Chapter Text
I need your words.
The text fires off before Patrick even realizes he's typed out the words. It's the first time all evening his hands have stopped shaking. His thumb hesitates over the keyboard, ready to send out a "sorry, never mind" text when the three dots pop up, flickering on the screen before a response pushes through.
The stars are the same as ever huh
Patrick squints, looking up at the sky in confusion. The stars are glittering, sparkling, full of beauty and promise. Or perhaps just burning out slowly, lightyears away. Perhaps they're already gone, flashing echoes of what could've been.
How did you know I was sitting outside?
The bubbles pop up immediately, flashing then disappearing. This goes on for several seconds, before a wall of text appears on the screen.
Paid tmz to keep a wide lens on your house at all times in case I need patrick pap pics to make me feel better at night
Patrick breathes out a sharp laugh. Another bubble.
Jk. Words you asked for
Thumbs fly across the keyboard before Patrick can think about it; he never has to think in these moments, does he?
Don't be stingy. I need everything you've got. For no particular reason.
A picture of a stack of notebooks comes through, looking alarmingly clean, tidy, and unused.
Just fuckin with you, I write all that shit in my phone these days
A moment passes.
Things aren't ok, are they
Patrick runs a hand up his face and pushes his hat askew, dragging his fingers through his hair. He shifts uncomfortably, having sat on a cold concrete step for too long, thinking, worrying, regretting. Fuck, things really aren't okay. He adjusts his hat and sighs, tapping out a quick answer.
Not even a little bit.
He begins searching for flights to LA.
******
Patrick's been at Pete's house for less than two hours before he finds himself seated at the piano in Pete's foyer, thumbing through a notes app full of convoluted, unlabeled notes. Streams of consciousness, turns of phrase, made up words, quotes, snippets of other songs and stories are just a patchwork of Pete's brain, singing to Patrick in a kaleidoscope of color, shifting like a bursting aurora as he plinks out a note here and there when a word strikes him just right.
"You're fidgeting, it's distracting," Patrick mumbles, glancing up as Pete leans on the edge of the piano, gnawing on his lip and fumbling a twist tie he forgot to put back on the bread loaf from the PB&J he made Patrick when he arrived from the airport.
"First dry run's a bitch, you should always be used to this shit. We've done it seven times after all," Pete grumbles back, hissing when he accidentally pokes the metal tip of the twist tie into his thumb.
Patrick looks up fully at this, lips pulling into a frown. For a moment, he glances at Pete's thumb, concerned, but then refocuses on what he'd said. It's been a long time, probably one of their longest gaps between working on an album in a while… but no.
"Oh no, no no, we aren't making an album right now. Don't 'dry run' me, Pete. This is… this is just…”
"A hot ticket to hit city? Yeah, last time you looked this focused we wrote 'Centuries' and you know how that went. Not to like, capitalize off your angst and stuff, though. Sorry," Pete's voice is determined and high pitched - he always gets like that when he gets excited. It makes Patrick's gut twist, feeling proud that Pete knows when he's onto something, but also knowing the cost of this need to produce that's gnawing at his heart.
"It's catharsis. At least for now," Patrick says quietly, eyes dropping back to where his hands sit on the keys. He gently presses down, the piano tinkling out a faint, discordant note. "Why do you even keep this piano? You don't know the first thing about playing."
Pete shrugs and sits down on the bench next to Patrick, not waiting for him to scoot and make room for him. Patrick doesn't shift over out of defiance, like usual. They’re pressed together, shoulder to knee. It’s warm, warmer than Patrick deserves right now, but he doesn’t move. Pete knocks his foot into Patrick’s ankle.
"Y'know how Batman has all those contingency plans for the Justice League if they go apeshit and evil?" Pete asks, grimacing at his thumb before sucking the tip into his mouth, trying to ease the hurt from the twist tie.
"Dumb question, Pete."
"It's like that. I have like, your kryptonite in here in case you go evil so I'll lure you in with the piano and then BAM! I get out the ultimate, most pristine Elvis Costello greatest hits vinyl and break it over my knee and take you down once and for all," Pete explains, mumbling around his thumb before reaching out to slap the top of the piano. "You can fit so many Patrick killers in this bad boy."
