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stillaneWell. I have written bandslash, and not just bandslash, even. Bandslash in scifi underwear.
This is entirely Pete Wentz’s fault. It was his idea. No, really. I can prove it, and will at the end. Just take my word for it for now, though. Otherwise it kind of gives away the game.
If you are Pete Wentz... please don't point and mock too strenuously, yes?
For the record, I adore Jimmy Stewart. No offense is intended to him. I am less sanguine about cockroaches.
Fandom: FOB
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Will be hugged like a puppy. Even if it bites.
Notes: Thank you to
terribilita, who kindly stepped up to beta the crazy ramblings about pretty boys. Summary: Pete goes looking.
… But I Digress
It takes him three days to notice. That’s exhibit one in the People vs. Pete Wentz.
*******
On the first day, he blinks awake to early afternoon sunshine and the feel of phantom miles sliding back into sleep. He crawls downstairs for freezer-fresh waffles and orange juice. Hemingway wanders around his fenced kingdom and presses his nose to the glass when he wants in, and Pete lets him lick the extra syrup. He posts a few lines of random, but he’s too at peace for the crapshoot of comment reading. He finds an acoustic and a patch of ottoman and strums around the words in his head. He writes a few down, watches a movie he’s seen at least once for every year he’s been alive, and eventually falls asleep without meaning to.
That’s Sunday.
Monday and Tuesday are washrinserepeat, except he has Fruit Loops on Monday and does not keep any of Tuesday’s words.
On Wednesday, he tries to call Patrick.
His phone is a minion of evil, however, and has other ideas. It’s eaten Patrick’s numbers - all of them – like a zombie after brains, and it’s already gotten Pete’s because the cell number he dials from memory gets him a tinny recorded ‘We’re sorry…’ eight times.
He calls Andy for a refresher because Andy will give him less hell than Joe, and won’t be stoned. He says, Hey, what’s Patrick’s cell? and Andy says, Patrick who?
*******
By the time he hangs up, he’s got Andy almost convinced that Pete isn’t crazy, and himself almost convinced that he is.
*******
It’s all easy enough to find, when he looks. The internet is an amazing place.
He starts with his own name, and that’s educational. Apparently some things are inevitable; one of these is that the entire known universe will have seen his dick. That’s a little disappointing.
Eventually, he winds up on Youtube. There are 27,532 results for the band name alone. He looks for concert footage first. He wants the live version, not the Memorex.
It’s them. Almost.
The guy is better than good. He’s got the voice, more range than Montana and velvet underneath, and he works the crowd like he knows them all and their grandmas, too. (Provided their grandmas have piercings and ink.) He ducks Joe without obvious thought, and never rides over Andy.
David Halfield has slim shoulders and great hair. He wears black boots. Pete hates him instantly.
The songs are different. They’re good, still. Every word is Pete’s own, he knows, and some of them he even recognizes. They’re the ones they didn’t use, the ones that didn’t fit. They aren’t out of place here, though.
And all of this he can almost understand. It’s strange, and it makes him feel like he’s looking at the world through the wrong prescription, but none of it is impossible. If he tilts his head just right, he can pretend they’re only touring with friends and having a bandcest moment.
Two minutes and fifteen seconds into “I’ll Have What She’s Having (With A Side Of Beef)”, the Pete on his screen trips his way across the stage and into David Halfied’s personal space. He leans his forehead against David Halfied’s dark hair and sings into David Halfied’s blue cotton t-shirt, and David Halfied laughs around the chorus.
The Pete on his screen pulls away and keeps playing like the world hasn’t just ended.
*******
Exhibit two is a man he doesn’t know singing words Pete has given him freely.
*******
The easy answer, of course, is to go the fuck back to sleep. He’s dreaming, or he’s insane, and in his experience, both of these can be cured by simply waking the hell up.
Which is what he’ll do. As soon as he falls asleep.
He’s had enough mornings at the end of the day to know that rest is the best player of hide-and-seek ever. He’s got patience on his side, though. He does.
Better, he’s got sedatives.
Take two of these and... He closes his fingers around his cell and his eyes over his thoughts.
He wakes to another morning and the knowledge that he is monumentally fucked.
*******
He turns to Kafka and Capra for the answers, but the bastards are both unhelpful and dead. He’d take being a cockroach or Jimmy Stewart over this any day.
*******
New plan: Patrick isn’t here. Ergo, Patrick is somewhere else.
