not in the way Pete sees it. With each new page Patrick reads, he feels his throat clogging up even more, and the need to just see Pete with his own eyes—to see that he’s right there and hasn’t disappeared somewhere Patrick can’t follow—grows unbearably stronger.

He regrets opening the journal. It’s like he’s unleashed some sort of Pandora’s box inside his own mind. He feels like Dorothy being whisked away by a miraculous whirlwind and being dropped God knows where. Like the journal could bite if he stares too hard, he shoves it closed and tries his best to return it to its previous position perched on the coffee table. As if he’s in some sort of haze, he stumbles up off the couch, like his legs were made of jelly, and makes his way to his own room. He barely registers the way he stumbles to his desk—there are papers strewn across it, compositions and half-finished songs littering the flat surface—and grabs for a scrap of paper, clawing for a pen and hastily writing on it.

It’s not like he even realises he’s writing a companion piece (if he can even call it that. A companion piece to pages of self-hatred ? That’s not really a thing), but before it clicks in his mind, he’s put the pen down and is left staring at the now filled page.

His words aren’t as beautiful as Pete’s. They don’t flow the same, don’t redirect the stream of thoughts and feelings into something poetic or shakespearean. They’re just words, really, not words like Pete’s. He doesn’t know what he was thinking when doing this—doesn’t know if he was thinking at all.

But, while Pete’s gone (at least he assumes so), he lets himself slip the paper under his closed door before returning to his own room, turning off the light and simply laying in his unmade bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Patrick hopes his page of… comfort ? Reassurance ? Whatever it was, he hopes it reaches Pete. That it reaches Pete in a way he understands. Because, laying in his bed, staring at the off white colouring of his ceiling, he misses Pete. Like a phantom limb. Like something that was never meant to be so far away from him in the first place.

He misses Pete, and he’s not even gone.

. . .

What Patrick expected was for his note to go ignored, or for Pete to corner him one night when he was actually home and badger him about it, pester him and get on his case so they could both air out their bubbled-over frustration. He expected basically nothing at all, or the worst case scenario.

What Patrick didn’t expect was for some weird ritual to begin between him and Pete. Because, when he woke up the next morning, there was a note under his door. Pete would’ve slid this under his door late into the night, if he’s guessing correctly, with the vampire-hours he’s been keeping lately. And it’s not just a return of his own writing to Pete, which Patrick assumed at first. It’s a brand new page with brand new words. Brand new words from Pete, for Patrick .

And they’re still as raw as the words Patrick read last night. Still bleeding all over the page. But they’re real, and they’re less misery-riddled, and they’re Pete . They’re Pete, and they’re Pete talking to him–to Patrick, finally .

Sure, he wishes it was face to face, with words. Wishes he could use his golden voice, which is what Pete gracefully dubs it. Patrick thought Pete was obsessed with his voice, thought it was their one way ticket to fame, glitz, glamour and sold out venues. But, well, if this is the only way he’ll get to Pete, if this is the only way they’re going to talk about how he’s feeling, Patrick will take it. He’ll meet Pete at his level.

And that’s how they start trading handwritten notes and pages like kids in class, trying to not get called out by their teacher. It feels juvenile, and silly, but it becomes routine, and Patrick comes to expect a note under his door at least every three days, if not every night, which is the more regular occurrence. It’s not like Pete and Patrick don’t talk verbally while in the process of this intricate ritual. They see each other at breakfast, Pete will clamber all over Patrick while they’re watching a movie or kick him with his feet when there’s a scene that doesn’t interest him, he’ll steal his breakfast and give him his classic puppy dog eyes. 

But, finally, Patrick feels less and less shut out–feels like the locked door finally has a key. Pete still won’t verbally admit what he’s feeling, likes to skirt around it like a ballerina, but at least he knows now. At least he has a vague understanding, and at least he's getting something from Pete now, some way to understand what's going on in his head right now.

. . .

“We should totally do a cover of Jack & Sally’s song. Like a duet. Dude, the fans would love it.”

Pete says this like a fact. Currently, his head is resting on Patrick’s lap–his hair, that he's growing out apparently, is tousled against Patricks denim clad thighs–and his eyes are trained on the screen in front of them. He's all stretched out, limbs hanging off one end of their couch, looking completely at ease. Patrick, on the other hand, feels stiff as a rock. He doesn't know where to put his hands, too reluctant to even move an inch of his body. It seems the proximity of Pete Wentz, his head to his lap, is sending his brain into overdrive–at this rate, he feels like he's about to short circuit.

