Pete has never heard anything so flawlessly perfect in his life. And Patrick hates it. Almost. PETERICK one-shot.
Pete first hears the singing after one of his bass lessons in the school music department. It’s accompanied by a lot of stuttered speaking, things like, ‘I can do better’, ‘I’m a drummer’ and, ‘please, I don’t like singing’, but the only thing Pete truly hears, truly lets seep into his veins like a good kind of poison, is the singing. Singing that he can’t get of his head, that is still replaying to him like some sort of haunting lullaby as he goes to bed that night.
The next time Pete hears it, that heaven-sent sound of purity and flawless perfection, he’s in the restroom at school. He’s just sat there on the toilet, thinking about things like the meaning of life and what he’s going to have for dinner, when he hears a soft humming. That in itself is enough to get Pete’s attention with it’s intricate tunefulness and creativity (Pete’s sure he’s never heard the tune before) and then it starts; the singing. Quiet and shy, but still there, burning into Pete’s ears like a flame and leaving it’s mark on his soul. Pete’s out of his stall before he even has time to properly do his trousers up, but of course, because Pete is Pete and Life is Life, the source of the singing has vanished.
The third time is in the art classroom. It’s deserted, apart from Pete of course, and the stench of acrylics mingled with low levels of teenaged imagination make Pete feel slightly nauseous. Or the nausea could have been from how he hasn’t slept in four days, not since he first heard the singing. He’s working on his art project, some painting that’s meant to combine the ordinary with the extraordinary, when a bottle of tomato-red paint decides to explode everywhere. It completely ruins his work, but Pete never liked it anyway so that’s alright, and coats his brand new purple Converse, which Pete did like. A lot. So Pete’s in the store cupboard looking for paper towels when he hears it; prettier than a rose in bloom and more captivating than watching a live gig. Pete just looks out of the cupboard, careful and quiet, like a wildlife presenter on the Discovery Channel, and then he sees it. Sees him; the source of his blissful torture.
He sees Patrick Stump.
It’s been precisely twenty-six hours and thirteen minutes since Pete discovered who his singing angel is. Since then he’s managed to be surprisingly productive; he’s called his best friend Mikey Way to tell him how he’s fallen in love with most beautiful boy ever (to which Mikey replied with a ‘sure, Pete, just like the last nineteen times’), he’s written poetry about making Patrick sing for him and he’s thought of at least a million different ways that he could make the younger boy smile.
It’s not that Patrick doesn’t smile a lot, just that Pete wants to be the cause of it. Same with the singing.
Pete’s seen Patrick around school before, the geeky kid with the glasses and teddy-bear build. He’s always had a quiet fondness for the fifteen-year-old, now that he thinks about it, but he’s never really realised it until now; until he realised that Patrick Stump’s voice is actually a gateway into heaven.
They’ve spoken before. Once, actually. One of Pete’s friends had stolen Patrick’s glasses and left the younger lad almost completely blind. And sobbing. Pete can’t stand seeing anything in pain, least of all cute underage boys, so he stole the glasses back and gave them to their rightful owner. Patrick had mumbled a ‘thanks’ and then ran off, leaving Pete with an insane urge to just cuddle him into oblivion.
So, now that Pete thinks of it, they’re made for each other.
They just are, okay?
Now it’s been thirty-nine hours on the dot since Patrick was revealed to be Pete’s singing sweetheart and now, right now, Pete can hear the singing again.
It’s a Saturday and Pete, as always on this day of the week, is working his shift at the local Blockbuster. He was just putting some DVDs away, mindlessly thinking about nothing, when humming strummed up behind him. Followed by ever-so-surreptitious singing.
Surreptitious. That word fits Patrick Stump perfectly, Pete thinks.
Another thing Pete thinks is the fact that it’s now been thirty-nine hours and four minutes since he discovered his mystery singer’s true identity and he’s not about to just let him disappear again. So he turns around and, sure enough, he’s practically face-to-face with a rather startled looking blonde boy whose cheeks are quickly turning a violent shade of cherry.
“Patrick, right?” Pete asks, smirking to himself at the thought of how grown-up and sure of himself he sounds. The addressed nods, fingers anxiously fiddling with the hem of his Green Day shirt. “I’m Pete. Pete-“
“Wentz. I know.” Patrick looks down at that, seemingly shocked by his own audacity. “You got my glasses back. I remember.”
The urge to glomp Patrick is so strong that Pete can’t help but ask, he just has to; no two ways about it.
“Hey, um. This is gonna sound weird but just stick with it, okay? Please?”