It’s harder than it should be to find someone in an age when he can get pictures of his house from space in five minutes. He does research, though, because he’s not going to Patrick’s house and not finding Patrick. He will do this right.
Or maybe he won’t. There is no Patrick Martin Stump(h) in all of the greater land of Google. There is a Patricia Marie Strum who gives Pete a bad moment, until a click reveals a 57-year-old realtor from Nebraska with grey hair and three children. Pete doesn’t think there is a connection.
An hour later, Pete’s just at the point of reevaluating that theory — and all its terrifying implications — when suddenly, there he is. The picture is grainy, and he’s just a head behind a drum set, and he’s credited as P. Stupm, but he’s Patrick.
He’s in Chicago. He’s in a band. Some things are inevitable.
Step one down. Moving on.
The plane ride is fairly normal, for the given value of normal that has been his life these last few years. He doesn’t wait in any lines, the flight crews all call him by his father’s name (Would you like a drink, Mr. Wentz? Fuck yes, but no.), and first class still has more leg room than three of him could use.
There are crowds of loud, manic smiles with waving hands attached at every landing, and he wants to tell them to stop. He’s not who they want. He’s not who they see.
They are not his, and he is not theirs.
Instead, he smiles and waves and doesn’t let them touch him.
*******
Fate’s a bitch, and she wears an irony-studded collar.
*******
Losing the attention is easy enough. He puts on a hat, and suddenly he doesn’t exist.
He’s never been inside this store. He picked Patrick up exactly four times on the way to early gigs before the music won and the steady paycheck lost, and every time was a rolling stop. Joe, who has been inside, never bothered with any details but Patrick.
Patrick, who is five feet and six years away from Pete. His hair is too short and uncovered. His pants and his shirt are both black and average, probably store-standard, but his shoes have Technicolor tongues.
He helps a woman with a purse like a small, sequined continent find Barry Manilow, and does not say an impolite word. There are whole paragraphs written in his eyebrows and fidgets, though, and Pete still has the secret decoder ring.
There’s some freakish suburban version of “world” echoing off the shiny, shiny rows of waiting music. That the soundtrack of this mess is an unholy marriage of saxophone and accordion should really be more surprising.
He waits until Purse Woman is happily making off with Manilow, and then he clears his throat. He had ten good opening lines worked up on the plane, but as usual, he misplaces them in the moment.
“Hi.”
Patrick recognizes him instantly.
He does an honest-to-god double take with his eyes alone, and then blinks. He looks around, carefully. “Uh… hi. Not that I want to blow your cover, or anything, but… well, hi. Can I help you?”
And a little bit more of Pete crashes and burns all the way down. Because Patrick isn’t looking at him like he’s That Guy Who Sleeps On My Couch Sometimes, or That Guy Who Fought Me For That Pedal On The Bridge, or even That Asshole Who Eats My Cheerios. He’s looking at Pete like he’s That Guy From That Band.
“Just passing through.”
*******
For a very long time, somewhere below conscious thought, this was what mattered: he knows Patrick. Always. Anywhere.
Right nouns, wrong order.
*******
He walks out into a flat grey sky and the passing of flat grey people. There’s a corner in front of him and a lamppost, old fashioned like something from a lost Paris movie with lovers and dancing. He walks forward until his head rests against it, tightens his arms around cold metal until his hands can reach back to himself.
He’s giving in and going under. He shouldn’t, he knows, but that’s never stopped him before.
And very quietly he hears, “Hey.”
Every part of him goes independently still. After a moment, his head slips lower against the lamp, and he can feel his shoulders shaking although he tells them not to.
“You asshole.”
“I know.”
“Motherfucking prick.”
A hand comes to rest on his right shoulder blade, thumb wandering over and between vertebrae. “I know. I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t mean to, but still. No, just… Sorry. Granted, I didn’t know what I was doing… But I still didn’t mean to.”
“How the fuck do you not mean to not exist?”
Patrick stays very carefully silent, and Pete feels the water open up under him. There’s a snowglobe full of glass houses in that question. The palm on his back stays warm, though, and the thumb strokes in waltz time.
“Can we go with, ‘I’m here, therefore I am?’ ”
Pete can’t help it. It’s a conditioned response. He laughs, maybe not all there, and rolls himself until the post is at his back. Patrick’s fingers ride over the crest of his shoulder and rest on his collarbone.
And it all makes a bizarre kind of sense. This may be Pete’s nightmare, but it’s not his dream.
