It's all Pete has left. And he's never letting go. Short PETERICK one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
He left me, but I have something that will never leave; something that can’t just fade away like his adoration for me somehow did. It’s something that can’t die like our relationship, yet at the same time can’t whisper words of comfort when I have to cry myself to sleep at night. But that’s a small price to pay for the sense of security it delivers. Because just knowing that I have it, that it’s here and it isn’t leaving, is enough to make me sleep soundly.
I have Patrick Stump’s hoodie.
It’s been through hell and back with me, with Us. Apart from it didn’t come back from hell with Us, just with me. But that’s okay because it survived to be able to hug me now that nobody else is around in this silence-fogged apartment to do physically do so.
Tricky was wearing it the first time that I saw him, a shock of bright black in a room slurred with too many too-bright colours. He was working behind the counter in McDonalds, filling in for a buddy who wanted to go to a gig that night but couldn’t get the time off work so had Patrick take his place, and I was smitten immediately. No, that’s a lie. I was smitten the second he accidentally-on-purpose threw strawberry milkshake all over some bitchy cheerleader who’d been firing insults towards me for the duration of my time in the relentlessly long queue. I had, of course, thanked him. Thanked him by means of handing him my number scrawled onto the back of a McDonalds napkin. It went straight into the giant front pocket of the hoodie.
The hoodie itself is pretty plain, if a little scruffy; just pure black with a red smiley on the front. It’s not really to my taste, but it’s Patrick’s, y’know? It’s his and if it’s his then it’s connected to him, to the boy that used to be mine. I don’t think I ever saw him without it, other than in bed. Hell, he even wore it on our first date.
I can remember the way he hid his face with the hood when I decided to burst into song at the restaurant table, his face burning red at my falsetto rendition of Elton John’s ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight?’. The gargantuan black hole of a hood didn’t quite cover his lips though, which is how I knew he was smiling the entire way through my horsing around, sometimes even laughing at my affectionate display. Of course he acted all embarrassed, he is naturally a rather reserved guy, but he was asking me to sing it to him again on the cab ride home as we watched the sun go down through the grimy window. Him with his arms wrapped around me. Me with my face nestled securely into his hoodie.
It still smells of him if I yearn for the scent for long enough. Or it could just be my mind playing tricks on me. Even if it is just that, I don’t really mind. I’d rather be happy pretending than be miserable knowing the truth. Just like I’d be happier if I could let my mind kid me into thinking that Tricky’s just out at the shops buying Pop-Tarts or over at Andy’s; even if I know it’s a lie, pretending would give me a respite for at least a few hours. But there’s one thing always reminding me that he’s gone; his hoodie and the fact he’s not wearing it.
I bought Patrick the cologne that still stains the hallowed fabric of the hoodie. It was on our second date and I was wearing my dad’s posh Gucci fragrance that he’d had since forever. Tricky said I smelt nice, that I smelt like pure sexiness actually, and then slumped dejectedly back in his cinema chair. When I asked what was wrong, which was damn near immediately, he just mumbled about not being good enough; about not looking hot or smelling sexy or being good enough for someone like me. So I ran out of the auditorium, sprinted across the street to the Wal-Mart, bought the priciest cologne I could afford and then pegged it back. It was one of my most spontaneous actions, but it was also one of my most rewarding; it earned me my first Patrick Stump-induced kiss. A kiss where the fabric of a certain hoodie was soft beneath my fingertips.
Things change. Three years came and went, as did the people in our lives, but certain things stayed the same. Our love did, for example. So did the hoodie. The hoodie and our love; everything else changed. We outgrew high school and moved into an apartment together, making our parents turn into monsters at the sight of us. Mine eventually warmed to the idea of their little prince being more like a princess, the Stump family, however, disowned Tricky completely. Something that he never really got over. In fact, this hoodie has more marks on it from having tear-bought snot wiped on it’s sleeves than anything else.
I’ll never forget that night when I walked in early from work to find my boyfriend crying his eyes out into the padded sleeves of his beloved hoodie. Turned out he’d been doing that kind of thing a lot; sobbing and breaking down whilst I wasn’t around to see what he thought of as weakness. He whimpered and wailed about how he let his parents down, how he’d been letting them down since birth, and it broke my heart because I could see how much he believed it. How much they’d broken him with their pointless, spiteful disproval. So I just held him, no words could have helped, and then I started singing. That song from our first date, the Elton John one that’s in The Lion King, and then he started laughing. The cause of the wet patches on his hoodie long forgotten.
Nothing lasts forever though. People get older, sense kicks in and then hearts grow colder. We started having rows; silly little tiffs over the slightest of things. I think he resented the fact that my family didn’t really mind my sexuality. I mean, Tricky wasn’t the jealous or bitter type, not by a long shot, but there really only is so much one person can take. But then there was also the way that he wanted to change himself all the time, like he thought he was never good enough no matter what he did. It made him tense, which made me worried. Worried and tense aren’t exactly a winning formula for a relationship.
We fell apart soon after last Christmas.
I’d accidently shrunk his hoodie in the wash, prompting the fifth argument of the week. It was a Monday. I’d only shrunk it a little bit, but it was still enough for it to be too small for him. So he yelled. And then I called him fat. Something that I really shouldn’t have done because, a few days before, I’d caught him with his fingers down his throat in the bathroom. Then he’d started crying, telling me that it’s not his fault he isn’t perfect. I should’ve dropped it, I knew I should have; but we’d been having these fights so much that I just couldn’t take it anymore. So I told him to stop being such a drama queen and that it was no wonder his parents didn’t want him anymore. He went after that, not a word of where he was going. He just left.
Left me and the hoodie all alone in our apartment.
We’re still waiting for him to come back.
A/N: This is my second ever Peterick, so sorry if it sucks. This is based off the prompt ‘hoodie’ from Idunno09 over on deviantART. Hope it was alright and please let me know what you think! :D