Patrick nods, eyes fixating on Pete as the older boy starts pacing back and forth like a lion in a too-small zoo enclosure. It’s not that Pete’s nervous, of course he isn’t, he’s just excited; his dreams are all about to come true at once. He just knows it.
“Well, I’ve been kind-of-but-not-really stalking you. No. Your voice. You have such a pretty voice, Tricky. Can I call you Tricky, Tricky? Good. Well, your voice. Best thing I’ve ever heard and-“
“Are you taking the piss?”
Pete stops his animalistic pacing and stands in front of Tricky, eyes full of sympathy and hurt that his Tricky, his, could think something like that. But then Pete smiles, places his hands on the younger’s shoulders and starts walking them out of the store, not caring that his shift still has another three hours to go.
True love won’t wait.
“No. I’m taking you out, Tricky. On a date!”
When Pete said ‘date’, what he really meant was ‘I’m taking you to the park’. Because, let’s face it, an eighteen-year-old who does one shift a week in an underused Blockbuster Video is hardly going to be able afford a three-course meal at that fancy French place a few blocks away in the posh part of town. Pete wishes he could though, would give anything to take his Tricky somewhere nice like that, but the park’s just as good.
Besides, the park is much more Pete than some snobby restaurant. And that’s what really matters, right?
“You like my voice, huh?”
Pete stops swaying on the rusted old swing-set, grounds himself so that he can look Patrick in the eyes without moving away from him like the tide. He takes a moment, maybe longer, to just look into those murky green orbs and get totally lost in them, like the lovesick teenager that he is; that he’s more than happy to be.
After the forty second mark, Patrick looks away from Pete’s vicelike stare, nerves getting the better of him. It’s not that he doesn’t like Pete looking, actually it’s quite the opposite, he’s just kind of nervous that suddenly Pete will start seeing him differently if he looks long enough. And he likes Pete seeing him like he does, like Patrick is wonderful and beautiful and lovable.
So Patrick looks away and Pete puts a hand atop the younger boy’s knee, just feeling the other human-being there with him making him into some kind of king in his mind.
“I don’t like it, Tricky. I love it.” Pete states earnestly, thumb starting to rub small circles on his companion’s knee. “It sounds like nothing I’ve ever heard before, but at the same time it feels like I’ve known it all of my life. And the way you sing, it makes my insides go all gooey like chocolate fudge cake.” Patrick raises his eyebrows but can’t stop his eyes from locking onto Pete’s, revelling in the praise of the boy who he’s had a thing for since the glasses incident; his silly kind of hero. “You sing like it’s some kind of dirty secret that you can do it. All surreptitious. Y’know?”
“I’m a drummer.” Patrick mumbles in response, too lost in the thought of Pete like-liking him to form any real kind of reply. “I play the drums.” He stops to think and then nods. “Guitar too. But drums are my thing.”
“I play bass.”
They sit there for a bit and the awkward silence that follows makes Pete want to throw up. He doesn’t though because, let’s face it, if there’s one way that this date could any worse then puking all over Patrick’s shoes would definitely be it.
The older boy starts swinging again, gently like a breeze, and only stops when he feels something on top of his hand. It’s Patrick’s; Patrick’s hand is covering Pete’s hand which is, in turn, gripping onto the drummer’s knee. Encouraged by this, Pete turns it so that they’re holding hands, the two limbs linked and lolling in between the two swings.
“I like singing.” Comes the quiet murmur, instantly capturing Pete’s undivided attention. “I just… It’s just that everyone hears me singing and automatically assumes that I should be a singer. They never care to listen about what I want. That’s why my mom makes me take lessons even though I told her I’d rather have drumming tuition. She’s never even heard me play but she’s already decided my path for me.” Pete just blinks, shocked that such a quiet boy could have so much boiling below the surface. “Sorry, you didn’t need to hear that.”
Patrick tries to snatch his hand away.
Pete refuses him the unspoken request of ‘can I leave’.
“I did.” Pete’s voice is softer, reduced to a tone that normally only his dog Hemmingway or Mikey in a state of crisis ever gets to hear. He reaches out his other hand and cups Tricky’s face, savouring the way he feels like silk beneath his fingers. “You needed to say it so I needed to hear it.”
“You’re crazy, Pete Wentz.”
The statement is said earnestly, but Pete can detect the surreptitious fondness behind it; can feel that Patrick meant it in a good way. So Pete beams and places a lightning-quick peck onto Patrick’s nose, not even giving the boy a chance to realise it’s happening.
“Only for you, Tricky. Only for you.”
A/N: Some Peterick, written for Mikeyunicornrawr.
Part ‘S’ in my Alphabet Challenge. Thanks for reading and please, please let me know what you think! :)