***Long time no see! In honor of my home state and of Valentine's Day, here's some Peterick, California lovin'-style.***
When Pete calls, Patrick's in the middle of a study session—and by "study session," he means staring at a physics textbook and cursing Cornell University and the whole goddamn Ivy League for dictating his note-taking requirements. There are eraser shavings in his lap and his entire thumb is smudged gray with graphite, and when he closes his eyes all he can see is highlighter yellow across the vastness of overwritten binder paper.
Basically, Wentzus Interruptus is a fucking godsend.
Patrick's screen lights up with the graduation selfie they took last May, his stupid face and Pete's stupid tongue staring up at him while "...Baby One More Time" blares from the tiny speakers. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he slides right, holding the phone to his ear. "Long time, no speak, asshole."
"Time is a social construct," intones Pete, in his best imitation of a wise guru voice. It's basically his normal voice if he took, like, a shit-ton of Ambien, but Pete's never been much of an actor; Patrick's willing to give credit where credit's due. "You ever stop to wonder why lunch is always at noon? Or why dinner's always at six?"
"I eat lunch at 11:30, so stop generalizing," says Patrick, which feels like a familiar response even though he's certain they've never actually had this conversation before. "Seriously, if this is all you're doing, your parents should ask for their money back."
"Oh, don't worry. I save all my best intellectual material for fighting college professors."
"Glad to know I get the short end of the stick."
"Au contraire, mon Pattycakes," says Pete, and Patrick may or may not feel his ears start to burn at the familiar nickname, the way he can hear Pete grinning around it. "Think of it this way: I'm diverting your attention from physics or precalc or whatever-the-fuck other useless shit you could be doing right now, and making you think about stuff that's, like, actually relevant."
"Right, because rotational mechanics isn't nearly as important as the psychology of mealtimes—" and that, he's sure, is a line he's used before. Maybe not the specifics of it (he didn't actually know what rotational mechanics was up until about a week ago, after all), but definitely the general gist, if not the wording. Patrick doesn't mind, though; it's been a while since he's pulled out his Tried-and-Trusted List of Response Templates for Pete Wentz, since the last time Pete wheedled his way into Patrick's concentration with some stupid trivia regarding the capital of Liechtenstein (Vaduz, 6.7 square miles, birthplace of Bollywood actor Ruslaan Mumtaz) or his musings on hole punchers and their superiority to staplers ("What's worse, 'Trick, wasting paper or wasting metal? Don't give me that look, man, you know I'm right"). He'll be the first to admit: he's missed it. He's missed this. "What's on your mind, Wentz?"
Pete sighs, a long slow exhale on the other line. "I don't know," he says, a verbal shrug. "The usual, I guess. But enough about me, what's new with you, Lunchbox?"
Patrick frowns. He'd expected at least another five or so minutes of Pete ranting about therapists, or asshole professors, or the bullshit American education system. Pete usually doesn't throw him into the conversational deep end like that. "What's new with me?" he repeats, chuckling awkwardly. "I have, uh, homework. Like, I have to write an essay on Gatsby for next week—"
"Oh, come on, Stumph, you can do better than that. Tell me, I don't know, about your—your new trucker hat, or—or the $200 pair of shoes you just bought, or, oh, oh—Valentine's Day, dude! You got any plans for Valentine's Day?"
Oh, right. Tomorrow's Valentine's Day.
The thing is—Patrick used to care about Valentine's Day. He did. He cared about it because Pete cared about it, Pete the ridiculous romantic with his candies and his cards and his hallways proposals and his cheesy Communist one-liners ("I've got a five-year plan for you and me, baby" *winky face*). But then there was Ashlee, and then graduation, and somehow all his friends managed to acquire s/o's despite being awkward music nerds, and now—now he's here. Sitting in his room. Talking to Pete, who has a girlfriend.
"Nope," he says. "No plans whatsoever."
"Not even a hot date? No chocolate festival? Commercialized love only comes once a year, you know."