Patrick’s been in Pete’s head for six years now, the line between his thoughts and his voice. His very own singing telegram. There’s no reason Pete shouldn’t be in Patrick’s head right back. He’s a little more physical about it, maybe, but then he always is.
A world in which he is too close to Patrick beats the shit out of the alternative, anyway.
And of course Patrick dreams in the fifties.
He’s the lovechild of Sinatra and Bacall, all smoke and pinstripes. His left hand is in his pocket and his hat is at an angle between charm and obstruction, probably an accident, and fuck if that isn’t Patrick all over.
Pete leans into the hand on his chest, wraps his own grip around that wrist. Patrick keeps his eyes on Pete’s face, and his expression can’t seem to choose whether to live in embarrassment or worry. His bottom lip is going pale under his teeth.
He’s Patrick, and he’s here, and he knows Pete.
Pete watches his eyes until he’s too close, until it’s too dark under the hat brim.
Cinderella kissed a fella…
*******
Later on, he’ll have time to wonder how he could have been so stupid for so long. There’s only one person in the world who could believe anything would be normal without Patrick.
*******
He opens his eyes to darkness and the slide of miles and miles of solid pavement. Above him, Joe is snoring in harmonics.
He pulls the curtain aside slowly. Patrick’s is already open, and he watches Pete across two feet of aisle and a thousand acres of indecision.
“Hey.”
Pete doesn’t stop to think. He slides from one bunk to the next and straight through pretense. Patrick doesn’t pull away to make space for him, just rests a hand on Pete’s ribs to keep him from falling.
“So.”
“Yeah.”
“That was…”
Patrick nods, a rustle against his pillow. “Apparently.”
“See, this is what happens when you have pizza and existential angst before bed.”
It’s lame, but Patrick’s teeth glint at him in the dark. Slowly, Pete leans forward and brushes his lips against that smile.
And Patrick does not pull away.
His t-shirt is old and worn under Pete’s fingers, nothing like elegant. There is no rain-clean street smell here, just a hint of sleep sweat and warmth. Pete lays his head on the pillow and lets all of it wrap around him. He keeps his eyes closed.
“That wasn’t… That was… like your naked-in-front-of-the-class, right?”
Patrick snorts, quietly. “Nah. I have actual naked-in-front-of-the-class dreams, too. It’s always my third grade, mostly because I think Mrs. Jordan was creepy as all hell. Seriously. She had crossed eyes. No matter where you were, she was watching you.”
Pete doesn’t follow his script and laugh. His hand tightens on Patrick’s shirt. “No bullshit. You don’t… Tell me you don’t think…”
And as usual, Patrick knows what words fill in the blanks. He hesitates, and then he doesn’t. All it takes is a tilt of his chin, and Pete feels the careful press of lips against his own. “Not for long.”
Maybe it’s just because Patrick is Patrick. Maybe there is no changing that. Maybe Pete will try anyway.
Not right now, though. Pete’s eyes don’t open when he asks, and Patrick’s breathing is evening out. His arm is heavy over Pete’s waist.
He wonders what Patrick’s other dreams are.
*******
As for why this is Pete Wentz's fault:
Hypothetically asking, Ok, what if one day you woke up and Patrick was not there. Would you be worried?
Asked by I Didnt Do It on 2005-06-14 19:59:00
it would make me want to disappear to wherever he was.
Answered by pete on 2005-06-14
Seriously. How can you expect me to resist that?
It takes him three days to notice. That’s exhibit one in the People vs. Pete Wentz.
On the first day, he blinks awake to early afternoon sunshine and the feel of phantom miles sliding back into sleep. He crawls downstairs for freezer-fresh waffles and orange juice. Hemingway wanders around his fenced kingdom and presses his nose to the glass when he wants in, and Pete lets him lick the extra syrup. He posts a few lines of random, but he’s too at peace for the crapshoot of comment reading. He finds an acoustic and a patch of ottoman and strums around the words in his head. He writes a few down, watches a movie he’s seen at least once for every year he’s been alive, and eventually falls asleep without meaning to.
That’s Sunday.
Monday and Tuesday are washrinserepeat, except he has Fruit Loops on Monday and does not keep any of Tuesday’s words.
On Wednesday, he tries to call Patrick.
His phone is a minion of evil, however, and has other ideas. It’s eaten Patrick’s numbers - all of them – like a zombie after brains, and it’s already gotten Pete’s because the cell number he dials from memory gets him a tinny recorded ‘We’re sorry…’ eight times.
