User: jenish (posted by fizzyblogic) Date: 2007-08-16 14:01 Subject: (no subject) Security: Public Tags: fandom:bands:fall out boy, pete/patrick

And You
{Fall Out Boy RPS. G. AU. Pete/Patrick. 100% untrue. For not_nele.}

Patrick liked a lot of things about his house. His room was big enough that it didn’t get seriously messy until he hadn’t cleaned it for months, but small enough that he could still find things. He didn’t have enough wall space for all the posters he wanted up, but he was starting to suspect that even if he had a mansion with fifty huge rooms and vaulted ceilings, there still wouldn’t be enough wall space for just that one more Bowie poster.

But the best thing about his room – in fact, his house – was that it backed onto the edges of a park. Patrick could look out of his windows and see trees, some grass, a little bit of the path. He liked to track the seasons and let his eyes trace the outlines of distant evergreens in the winter, and he liked to sometimes watch the people going past on the little bit of path he could see, jogging or walking dogs or just walking.

On a Monday night in April, during an intense fit of procrastination because he had a history quiz the next day and really didn’t want to study for it just yet, Patrick stared out of the window. He wasn’t really taking anything in, just the trees and the smell of the air, window open. He had a song stuck in his head and started humming it, volume swelling and words adding as he relaxed against the wall, arms propped by the elbows on the windowsill, looking out at the trees. He kind of felt, as the sun went down and twilight fell around him, like maybe he was the last person in the world. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

A figure appeared on the path. Patrick didn’t notice, losing himself in the chorus and singing louder. The figure heard, looked up.

Patrick noticed five seconds later that someone was standing on the path, staring up at him. He closed his mouth quickly, sound shutting off and leaving an echoing silence. He felt his cheeks pink as he realised it was a kid he’d seen around in school; tattoos, hair that was a different colour every week. One of the punk scene kids. (Maybe the one he’d noticed, perhaps, just a little.) He was holding a leash, a bulldog puppy straining at it.

Patrick ducked away from the window, feeling simultaneously hot and cold. He sat at his desk and stared at his homework; and heard a faint “Alright, Hemmy,” from outside.

He had a quiz to study for. Right.

Right.

It took him half an hour of tapping his pencil and staring at a blank sheet of paper, eyes going funny, before he even realised he was humming again.

The next morning started out like a lot of Tuesdays. He got up reluctantly, showered, got dressed, ate breakfast and answered his mother’s questions as to the status of his homework (completed) and his birthday plans (undecided) and the likelihood of he and his siblings not bickering for five minutes (laughable at this hour). He made sure he had everything he’d need that day, hauled his backpack onto one shoulder and stepped out of the door.

The kid from school, the one who’d been walking his dog the night before, was standing at the end of his driveway. He was staring at his shoes and scuffing them against the ground. Patrick swallowed, and took a step forward.

“Hi?” he said. The kid looked up, and he smiled. Patrick returned the smile a little awkwardly.

“Hey. I’m, uh, I’ve seen you at school. Didn’t know you lived here, and I figured, why not walk together? Today,” he added quickly.

“Okay.” Patrick set off on his usual route, and the kid fell into step beside him.

“You have an amazing voice,” he said. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, and Patrick noticed a tattoo on his arm. “I heard you last night, that was. You’re really something.”

Patrick blushed. “No, I’m not,” he said, shifting the weight of his backpack. “So was that your dog?”

“Yeah, his name’s Hemingway, and yeah – you are.” The kid smiled at him again, and Patrick ducked his head, watched his steps. “So – what’s your name?” the kid asked.

“Patrick. What’s, uh, what’s yours?” (He hadn’t been working up the nerve to ask. Hadn’t. Or, well, maybe a little.)

“Pete.” He gave a sheepish half-smile. “I thought you knew.”

“No, I – you’ve never talked to me, why would I know that?” Patrick was watching the ground again. The sidewalk took on an interesting shade of grey at this speed.

“People tend to … know who I am. Kind of.” Pete shrugged, though Patrick more felt the rush of air and heard the movement than saw it.

“What, because you’re just that famous?” Patrick risked a look at him.

“Infamous, maybe.” Pete was looking back at him, an intrigued slant to his eyebrows. “You really … I, uh, I think my usual lab partner for chem is sick today. You have that fifth period, right?”

“Yeah, I – we both have it.”

“Right.” Pete was almost grinning at him now, and Patrick fought off another blush. “Do you have a partner? ’Cause if not, I’m available.”

“Um. Yeah, no, sure. That’d be great. I don’t have a, I mean, I did, but she transferred, so.”

“Oh, she?” The way he said it made Patrick stop walking and stare at him.

“Not like that,” he said, once Pete had noticed, stopped, and turned to face him. Patrick moved again, caught up and Pete fell back into step.

“Your girlfriend would mind, right?” Was Pete winking at him?

Patrick almost laughed. “No, no, there is no girlfriend. God, there is no girlfriend.” He watched the ground again, kicked at a stone.

“Sorry.” Pete sounded vaguely subdued. “Didn’t mean to – sorry.”

“’S okay.” Patrick shrugged.

“Hey man, you know what the best cure for a broken heart is?” Patrick looked up, and Pete was definitely grinning. “Music.”

“Have to say I agree with you there. You like music?” Patrick tried not to get too excited. More than once he’d had conversations that began like this but ended with him having to explain who Elvis was, and he really preferred those kinds of conversations to happen after lunch. Or not at all, because repressing the urge to stab the person you’re talking to in the eye with a fork takes a lot of concentration.

“Love it. I play, bass. Not very well, but I still play. And I kind of sing.”

They turned into the school gates, and Pete waved to a few kids but didn’t move from Patrick’s side, the two of them making their way to the door. “How is it possible to kind of sing?”

“Well, I’m not like you. But I guess, not many people can sing like an angel, so not many people are like you. But I’m not even like, I don’t know. Name any good singer, I’m nowhere near as good as them.”

“Fiona Apple,” Patrick said, automatic. “And I do not sing like an angel, Pete.” The sound seemed to echo in the hallway as they entered it.

“You do.” Pete was looking right at him, and his eyes were unguarded and kind of soft. Patrick chewed on the inside of his lip and swallowed.

“Don’t,” he said at last. He looked away. “So what tie do you think Mr Abercrombie’s gonna wear in math today?”

“I hope it’s not that orange one, looks like carrots having an orgy.”

“Why we have to see that right before lunch, I’ll never know,” Patrick agreed.

“Exactly.” Pete grinned at him again. Patrick was starting to like making Pete grin. “So hey, this is my locker,” he stopped and pointed.

“Okay. Mine’s,” Patrick gestured down the hall, “somewhere that way.”

“Okay. So, I’ll see you in math, right? You gonna sit by the window or move over and sit with us?”

“I don’t know. You maybe want to come sit nearer the window?” Patrick smiled back at him, bold. Pete seemed pleased.

“Maybe I will.” Patrick nodded, small, and started to move away. “See you in class, Stump,” Pete called after him.

Patrick was half way through the combination on his locker before he realised he hadn’t told Pete his last name. He opened his locker, put in a bunch of books, took out the one for Spanish, and slammed it shut again, peeking down the corridor to watch Pete do the same.

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