"My hot date is with F. Scott Fitzgerald," Patrick deadpans. "And so help me god, if you mention that festival one more time—"
"I'm just finding it hard to believe that your sweet, sweet ass would be all alone on Valentine's Day, 'Trick, can you blame me?"
"No, I guess not," Patrick sighs. He's about to hate himself for what he says next, he can feel it. "You're excited, I get it. I mean, we can't all date Ashlee Simpson, can we?"
The line goes silent. Patrick looks at his phone, makes sure they haven't been disconnected, then brings it back to his ear. "Pete?" he asks. "Pete, you there?"
He waits a beat, then another. Then another. Then:
"Ash is in Colorado."
Patrick nearly drops the phone. "Wait, really?"
"Yeah, we kinda—kinda fought, y'know, there was this whole huge thing, I said some stupid shit and she said some stupid shit and I might've called her a bitch or whatever, and then—yeah. She said she'd go visit some friends so I could finish 'licking my wounds.' Her words, not mine."
Ash is in Colorado.
Pete and Ashlee fought, and now Ashlee's in Colorado.
Somewhere in the back of Patrick's head, a door opens. A lightbulb goes off. Pete is alone on Valentine's Day. For the first time in two years, Pete has no one to spend Valentine's Day with.
"Do you—" He clears his throat. "You want me to come out there?" he asks.
Part of him feels kind of awful about it, that Pete's having trouble with his girlfriend and Patrick's immediate response is to drive down to visit him, like the clingy mistress or whatever but—it's not like that. They're friends. They can do friend-things on Valentine's Day, like normal friends do.
He taps his highlighter against the surface of his notebook, waiting for a response. "What about your date with F. Scott Fitzgerald?" says Pete.
"He can wait."
There's another long pause as Pete considers, but Patrick can already feel anticipation tugging at his chest. He hasn't seen Pete in six months. He and Pete haven't spent Valentine's Day together in two years. He feels a lot like a preteen girl with a crush, but honestly? He can't bring himself to care.
"All right," Pete says finally. "Suck it, Fitzy. Let's go take on the world, Rickster."
If he wasn't by himself, if he had Joe or Andy or Gabe or whoever in the passenger seat of his hand-me-down Camry, and they asked him what the fuck he was doing up at 7:30 dragging his ass out to Santa Cruz on Valentine's Day weekend to see a college guy who was seeing someone else, Patrick would say he had no clue.
He'd be lying, of course. As it is, he has no reason to lie, because he's by himself and he's got miles and miles of highway to contemplate the millions of little moments and decisions that have brought him to this point. He pulls out of his mom's driveway, and he's thinking of his freshman year, of Love Week and the moment he realized, some seven months after they met, that he's always kind of had a thing for Pete Wentz.
And you can't really blame Patrick for being slow on the uptake, okay, because 1) he's not known for being observant and 2) the lines between brotherhood and romance are blurred to hell and back when it comes to Pete, so you can never tell whether he's being teasing or playful or just—whatever. It's even harder to tell when you're fourteen, and you're still not entirely sure how sexuality works, even if you're pretty sure you're not entirely straight.
But then came freshman year, right before Valentine's Day, when leadership was hosting their 2nd annual Love Week and distributing face paint and red velvet cupcakes in the spirit of the holiday, and Patrick was chatting up Travie in the hallway outside the band room. Travie was venting about Pete trying to set him up with Gabe Saporta for the sixth or seventh time, something about "feeling like Cupid's got me in a goddamn chokehold," and Patrick was about to mention that "Cupid's Chokehold" would make a great name for a song (shit, he was already working out the chord progressions in his head) when Pete dashed through the hallway, skidded to a stop in front of them, and dropped to one knee.
"Rickster, my love, my favorite Hat 'Trick," he said, fishing a plastic orange ring out from his pocket and holding it out. "Be my Valentine?"
By this point a crowd had begun to gather around them (as is typical of any situation involving Pete fucking Wentz, something Patrick had learned pretty quickly), and he can't remember what Travie said or if Travie even said anything at all because all his attention went straight to Pete. Pete in his stupid hoodie and his stupid ripped jeans, with his stupid eyeliner, and a stupid trail of glitter hearts across his cheek.
