I.
Pete Wentz was the kind of different that picks you up and whirls you around like a hurricane.
He could leave you breathless, gasping for air in a matter of seconds, because his brain never stopped moving, and neither, apparently, did his mouth. He jumped from topic to topic, one moment commenting on Patrick’s sweater and the Prince poster in the corner, and another he asking Joe what he was doing Saturday night.
To say the least, what with his shaggy hair that hung in his eyes, to his holey hoodie that just barely reached the waistband of his jeans, to his glaring grimace of a grin, Pete was completely, earth-shatteringly different.
So, needless to say, Patrick was a little red around the ears when Pete motherfucking Wentz shook his hand.
Like, honestly, his band was cool and he was in Patrick’s house, and so was Joe (and okay, maybe he was a little starstruck) and he was just going to show them a song or two.
But, suddenly, there was a guitar in his hands, and then he was drumming and singing and - hold on a fucking second because he really, really did not sing in front of people.
But Pete Wentz from Arma was staring at him and there was most definitely not a tomato coloured blush creeping up his neck because it was going to go away if he ignored it hard enough.
Before he could begin to process exactly why Pete was staring at him, he was being hit with an impressive tangle of limbs and holy hell the guy was strong for such a little dude. Patrick could vaguely hear something about golden tickets being whispered frantically into his ear as he struggled uncomfortably.
He stared up at Joe and he could literally feel the pathetic expression on his face but he really didn’t care, because what the actual fuck was he expected to do in this situation?
Joe shrugged indifferently at him. “I guess you’re our singer, man.” He said. “Welcome to the band.”
With that he clapped him on the shoulder and wandered into the kitchen muttering something about pizza.
Patrick finally sighed, deciding that Pete’s death grip was probably something like quicksand; the more you struggled the quicker you died and he seriously could hardly breathe right now so anything was worth a try.
He patted Pete awkwardly on the back, pointedly ignoring the warmth that was seeping through the layers of clothing and shoving the subconscious thought that maybe he could get used to this into the back of his mind.
II.
Pete was strangely quiet.
Patrick didn’t know why; none of them did.
Pete was quiet and Andy was driving and Joe was high and Patrick was so done with this van and the way it smelled, and the way he smelled, but it wasn’t like he could do anything about it, so he settled for sleep instead.
He wedged himself between the amps and the guitar cases in the back, making sure he wouldn’t move around too much before slowly drifting off to sleep.
He woke up again when Pete, with his headphones blaring, made his way over to him, squeezing into the tiny space, (elbows and knees coming dangerously close to important organs on the way) and pressing himself uncomfortably into Patrick’s side.
Patrick merely sighed, lifting his arm so Pete could settle against his shoulder, squashing his face against Patrick’s neck. He pushed harder, releasing all of his energy, let Patrick soak him up.
In the meanwhile, Patrick tried desperately to make lyrics out of the tinny sound coming from his headphones, because you could always tell what was happening in his head from the music he was listening to. Giving up as the familiar haze of drowsiness tugged at him, he settled for wrapping a tight arm around Pete’s waist as he fell asleep, squished between his best friend and some guitar amps as the flat highway to the rest of their lives stretched out in front of them.
III.
It was the worst fight they’d ever had.
He couldn’t even remember how it started, all he knew was that Pete’s face was close to his, much too close to his, mouth opening and closing in violent movements, forming obscenities as they were hurled at him, shouted at him.
It was their worst fight and they didn’t even know why.
And Patrick knew it wouldn’t help, he knew it would make it worse, but honestly, he’d been cooped on that bus way too goddamned long, so he just shouted back.
And at some point, Patrick just let words slip off his tongue, he didn’t even care what the hell he said, he just had to get it out. He shoved his index finger into Pete’s chest, and didn’t register the feeling of two hands on his shoulders before he was stumbling backwards, just to propel himself back into Pete’s face.
“Don’t you fucking touch me. ” he snarled.
He could feel Joe’s arms around him, hear him shouting something in his ear, but a the moment he didn’t give a flying fuck because Pete’s face looked pretty damn punchable, and he wasn’t going to deny himself the pleasure of doing so.
It took a joint effort of the other band members to physically force them apart, holding them down as their breathing slowed and their eyes cleared.
…
In the morning Pete wouldn’t meet his eyes, but it wasn’t exactly like he was trying too hard either. They ate silently, and suddenly Pete was talking about something, talking about a hiatus, a break, and Patrick found himself nodding along, a sinking feeling beginning to settle in his stomach.
Pete clapped them all on the back afterwards, a painfully fake smile engraved into his face.
Patrick couldn’t help but think that that was to be the last time Pete would make the involuntary decision to touch him.
IV.
He was wrong, of course.
They separated ways as kids that just needed a fucking break and they came back as, well, adults that could actually talk things out without it ending in a shouting match.
They weren’t perfect, by any stretch.
Pete could still be pissy, Andy could still be stubbornly silent, and Patrick could be an insufferable perfectionist when he wanted to, but they made it work. They always had, and that was never going to change.
…
They huddled together side stage, the adrenaline running so thick through the air you could almost taste it.
It always surprised him how goddamn loud the kids were, and tonight was no exception; the sound reverberated through him, causing vibrations in the floor.
He felt Pete’s hand on his, squeezing quickly before letting go, and he flashed him over his shoulder as he headed onto the stage.
He could already tell that tonight was going to be amazing.
V.
It was a common occurrence, this.
Pete would disappear into his bunk around eleven and the next time Patrick would see him he was crawling into his bunk at two in the morning murmuring some excuse or other about not being able to sleep. Patrick would sleepily wriggle around until they both magically fit into the tight space, and then hum quietly, carding his fingers through Pete’s hair until he drifted off.
And if, while Pete slept, his hand slipped a little too high on Patrick’s thigh as he snuggled so close that they breathed the same air, no one really had to know, right?
So when Pete woke up again at six with a groggy, “Hey Pat,” and nuzzled his cold nose firmly into Patrick’s neck, Patrick would shake his head and smile sleepily, and they would back up together, and Patrick would sleep and Pete would pretend to sleep and the world just kept going.
He didn’t question it. No one ever did.
They were Pete and Patrick, two parts of a whole; and they always would be
