FicWad

Pete Wentz was a control freak. Besides having to control everything from his hair, all the way down to his band members, he also had the need to control things that he had no business controlling.

Tyson Ritter stumbled onto his band’s tour bus in a drunken haze. Shabba, their tour manager, stopped him. “Tyson, Pete Wentz called. He said he needed to talk to you.”

Tyson nodded in boarder line understanding, turned around and wandered around outside for a couple minutes looking for Pete’s bus. He practically ran into it as he pushed the door opened and went inside. “Wentz?” he called.

Pete was sitting at a table, his face obscured by a shadow.

“Shabba said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Do you know who I am, Tyson?” Pete asked, calmly standing up.

Tyson’s eyes shifted, not sure how to answer.

Pete cocked his head as he looked the taller man in the eye. “Did you know that your set ran over?”

“If fuckin’ Hawthorne Heights wouldn’t have did that whole 15 fuckin’ thing about the fuckin’ moshpit…” Tyson started.

Pete put his finger to Tyson’s lips. “It’s not JT’s fault,” he admitted, moving closer to him.

Tyson backed up, the back of his calves hitting the bus’s sofa. “It’s not?” he asked dumbly.

“You’ve never toured with us,” Pete explained, pushing Tyson down onto the couch. “I’ll let it go this time.” He took off Tyson’s pants and started on his own. “You see, Tyson. I like to be in charge.” He roughly flipped the younger man over and positioned himself over him. “I don’t think we’ll have to have this talk again.”

Fifteen minutes later, Tyson walked back to his tour bus. He was clutching his unbuttoned jeans, making sure they stayed at his waist. He passed Nick on his way to his bunk.

Nick looked up from his Sidekick. “What did Pete have to say?” he asked.

Tyson completely ignored him, crawled into bed and shut the curtain.

Nick frowned. Looking at the closed curtain. “That bad. Huh?” he finally replied.

Mike stuck his head out of his own bunk. “What’s his problem?”

Nick shrugged as he shook his head.

Meanwhile, Pete was cleaning himself up. Patrick, finally let back on the bus, came up to Pete glaring at him behind his glasses.

Pete looked up and grinned in a fake matter. “Hey ‘Trick. You wanna go get some ice cream before we head out?”

“What’s going on Pete?” Patrick demanded.

His smile barely faltered, “Nothings going on.”

“How come Charlie said you were in a meeting then wouldn’t let me on the bus?” he continued.

“It was a closed conference call that would have bored you to death. Jeez, stop being so paranoid.”

“With who?”

“Bob Roberts. He’s a promoter I’m consulting about Clandestine.”

Patrick huffed, pretty sure that he was lying, and headed to his bunk. “I’m going to bed.”

“Well, I’m getting some ice cream,” Pete replied, grabbing a hoodie and stomping outside.

A year and a half later…

Tyson was laying on in his hotel bed, watching Mtv and nibbling on a cookie. "Hey! Wasn't Fall Out Boy coming out with a new album already?" he called, his mouth full. When Nick didn't answer him, he pouted and turned his attention back to the tv.

"Here's an Mtv exclusive. Fall Out Boy's "This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race."

"Come on!" Tyson complained. "Their last album barely came out!" He was about to turn it off, when he had an unstoppable urge to keep watching. “Ha. Oh so into cats,” he giggled. As the video progressed, Tyson became more and more withdrawn. As the scene that was supposed to make fun of Pete Wentz's infamous pictures he flinched, threw his cookie on the bed and ran to the bathroom, locking himself in.

Nick walked into the room from being down at the front desk getting seven extra keys. He looked at the tv for a second. “Why’s Mtv on?” he turned it to Vh1. “Oo, Top 100 80s Videos.” Nick fell on the bed, right on Tyson’s discarded cookie. “Goddamnit! Tyson! Come clean up your cookie!” he yelled. His eyebrows furrowed when Tyson didn’t reply. His voice dropped back to normal. “Ty?” he asked as he got up and went outside the bathroom. His knuckles gently tapped the door. “Everything okay in there?”

Tyson replied with some muffled sobbing.