And it should've been embarrassing—who is he kidding, it was totally embarrassing. Just not in the way he expected. It wasn't Pete-dragging-him-into-the-center-of-attention, pulled-your-pants-down, "holy-shit-this-kid-can-sing-join-our-band-dude" embarrassing. This was different—like something deep inside of him, long-suppressed, long-hidden, burst forth like a wave from him right then and there in the hallway, and all he could focus on was Pete's bright eyes, Pete's stupid grin, Pete's jaw and Pete's hands and oh, shit, Pete was wearing the low jeans today, the "just-skirting-the-edge-of-school-appropriate" jeans, and that was probably, definitely not an accident.
Also not an accident: the fact that Patrick said yes.
He knew he'd probably regret it sooner or later, but the way Pete's face lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, eyes widened slightly like he couldn't believe Patrick said yes, was enough—even if it was just for a second. Even if it meant Patrick spent the rest of the day late to his classes because Pete was escorting him, one arm slung around Patrick's shoulder steering him from hall to hall, in all the wrong directions, stopping every so often to hold up Patrick's orange-ringed hand and yell, "We're engaged!" at whoever passed them.
It almost made up for the fact that two weeks earlier, Pete had gone to formal with Ashlee Simpson. And three months later he'd take her to prom, and the next year, he'd be dating her.
Patrick still has the ring. He keeps it in a pouch in the glove compartment when he goes out, the same way his aunt in Ohio keeps a rosary slung over her rearview mirror and a Sacred Heart Auto League pin fixed to her dashboard.
He thinks about putting it on, as he makes the slow, windy drive down 17 with only Costello and the fir trees to keep him company, but ultimately decides against it. One time wearing it was enough; he has no desire to feel like the Godfather of San Francisco today.
Still—he's glad he has it. Even if it means he hears Pete's voice in the back of his head every time he drives, dude, you drive like my grandma, slam that motherfuckin' pedal, nothing sexier than a guy with a speeding ticket.
"At least I have a car," he tells the dashboard.
No one responds, of course. He chuckles anyway, Pete's phantom laugh braying in his ears along with him.
The mascot for UC Santa Cruz is a banana slug. Patrick knows this from hearing classmates talk about siblings and glimpsing homemade senior graduation pennants in the hallways, but he hadn't put two and two together until about three minutes ago, when he spotted Pete coming toward him wearing a banana slug hoodie.
He's doing his best not to laugh. He figures Pete wouldn't give a shit either way, but though his C- in AP Physics may claim otherwise ("seriously, why the fuck did you take AP Physics, you don't even like physics, Lunchbox," Pete had ranted over the phone two weeks ago), he knows a thing or two about the application of gravity.
Pete hesitates in front of the car, which is a very un-Pete maneuver, considering all the other times Pete's shoved himself into Patrick's life without a moment's hesitation. Patrick tenses, wondering if he should yell at him or get out of the car or—god forbid—lure him in with a Mean Girls reference, but then Pete looks up at him and grins.
"How much you charging, Casanova?"
It's not one of Pete's better lines, but it's something. Better than Patrick was expecting, if he's being honest. He rolls his eyes, just shy of cracking a smile. "Just get in."
Pete obliges, opening the door and sliding into Patrick's passenger seat. "Huh, I don't even need to adjust anything. It's like your car was made for me, dude."
"Keep your eyes off my car, you thief," Patrick says, reaching up to adjust the rearview mirror. Pete's seatbelt clicks into place ("Much as I love living on the edge, 'Rickster, your mom would kill me if I got you arrested"), and it is a little weird how little he has to do to make himself comfortable, especially since it's been, what, six months since they last rode together? Unless—wait. Shit.
So that's why Joe kept fucking around with the controls yesterday.