Patrick stares at Pete for a long, long moment. He feels weathered and stretched out. He feels understood and completely irritated at the same time. It wouldn't be working on music with Pete if he didn't want to pull his own teeth sometimes. He knows Pete keeps the piano here just for him; he's not sure why he even asked. Maybe he was hoping Pete would admit that it was for Patrick, for once, in some normal, non-convoluted way. Pete’s foot is hooked around his ankle now, casually holding him in place. As if Patrick could bolt at any moment.
"You're looking at me like I need to pull out the vinyl," Pete whispers seriously, tapping the top of the piano with intent.
Patrick drops his head onto the keys and groans, causing Pete to bark out a loud, sharp laugh. It’s the loveliest thing he’s heard in a while.
******
Patrick finally pauses when he realizes he's been slouched over the piano for too long, his back stiff and aching when he tries to straighten up. His hat is on the floor, forgotten at some point as he scratched at his hair in thought over a chord progression. Pete's phone is dead, no new words to be had for the moment, but he doesn't need any more yet. He has a stack of paper on the piano that he's been scribbling notes on since he arrived, but his hand cramps from writing and playing the keys. He hasn't really drunk or eaten anything since he got here from the airport, other than that sloppy PB&J, and it's only sounds of soft snores from the living room that key him into just how long he's been at this.
It's past four in the morning when he stands up from the piano and meanders into the living room. The TV is muted, but playing a commercial for a local monster truck rally, colors and faces flashing dramatically across the screen. Pete is sitting straight up, tucked in the corner of the couch, arm hanging over the side, his head tipped back. Patrick should really wake him, but instead, he toes off his shoes — fuck, he didn't even stop to take off his shoes — and settles on the opposite end of the couch. He slowly nudges his feet into Pete's lap and Pete snuffles.
"Hey, what-"
"Shut up, go back to sleep."
And he does, Patrick eventually joining him in sleep as the TV flickers through life, silent.
******
Patrick wakes up to hot, searing pain on his cheek, he’s hissing and pulling away from—
Pete. With a cup of tea. He's grinning wide, holding a big, steaming cup that reads "Nice Mugs" in big loopy red font.
"You could've spilled boiling hot tea all over me, you fuck," Patrick mumbles, without any real malice, and pulls the mug out of Pete's hands. He takes a big swig despite the temperature. It burns, but at least he feels alive. He feels the sleep pulling at the edges of his vision, wanting to lure him back down into blissful solitude. Patrick shakes his head a bit and takes another sip of the tea.
"I'm quite talented with my hands," Pete waggles his fingers and eyebrows, "I totally had it under control."
Patrick snorts and drinks more of the tea. He still hasn't fully sat up, leaning awkwardly on his elbow and staring at Pete. Pete's sitting on the coffee table, watching quietly, still looking bleary-eyed and rumpled, like he had just woken up and only thought to make Patrick tea and torment him with it sweetly. Patrick's heart twists at the thought, but feels absurdly guilty for the line of thinking, for thinking he deserved the kindness. His guts feel sour, the tea churning in his stomach. He holds it out to Pete and moves to sit up, groaning as his joints crack and shift in irritation.
As if knowing Patrick is finished with the tea, Pete starts sipping at the drink, still watching. Patrick feels slightly like an animal in a cage, being studied and photographed - he wonders if Pete is taking mental snapshots of these moments, wonders if he files things away in the brain cabinet titled "Patrick" and picks it all apart later, puts it to words. Now that he's no longer running on the adrenaline of traveling and creating, Patrick feels overexposed, like Pete's left the film out in the light for too long.
"What?" Patrick finally asks, pulling his glasses off and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Of course he fell asleep with his glasses on.
"You demanded words. You flew here on a fuckin’ whim. You left your suitcase in the mud room, took my phone, and started working on music. You told me shit was bad. You keep making faces - yeah, you do, don't shake your head - the ones where you're gnawing on your cheek and your eyebrows become one little eyebrow 'cause you can't stop frowning and scowling and maybe, maybe, I'm a little concerned about what the fuck all this means," Pete's rambling and fidgeting again, twirling the tea bag string around his finger over and over again. His face is drawn tight, his lips small, wrinkled together, pale. One of Pete’s eyebrows is arched a bit — Patrick knows this look, Pete’s confused and trying not to panic look. He's so concerned and so Pete about it, knowing exactly when to hit Patrick and make him empty his brain. The tea was a stupid Pete ploy.