Nick shook the door. “Ty, open up.” When Tyson still wouldn’t unlock it, Nick rolled up his sleeves and broke down the door. He fell in and jumped up off the floor as he grabbed his arm. “Oh fuck, that hurt.” He limped a few steps and noticed Tyson kneeling on the floor in front of the sink, pulling a Britney Spears and hacking off hunks of his hair with a razor. “What the hell are you doing?” Nick blurted, immediately surrounding Tyson in a protective embrace and taking the razor from him.

“Imma bad boy,” Tyson mumbled through tears.

Nick looked confused as he held Tyson a little closer and carefully put the razor up on the bathroom counter. He sat down as Tyson’s head fell foreword onto his chest. “Ty?” he acquired, his hand caressing the back of Tyson’s head. “Ty, what’s wrong?”

Tyson started muttering inaudible insults at himself through sobs.

Trying to calm him down and failing miserably at it, Nick was only able to get in a few, “calm downs” and “it’ll be okays” as he tried to pick apart Tyson mumblings. Catching a bit of “it’s my fault” and “I shouldn’t have let him do it,” Nick frowned. “Did something happen to you while I was down at the front desk?”

Tyson replied by crying louder.

“Shh,” Nick said, rocking him slightly. “It’s okay. You can tell me what happened.”

Tyson grunted a “no,” and shook his head mournfully.

“What? You can’t tell me or nothing happened?”

“Can’t tell,” he said between gasps. “Shit,” Tyson blurted, starting to sob again.

Nick hushed him and rubbed his back again, trying to get him to calm down. “Do you want to get off the floor and lay down for awhile?” he asked softly, his mouth lingering by Tyson’s ear.

Tyson sniffed and nodded, letting Nick lead him to his bed. Nick helped him in and he turned on his side to stare at the digital clock.

Nick smiled sadly and crawled over him. He rubbed Tyson’s arm reassuringly before lying down next to him to continue watching VH1.

About a half hour later, Tyson’s sniveling stopped and his breathing slowed to a deep steady rhythm as he fell asleep.

Nick turned off the TV and leaned his head back on the headboard. His head turned lazily to look at Tyson when he heard him sigh. He rubbed Tyson’s arm as it wrapped itself around his waist. Nick’s free hand landed gently on top of Tyson’s head and he wondered what they were going to do about his now chopped up hair. Careful not to wake Tyson, he reached for his cell phone and called Shabba.

Shabba was obviously not happy to be woken up just to hear Nick say that Tyson needed to get another hair cut. “I thought I just scheduled haircuts for everyone last week.”

“You’ll understand when you see him.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow morning. Okay?”

“Thank you Shabba,” Nick said as sweetly as possible.

Shabba was speechless for a few seconds, the politeness throwing him off. “You’re welcome. Go to bed,” he finally replied with the firmness of a loving father and hung up.

Nick smiled and put his Sidekick down as Tyson snuggled up to him.

“Nick,” he mumbled, “who were you talkin’ to?”

“Shabba. Go back to bed,” Nick whispered and kissed the top of Tyson’s head.

Tyson nodded incoherently and fell back asleep.

The next morning, Nick woke up to Tyson yelling.

“What the hell happened to my hair?”

Nick stumbled into the bathroom. “Huh?”

“Why does it look like someone hacked at my head with a fuckin’ weedwacker?” he continued, running his fingers through his hair. “And why’s the fuckin’ door broken?”

Nick decided against telling Tyson what he saw last night. “You were really drunk last night and you decided you needed a haircut.”

“Jesus Nick! Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I tried Dude. I walked in on you too late.”

“What am I gonna do?” Tyson asked with a frown, trying to comb over the overly short chunks.

“I called Shabba last night, he’s going to schedule you a hair appointment. Just wear a hat until then.”

Tyson pouted and slipped on a hat.

“You wanna go get breakfast?”

Tyson sighed and nodded reluctantly.

A little later, they met up with Shabba, Chris and Mike to get Tyson’s hair fixed.

“Why do we have to go with to get Tyson’s hair cut?” Chris grumbled.

“Because you have an interview right after and we don’t have enough time to go back and pick everyone up,” Shabba explained.