Patrick feels himself redden as he starts out of campus, all the way down to his neck, but he clears his throat and hopes Pete won't notice. "So," he says, as normally as possible. "I was thinking we just drive around for a bit, unless you wanna go someplace?"
Pete hums, turning his head to gaze out the window. Patrick's seen Pete at his worst, and he's pretty sure things aren't too bad yet, but he still glances over at him every chance he gets, just to make sure.
They're out of campus when Pete finally says, "Can we go to Capitola?"
"Do we know how to get to Capitola?" Patrick asks, because he's shit at navigation and the last time Pete tried to get them somewhere, they ended up in the middle of nowhere with no reception.
Pete shrugs. "We'll figure it out," he says, the four-word prelude to all their best adventures, and with that, they set off.
The week before senior year started, Patrick drove out to visit Pete, and they ended up in Capitola, a little town about twenty minutes out from campus, right on the coast. They found it completely by accident, and Patrick's not sure he can navigate himself back there, but he manages, mostly by getting onto 1 and driving south until Pete recognizes one of the exits and starts batting him on the arm, yelling at him to keep right.
(This is also how Patrick almost misses the exit, because Pete falls asleep once they hit the highway and doesn't wake up until right before the merge. It's not the first time Patrick's had to swerve, nor is it the first time Pete's caused it, but it doesn't make it any less terrifying.)
Patrick's always been fond of bustling city streets, the overlapping harmonic chaos of downtown traffic and pedestrians and people going about their daily lives, but there's a certain charm about small seaside towns that he's come to appreciate, living in California. It's not quiet, exactly, but the cold salty air, the sounds of the people and the seagulls and the ocean overall make for a calming atmosphere, a respite from the discordant symphony of the city.
They park just out of downtown and walk past each of the small shops, seashells and sundresses peering out at them from display windows. Patrick's stomach is grumbling, and Pete hasn't eaten, so without really discussing it, they end up splitting a small pizza, which they eat at a picnic table overlooking the beach.
"I should come out here more," Pete says, watching a group of kids run in with the tide, then back out, giggling as the waves lap at their feet. "I don't have a car, is the problem."
"I'm not driving out here every weekend," Patrick says, biting into his pizza. It's only half a lie—driving 17 by yourself is goddamn boring. "You don't know anyone with a car?"
"They don't do beaches," says Pete. He takes a sip of Coke, long and slow. "And then there's Ash, but. Well."
Well indeed. Patrick knows he shouldn't ask, because that's not why they're here, but it's a little weird that Ashlee would go three states over for a week, just to avoid Pete. "So," he says. "Colorado, huh?"
"It's fucked up, right?" Pete huffs. "Yeah, I don't blame her. Honestly—I think this is it, man."
He says it so casually that it takes Patrick a minute to realize Pete's meaning. "It, like—you're over?"
"I mean, we haven't really been talking all that much," Pete says. A breeze comes through, blowing trash, rustling the trees around them; Pete remains unmoved. "She's a little annoyed that I still haven't declared, she thinks I'm indecisive, she wishes I would think about the future and spend less time brooding in notebooks, yada-yada-yada."
"I thought she liked the brooding in notebooks," Patrick says, because he distinctly remembers Ashlee gushing over "how rare it is to find a guy so in touch with his emotions."
"What's hot in high school only gets you so far in college, Patrick. We're just—we're not in sync anymore. Haven't been for a while, actually."
They sit there for a bit, watching the waves, the children on the shore, the surfers paddling out and riding back in again. Patrick was never Ashlee's biggest fan, but he'd always thought they were happy together, that Ashlee got Pete's mind and soul in ways he never could. Maybe they didn't get each other. Or maybe they did, and that was their downfall.
"We could walk along the beach, if you want," Patrick suggests, at length. He's not too fond of sand in his toes, but if Pete wants to walk the coast—
Pete shakes his head. "Nah. Let's just drive."
So they drive, and Patrick tells Pete about his still-lacking social life and his band misadventures and the new kid, Brendon, who everyone thought was this innocent Capri-Sun addict until someone caught him going down on Ryan Ross in the east bathroom.