Patricks not new to these off-putting feelings he gets around Pete. That, sometimes, even just the sight of Pete can make his hands clammy and his heart murmur on its second beat. It's not a new revelation, but it's something that Patrick likes to push to the darkest depths of his mind–confined only to quick jerk off sessions and for when he needs musical inspiration. Because Pete Wentz does this to a person, he's noticed. Pete Wentz makes people fall in love with them without even realising it's happening. There's just something about him, some sort of sick, charismatic aura, that lures unsuspecting victims in and drowns them in sugary sweet lovesickness. 

Pete turns his head to look up at Patrick with a pout on his face. “Dude, are you even watching ? This is an important movie, like, life-changing.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. He’s very aware of how ‘life-changing’ The Nightmare Before Christmas is, what with Petes half-finished sleeve featuring none other than Jack Skellington. Petes sat him down and forced him to watch the movie more times than he can count, but everytime he acts like its his first. 

“Yes, I’m watching. Even though I’ve seen it 100 times before .” Pete rolls his eyes at Patricks words and sends another pout his way. “Are you saying you’re going to sing Sally’s part?”

“No way, dude! No, I’m totally Jack. Plus, you’re the only one that could hit any of Sally’s notes.”

“I don’t know, I think you could scream some of those high notes, for sure.”

Pete’s only response to that is an amused snort before he lets his head settle back comfortably in Patrick’s lap. Unconsciously, Patrick settles a hand on top of Pete’s head and gently runs his fingers through his hair, a hum reverberating from Pete’s throat as he does so. It’s comfortable, the silence falling around them like a blanket, the only noise being the movie continuing in the background. Patrick’s not really paying attention to it, too focused on the way Pete is acting like Patrick’s body is his only anchor to the world.

“You know, we’re kinda like Jack and Sally.” Pete’s words aren’t quiet , really, but they’re soft. They sound unsure to Patrick’s ears, or even nervous, but he might just be making things up. “Cuz, like…Jack just wants to find somewhere to belong, I think. Somewhere that he doesn’t feel so- so different, and he does things in all the wrong ways because he’s never.. He doesn’t know how to fit in anywhere.”

Pete pauses. Patrick wonders if that’s all he wants to say, continues soothing his fingers through Pete’s hair. The boy in his lap lets out a breath before continuing.

“But, you know, I think Sally is the only one who gets him. Who gets, like, that he’s messed up. That he doesn’t really belong anywhere no matter how hard he tries. And she still- she still loves him, you know? And she tries to help, even if he won’t listen. I think all that matters is that she tries.”

Patrick can definitely pinpoint the underlying meaning of what Pete’s saying. Patrick’s used to this, deciphering Pete’s words. It’s become second nature at this point, picking apart what he really means when he speaks in metaphors and references and things other people usually wouldn’t understand. Most people don’t understand. Patrick understands.

That’s what Pete is trying to say, he thinks.

Patrick doesn’t respond, doesn’t think Pete wants him to respond. He simply keeps his hand running through Pete’s hair, a simple gesture to show him he’s still there, and glues his eyes back to the screen.

. . .

Pete hasn’t written Patrick a note in a few days. Five , if he’s counting correctly. 

At first, Patrick thought nothing of it, really. Some days Patrick would write Pete something, slide it under his door, and he wouldn’t get something back until two or three days later. That’s not something that rings alarm bells off in Patrick’s head instantly—Pete can’t write something every single day. Sometimes he needs to recharge his writing juice, or, like, whatever .

So, the first day, Patrick didn’t notice. Well, he did notice, but paid it no mind. He still saw Pete in the morning, had his cereal stolen from his own bowl when he was too groggy and exhausted to shrug it off. He still waved to Pete goodbye as he had to go to his stupid below minimum-wage job, and he still came home and watched a movie on the couch with Pete (Ghostbusters, for probably the 15th time. They’re both suckers for rewatches).

The second day, Patrick felt the familiar itch for Pete’s writing. There was no note, again, but it wasn’t as much alarming as it was that Patrick was just craving more. He’s greedy with Pete’s words, likes to fill himself up with them like he can never get enough—it sounds so fucking weird, he knows, just…there’s something about them, something addictive about the scrawl of his pen and the letters he jots down.

But then the third, and fourth, and fifth days came and went without a note. And Patrick was beginning to feel restless, like there was this itch under his skin he couldn’t scratch. His all too familiar feeling of concern was bubbling in his stomach again as well. Pete’s been around, hasn't seemed withdrawn or upset or anything to indicate he’s not doing well. So why isn’t he writing?

Well, why isn’t he writing to Patrick , really.

Patrick stares up at his ceiling, laying in his bed, and feels selfish. He never realised how selfish he was with Pete—he always thought Pete was the selfish one. Maybe selfish isn’t the word. This note situation is just driving his brain haywire, and it’s so stupid, because they’re just juvenile notes —he’s not in highschool anymore, trading notes in class or stuffing them in lockers. So he doesn’t know why he’s so stressed about this.