“Why does Tyson need his hair cut anyway, didn’t we just get… Holy fuck!” Chris blurted once Tyson took his hat off.

“Look who’s talking Mr. Mustache,” Tyson snapped. “I got drunk and decided to play barber, okay?”

“Ha! Mr. Mustache,” Nick laughed.

“Why are you guys so mean to me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s your mustache?” Mike suggested.

“Shabba!” Chris whined.

“What was that, Burt Reynolds?” Nick added.

Shabba rolled his eyes. “Go wait outside.”

A couple hours later, the band stepped off stage to a high-pitched roar.

Tyson stayed on a couple minutes, teasing their pre-teen fans. Nick traded his guitar off for a beer, he took a drink and almost choked when Tyson came at him, a pissed off look on his face.

“Nick, can I talk to you?” he snapped.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Sure.” As soon as the word left his mouth, Tyson had him up against the wall.

“Where the hell were you tonight? You sucked,” Tyson growled, smacking him roughly.

Nick frowned and hit him back.

“Ow,” Tyson said. He pulled away from the guitarist, hurt. “What’d you do that for?”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Nick yelled at him.

Tyson looked at him, a blank expression on his face, as what he just did slowly registered. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

“Tyson, you know why I was off tonight? Because I’ve been trying to figure out why you haven’t been acting like yourself for the past couple days!” Nick exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Tyson mumbled as he ran his hand through his hair.

“It worries me that you chopped your hair off and it worries me more that you don’t remember doing it.”

“I was drunk,” Tyson protested.

Nick shook his head. “Ty, you know you can talk to me. Right?” he looked at him hoping that maybe Tyson would pour his heart out right there and then. “I need another beer,” he said with a sigh, excusing himself.

Tyson looked after him. “Nick?” he asked. When Nick didn’t turn around, he ran after him. “Nick, wait up!”

A few weeks later, they were in New York for a promotional thing.

Chris wrinkled his nose at a large, full color promotional poster. Pete Wentz smiled back at him as he grumbled, “All we got was a fucking Wal-Mart tour. Who do we talk to for full color ads?” He pulled it down just to find another one underneath it.

“Two-ply. Not too shabby,” Nick pointed out.

Tyson was frowning angrily at the poster. “Why won’t you leave me alone!” he blurted.

His band mates and the few people in the quiet studio looked at him.

Chris started laughing nervously.

Nick’s eyebrows furrowed, wondering where the crocked half smile that usually appeared on Tyson’s face when he wanted attention went.

Instead, Tyson tore down the Fall Out Boy poster just to find another one. “Jesus Fucking Christ!” he yelled, near tears.

Nick looked at the poster, and back at Tyson. Finally putting two and two together. He gently put a hand on Tyson shoulder. “Ty, come on, we’re going to talk.”

Mike frowned. “We’ve got an interview,” he reminded him.

“You can handle it.”

Chris gave them a thumbs up.

As soon as Tyson and Nick were outside, they were called in.

“Where’d the singer and the guitarist go?” the A&R guy asked when he came back to just Mike and Chris.

“Food poisoning?” Chris lied.

“We can’t do this now! No one wants to listen to you two!” the A&R guy exclaimed. “We’re just going to have to rerun that Fall Out Boy interview.”

Mike and Chris looked at each other.

Meanwhile, Nick had Tyson cornered. “Did something happen to you on the Fall Out Boy tour?” he asked.

Through sobs, Tyson somehow managed to blurt out the whole ordeal like word vomit. He sniffed for a couple minutes while Nick stared at him blankly. “It wouldn’t have happened with Bon Jovi,” he finished sadly.

Nick blinked, pissed off.

Mike and Chris met them. “You two’s psychotic mood swings cost us an interview,” Chris mumbled.

“Fall Out Boy’s getting even more free…” Mike started.

Nick cut him off. “They wouldn’t happen to be in New York this week. Would they?”

“Probably. Doesn’t Pete have that bar here now?” Mike replied.

“Good, let’s visit them,” he grumbled, narrowing his eyebrows.