"Do not ask me for details," Patrick says, holding up a finger. Pete pouts a little, which is adorable. It's kind of annoying how adorable it is, honestly, because it's distracting.
Pete provides a few short anecdotes about campus life, but he leaves most of the actual storytelling to Patrick. Normally, Patrick would be insecure about having to talk so much, but he knows Pete's not huge on college life, and that he'd probably drive home every weekend if he could.
As the sun dips toward the horizon, Pete says, "Pull over," so Patrick finds a spot next to a little vista point and parks. The sky is blue fading into orange, cotton-candy clouds swirling out across the vast expanse, and they find a bench a little ways down the path and watch the sun descend upon the ocean.
There are other people out here, taking pictures, holding hands, climbing on rocks with their arms splayed out as they teeter off-balance, but they're drowned out by the sound of the waves crashing, breaking against the rocks, glittering rays scattered along its surface.
"Thanks for taking me out here," Pete murmurs. His face is in shadow, the silhouette of his profile etched out in golden light. "God, this—wow. You don't get views like this everywhere, 'Trick. This—it's amazing."
"Yeah," says Patrick, and he's not sure if he's talking about the sky or the ocean or Santa Cruz or Pete. "Yeah, it is."
Maybe it's all of that, and more.
Pete turns, and there's this look in his eyes, this expression that's hard to read in the dimness but sends goosebumps down Patrick's neck. It's intense, burns into him with a low ferocity he's never felt before, and he doesn't know how to feel. Scared? Sad? Amused?
"Pete?" he whispers. "Pete, are you—"
Pete cups Patrick's jaw. Leans in, and oh shit. Oh, shit.
Pete is kissing him.
His lips are touching Pete's lips, and they are kissing, and Pete's got a hand on his jaw, and his hand is warm where it meets Patrick's skin, and the breeze is blowing and the waves are crashing and they are kissing, slow and electric and wonderful, as the sun sets below them.
He can still feel the rush in his veins when they pull apart, breathless, Pete wide-eyed and open-mouthed like he can't believe they just did that, and they must be mirrors of each other because Patrick cannot believe they just did that.
"Holy shit," he breathes. Pete laughs, quietly.
"Come on," he says, taking hold of Patrick's hand. At this point, his brain might just explode. "Let's go back."
It's been five minutes since they got in the car, and Patrick still can't believe it.
Pete kissed him.
Pete kissed Patrick, and Patrick can still feel it lingering on his lips, Pete's moans vibrating on his tongue, and now they're sitting in the car, and they haven't moved an inch because Pete kissed him and now Patrick's not sure where they go from here.
Was it an impulse thing? Was Pete so broken up about Ashlee that he went for the next person he cared about, the closest person there? Was Patrick just a last-minute Desperation Day hookup?
No. No, it can't be, because he's seen Pete kiss on impulse. He's seen Pete at his most desperate, and he knows that even at his lowest, his most hopeless, his most despairing, Pete would never use his friends. Not like that.
But then—shit. If Pete—if Pete loves him...
"Why didn't you ask me out?" Patrick blurts.
Pete blinks. "What?"
Patrick's cheeks burn, but he can't take it back. He's said it—the question that's been burning in him for the past three years, out in the open. "You never asked me out," he says, swallowing. "I was your valentine twice but you never—you never asked me out. To prom or to—to formal or—whatever. You never asked me."
Pete's face falls. "'Trick, I—"
"Why was I your valentine?" asks Patrick, the words leaving his mouth faster than he can stop them. "Why me and not Ashlee, why—why the ring? I mean, if—if you really felt that way about me all this time, then—then why?"
They're out now, hanging in the air between them, and he wishes he could take them back, wonders if he'll regret it once it's over.