He can’t sleep. It’s not too late, at least for Patrick, just a little past 11PM. But he can’t sleep, and doesn’t want to get up out of his bed, and his body feels paralysed . This isn’t a big deal. It really isn’t . But it feels like Patrick’s world is all coming down, and he’s mad at himself for feeling like this, and he’s mad at Pete for making him feel like this, but—really, mostly, he’s just.. worried.

The note sliding under his door almost goes unnoticed by Patrick. It probably would’ve , if he didn’t hear the slight tapping of footsteps travelling to and from his door in the silent cocoon of his room. 

Patrick waits to hear the click of Pete’s door closing before he makes his way off his bed to grab the note. He doesn’t really know why he’s being sneaky about this, but it feels the ritual would be broken if either of them thought about it too hard, like the magic charm surrounding it would dissipate. He scrambles towards his bed, lets himself flop onto it before crossing his legs underneath him and focusing his eyes on the paper. Pete's absence of words have left a hole in his heart and he can't wait to stitch together the insides of his fraying seams.

But as he scans, it's just one line. A messily scrawled sentence onto the paper, almost drowning against the empty space of the rest of the page.

Maybe Pete was just feeling particularly uninspired but still wanted to pass Patrick a note? Patrick’s seen Pete experience times where the words just won't fly out of his brain, where they just lock up inside him and fester. So maybe it's just that. Patrick reasons with himself, telling himself it's fine , it's not a big deal, God , when did he turn into such a lunatic? It's crazy, thinking somethings wrong just because Pete’s note passing habits aren't up to his standard .

But Patrick doesnt think it's crazy. He knows Pete. He knows Pete, knows how he thinks, how he wants people to understand even if he can't say it. So Patrick knows, he knows deep down it's something different–this is something different . A puzzle he needs to solve with the mere 13 words on the white page.

Pete’s always been a puzzle he has the missing piece for, though.

. . .

“Were you writing songs for me?”

They’re situated on the couch, Pete's head leaning on Patricks shoulder, snuggled against the thin fabric of his shirt. They're watching…Patrick doesn't even know, at this point, hasn't been paying attention. His mind has just been replaying all the notes he read last night, all the words he pieced together, all the… love songs . They’re love songs, in a Pete Wentz way–they might not seem like it to the blind eye, but Patrick knows Pete. The words he wrote for Patrick felt special, and he doesnt think he's making it up this time. At least, he doesnt hope so.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Pete scrunching up his eyebrows in confusion and tilting his head to look up at Patrick. “In what way?”

“The notes,” Patrick’s never brought them up out-loud. Neither has Pete, “the notes, it– they turned into songs. Music. At least, in my head, they did. Did you mean to do that? To write me songs?”

If Pete could look any more confused, he probably would. “I always write you songs.”

Patrick can't help the way he averts his eyes, partly due to embarrassment, and another due to….nerves? “This is different. You know that. All the other songs you write are for the band. These were just for me .” At least, that's how it felt to Patrick. Fuck, maybe hes wrong, maybe none of this meant anything at all and it was just Patricks stupid head, filling itself with wishful thinking and–

“Yeah. Yeah, they were different.”

Patrick can hear the hesitancy in Pete's voice, but it's also…steady. The sudden shift throws Patrick for a loop, feeling Petes sureness in what he's saying. Patrick turns his head to look at Pete, really look at him, like if he looks hard enough he can just pluck out whatever the fuck Pete means about..any of this. Maybe Pete can see the nerves, sense the tenseness riddling Patricks body, because a small smile falls on his face before he speaks, softly– like calming a wild beast.

“They were just for you. They weren’t meant to be lyrics, though. I mean, none of the shit I write is but–you know, you just have music inside of you, whatever. These really weren’t meant to be lyrics, though, they were just....” Pete pauses, bites his lip, and shrugs a shoulder, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips, “I don't know what they were. But they were just for you.”

This is as much of a confession that Patrick needs. He doesn't need Pete to declare his love for him, to get down on one knee or take him out for a fancy dinner. This, right here, the tilt in Pete's lip, the small crinkle in the corner of his eyes, and his words–that's all Patrick needs. Because he knows what Pete is saying. He’s always known what Pete was saying, all along, always had a way of understanding the words in a way everyone else couldn’t. 

He can’t help but grin at Pete. “You know, you could’ve talked to me–could’ve just said something. I’m literally in the room next to you.”

All Pete does is shrug, leaning his head back on Patricks shoulder while gazing up at him, the smile still plastered on his face. “It’s not as fun that way. Rule number one of being loved by Pete Wentz, I’ll never do things the right way–or, like, the conventional way. I’ve always gotta be the most convoluted guy in the room.”

Patrick snorts, bringing a hand to the head resting atop his shoulder and gently combing it through Petes hair.

“Yeah, I know. I know you, Pete.”