Tyson was trying to calm down. “What do you mean?” he asked, wiping his eyes on his arm.

Nick didn’t answer as he pulled out his cell phone.

Tyson looked at his other two band mates. “I wanna get coffee.”

Later that night, it was arranged that they were to go to Angels and Kings, they just didn’t anticipate the three hour wait to get in.

“Oh come on! We’re famous! Kind of,” Chris argued with the bouncer.

“Sorry, kid. We’re at capacity,” the bouncer admitted. As soon as he said this, Travis Mccoy and his entourage walked by and disappeared into the dark, people filled bar.

“You let them in!” Chris accused.

“Mr. Mccoy’s a personal friend of the owner.”

“Look, the fuckin’ owner fucked me in the ass and I don’t see you letting me in,” Tyson snapped.

“If I let in everyone who said the owner fucked their ass, this place would be overflowing.”

Nick spoke up. “How about if you let us in to talk to Pete for like five minutes. That’s all we need.” He noticed another security guard standing next to the bouncer. “How about your buddy just brings us in and…”

“Hey, don’t be bringing him into this now,” the bouncer accused.

“I wasn’t bringing him in,” Nick stuttered. “It was just a suggestion.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “I hate to use this, but I’m… Jesus,” he said.

“You four could be God himself and you still ain’t gettin’ in here.”

“I’m dating a model?” Tyson pointed out like it meant something.

“Who? Him?” the bouncer said, motioning toward Nick.

Nick eyebrows shot up. “Thanks? I think…”

“Gay night’s Thursday,” the bouncer said, dismissing him.

“Would we get in on Thursday?” Tyson asked hopefully.

“No, probably not.”

“Does anyone actually get in here?”

The bouncer sighed, pulled out a list and started reading it off. “Have you shown your penis on the internet? Do you dress like a bad Beatles rip off? Are you a vampire? Are you from Jersey? Or Uruguay? No say?" the bouncer asked.

“Uh, no say?” Tyson replied.

“Welcome back, Mr. Saporta.” He opened the rope and stepped back to let them pass.

The guys looked at each other, shrugged and walked in.

Tyson instinctively started bouncing to the beat, but Chris stopped him. “Dude, this is an emo bar. They don’t dance. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

Tyson stopped and looked at his feet.

“He’s over there,” Nick exclaimed, pointing to the DJ. They quickly made their way over to the booth, the four Rejects glaring at Pete until he noticed them. Nick looked slightly demented as he smiled at him. “Can we talk to you Pete?”

Pete looked around nervously. He snapped his fingers and Charlie appeared next to him. “Charlie, escort these Rejects out of here?”

Charlie rolled his eyes, but before he could get a hold of Nick, Nick lunged at Pete and they got in a rather girly slapping fight.

Charlie and Nick’s three band mates looked on, confused.

“I know Nick’s trying to defend me, but I think this is making me look worse,” Tyson admitted.

“You let someone who fights like that rape you?” Charlie asked.

Chris sighed. “Ty, you get Nick out of the way, Kennerty, you hold Pete. I’ll punch him.”

Chris was able to get a couple punches in before Charlie finally pulled all four of them out.

Nick was panting as they sat up on the pavement. “I think I taught him a lesson,” he said, rubbing his head.

Chris looked at him. “You mean I taught him a lesson.”

“You wanna get some Taco Bell?” Mike asked as they got up and brushed themselves off.

“I could go for a chalupa,” Tyson admitted.

“Those are at Taco Johns.”

“Do they even have Dr. Pepper at the Taco Bells out here?” Nick asked.

“Taco Bell is a Dr. Pepper fuckin’ stronghold…”

Tyson rolled his eyes and smiled, mimicking Mike as he finished his rant, “We’re fucking taking over, baby! We’re the 49 percent to Bush’s 51. Bush is Coke!”

The next morning, Shabba picked up the paper and saw a rather large, black and white photo of Chris and Mike holding Pete down and beating the crap out of him on page seven. The caption read simply, “G.A.B.E. Saporta and entourage thrown out of Wentz bar.” Shabba rolled his eyes and pulled out his cell phone to do some damage control.