Pete swallows. "I really like you, 'Trick," he says. He can't look Patrick in the eye. "I think you knew that from the moment we met, but I just—I just couldn't stop thinking, I didn't want to ruin it for you. I didn't want to be the one to fuck it up. And sure, maybe you feel the same way, but—what if you don't always feel that way? I mean—you're seventeen, Lunchbox. You've got, like, your whole life ahead of you. A whole life. And yeah, maybe I'll be in it, but maybe—maybe I won't. Maybe our paths don't cross all the way down. Maybe our stars won't align. Maybe—" He has the audacity to crack a smile, and Patrick swears he has never hated and loved someone so immensely at once in all his life—"maybe you need to break a few more hearts first. Fall in love with the wrong person and get your heart broken, you know?"
Patrick doesn't mention that he's already gotten his heart broken. Twice. Both times by the same person, the same person who fixes it, time after time. He doesn't mention that yes, he's seventeen, but in April—two months from now—he'll be an adult, he'll move out, maybe go back to Chicago and work at a record store while waiting for his big break, and he'll write shitty lyrics about Pete's eyes and Pete's laugh, Pete's callused hands and Pete's toothy grin, and all his demos will have Pete's touch on them, the unmistakable fingerprint of Pete Wentz as obvious and glaring as a smear.
He doesn't mention any of this, because Pete's right. He is seventeen, and he's still young, and he doesn't even know what he's gonna do in college (if he even wants to go to college)—and god, so much can and will happen, so much he doesn't even know about yet, and maybe one day he'll meet someone new, someone else, and his teenage crush on Pete Wentz will fizzle out and die like the last remnants of a Fourth of July fireworks display.
He takes off his cap, leans against the steering wheel, careful not to honk the horn with his forehead. God, so many questions. So many fucking questions that Pete's put in his head and this time he doesn't have an answer for any of them.
"We should head back," he says. He starts the car and pulls into reverse, and he does not look at Pete, does not.
"Aw, you're such an adult. My mother would be so proud of you," Pete says at length, the smile back in his voice.
Yeah, Patrick thinks, an adult, and tries not to think about the growing lump in his throat.
By the time they reach campus, the sky is dark. Laughter and screaming echo out from the distance, but the overwhelming stillness of the place makes Patrick long for salty breezes and ocean mist. The cold here is just that—cold. No promise, no excitement, nothing tickling his nose and nipping at his skin with that playful hint of more to come.
But then there is something—a hand—brushing against him, a gentle caress against his cheek, a soft brush of the fingertips. Pete's hand is warm, and when Patrick looks over (because he can't lean into it, not if Pete doesn't mean it) his brown eyes are so soft and so worried that it physically hurts.
"I didn't freak you out, did I? You seem tense." Patrick shrugs, and Pete lets his hand fall, hanging his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bombarded you like that."
"I needed to hear it," says Patrick. And the more he thinks about it, the more sure he is. Pete hasn't told him anything he didn't already know.
"But you already have heard it. A million times. Don't deny that shit, man, I know your mom, I know the AP kids, I know you got that Twisted Sister shit from the fucking counselors—"
Pete trails off, eyes widening in the dark as Patrick links their fingers together, squeezing gently. His lips are slightly parted, and Patrick knows without really thinking about it that their minds are in sync, their hearts beating the same rhythm, the same pulse.
Cryptophasia.
"You're right," he says. "The future is uncertain. But this, us? This is now."
He leans forward, still holding Pete's hand, and captures Pete's lips with his own. Slow, and sweet, and chaste, and yet he can feel the rush in his veins from earlier, that same nervous excitement in his chest. The feeling that this isn't the end. That this, whatever they have, is only just beginning.
"We'll figure it out, Pete," Patrick says, as they pull apart. The prelude to their misadventures, the lead-in to their escapades—the four words that make Patrick feel, even at the most ridiculous of times, like he can do anything. "And if we're really meant for each other, if our paths do cross, all that—we'll find each other. We'll come back to each other. We'll figure it out."
He can do anything. They can do anything.
Pete nods. "Yeah," he breathes, and then he smiles, shy, as he holds up their linked hands. "Yeah, we will."
The night is young, and so are they, and right now, in a parking lot in Santa Cruz, all their stars are perfectly aligned.