Patrick debates on if he wants to put his glasses back on to answer, not sure if he wants to fully be able to see Pete's face journey. He usually always decides that Pete's face is worth it. Patrick uses the hem of his t-shirt to wipe his lenses and slides his glasses back on.
"We broke up."
Pete's face doesn't shift much. His lips expand slightly into a small "o" and he gives a terse nod.
"Break up album it is, then. I'm calling Joe," Pete says firmly, slapping his knees and standing up.
"Absolutely not—“
"Hey, Siri, call Joe Troh—“
"Peter, I am not making an album—“
"Calling Joe Trohman—“
"Pete, no, stop—“
"Ayyyy, Wentz—whoa, are you okay?"
By the time Joe answers, Patrick has Pete on the floor, trying to wrestle the phone from Pete’s hands, the mug of tea has been upended and both of them are yelling and cursing at each other while Joe screams about calling 911 if someone doesn't explain that they're okay.
******
"You're fucking kidding me, we're getting the gang back together for some gosh darn rock 'n' roll music?" Joe asks excitedly, grinning widely on the FaceTime call. Patrick scowls over Pete's shoulder, nursing a mild burn on his arm from the hot tea.
"I did not agree to that, I'm just… working through some shit," Patrick says petulantly, rubbing an ice cube on the red welt. Pete glances back and rolls his eyes.
"No, he's not working through shit, Joe. He's creating some wild shit, godly shit. Hang on, I'll send it over," Pete flicks through a few screens and forwards Joe a video.
"What the fuck is that, Pete?" Patrick hisses, realizing the implication of what he just sent to Joe.
"Just a video of you singing that I took on your phone and sent to myself for later, 'cause I knew you wouldn't want to get Joe and Andy involved," Pete says absentmindedly, flicking back to FaceTime. "Watch that shit, send it over to Hurley too. We've got something brewing."
Joe throws up a peace sign and the video cuts.
"I can't believe you," Patrick says, chucking the ice cube at Pete's head.
"Don't waste ice, penguins are starving in Antarctica," Pete wags a finger, then flicks back to the video and taps play.
It's Patrick, testing out a melody on the piano and softly singing.
I know I keep my feelings so tucked away, just another day spent hoping we don't fall apart
Patrick twitches and reaches out, tapping the screen to stop the video. He shakes his head, tired. Frustrated. Hollow. Seeing himself sing always sucks, but it's even worse when you're full to the brim with self-loathing.
"It's good. It's a start," Pete says softly, carefully. "If you really hate it and think it's nothing, then sure. We can just fuck around and do the cathartic thing. But I think Joe and Andy are gonna flip for it too. And I think we should all be here. For this stuff. Your stuff. Your stuff fuckin’ matters."
Patrick hates that it feels so gentle, so accepting, so patient. He hates that Pete is always pushing him just far enough, far enough until he teeters on the edge, then pushes Patrick over just a little so he can grasp his hand. He always holds him so precariously, keeping him from falling, but never quite enough to pull him back up to safety. Patrick imagines that's how they got successful in the first place, with Pete pushing and putting hats on heads and placing nervous kids in front of microphones.
Pete's eyes are wide and hopeful, earnest and worried, glassy and tired. Patrick isn't sure if Pete’s 22 or 42 in this moment. Patrick doesn't bear his soul. It's Pete's words, Pete's heart, Pete's soul, Pete's everything. He can't make this about him.
"It'll still be my words, my shit; we know that's what works. But I want you… I want you to go off on this. Put it all into it," Pete adds quietly, clocking Patrick's thoughts right away. Fucker.
Patrick reaches out for Pete's phone. He taps the video and it plays through all the way this time. It's yearning, it's angry, it's regret, it's hope. Smash all the guitars, till we see all the stars. It's a start.
"It… it needs an orchestra," Patrick breathes finally, eyes flickering up to Pete's.
"I'll shove a double bass up my ass if that's what you need, Patrick," Pete says sweetly, eyes crinkling so hard that Patrick can barely see his pupils. Patrick chokes out a laugh as Pete tells Siri to call Neal Avron. "This guy might know a thing or two," Pete adds, wandering back into the living room to finish cleaning up the tea.
“Yeah, sure—wait, Pete? This isn’t my phone—oh, hi Neal, Patrick here, I think we’re making an album. Are you… free?”