He calls Andy for a refresher because Andy will give him less hell than Joe, and won’t be stoned. He says, Hey, what’s Patrick’s cell? and Andy says, Patrick who?
By the time he hangs up, he’s got Andy almost convinced that Pete isn’t crazy, and himself almost convinced that he is.
It’s all easy enough to find, when he looks. The internet is an amazing place.
He starts with his own name, and that’s educational. Apparently some things are inevitable; one of these is that the entire known universe will have seen his dick. That’s a little disappointing.
Eventually, he winds up on Youtube. There are 27,532 results for the band name alone. He looks for concert footage first. He wants the live version, not the Memorex.
It’s them. Almost.
The guy is better than good. He’s got the voice, more range than Montana and velvet underneath, and he works the crowd like he knows them all and their grandmas, too. (Provided their grandmas have piercings and ink.) He ducks Joe without obvious thought, and never rides over Andy.
David Halfield has slim shoulders and great hair. He wears black boots. Pete hates him instantly.
The songs are different. They’re good, still. Every word is Pete’s own, he knows, and some of them he even recognizes. They’re the ones they didn’t use, the ones that didn’t fit. They aren’t out of place here, though.
And all of this he can almost understand. It’s strange, and it makes him feel like he’s looking at the world through the wrong prescription, but none of it is impossible. If he tilts his head just right, he can pretend they’re only touring with friends and having a bandcest moment.
Two minutes and fifteen seconds into “I’ll Have What She’s Having (With A Side Of Beef)”, the Pete on his screen trips his way across the stage and into David Halfied’s personal space. He leans his forehead against David Halfied’s dark hair and sings into David Halfied’s blue cotton t-shirt, and David Halfied laughs around the chorus.
The Pete on his screen pulls away and keeps playing like the world hasn’t just ended.
Exhibit two is a man he doesn’t know singing words Pete has given him freely.
The easy answer, of course, is to go the fuck back to sleep. He’s dreaming, or he’s insane, and in his experience, both of these can be cured by simply waking the hell up.
Which is what he’ll do. As soon as he falls asleep.
He’s had enough mornings at the end of the day to know that rest is the best player of hide-and-seek ever. He’s got patience on his side, though. He does.
Better, he’s got sedatives.
Take two of these and... He closes his fingers around his cell and his eyes over his thoughts.
He wakes to another morning and the knowledge that he is monumentally fucked.
He turns to Kafka and Capra for the answers, but the bastards are both unhelpful and dead. He’d take being a cockroach or Jimmy Stewart over this any day.
New plan: Patrick isn’t here. Ergo, Patrick is somewhere else.
It’s harder than it should be to find someone in an age when he can get pictures of his house from space in five minutes. He does research, though, because he’s not going to Patrick’s house and not finding Patrick. He will do this right.
Or maybe he won’t. There is no Patrick Martin Stump(h) in all of the greater land of Google. There is a Patricia Marie Strum who gives Pete a bad moment, until a click reveals a 57-year-old realtor from Nebraska with grey hair and three children. Pete doesn’t think there is a connection.
An hour later, Pete’s just at the point of reevaluating that theory — and all its terrifying implications — when suddenly, there he is. The picture is grainy, and he’s just a head behind a drum set, and he’s credited as P. Stupm, but he’s Patrick.
He’s in Chicago. He’s in a band. Some things are inevitable.
Step one down. Moving on.
The plane ride is fairly normal, for the given value of normal that has been his life these last few years. He doesn’t wait in any lines, the flight crews all call him by his father’s name (Would you like a drink, Mr. Wentz? Fuck yes, but no.), and first class still has more leg room than three of him could use.
There are crowds of loud, manic smiles with waving hands attached at every landing, and he wants to tell them to stop. He’s not who they want. He’s not who they see.
They are not his, and he is not theirs.
Instead, he smiles and waves and doesn’t let them touch him.
Fate’s a bitch, and she wears an irony-studded collar.
Losing the attention is easy enough. He puts on a hat, and suddenly he doesn’t exist.
He’s never been inside this store. He picked Patrick up exactly four times on the way to early gigs before the music won and the steady paycheck lost, and every time was a rolling stop. Joe, who has been inside, never bothered with any details but Patrick.
Patrick, who is five feet and six years away from Pete. His hair is too short and uncovered. His pants and his shirt are both black and average, probably store-standard, but his shoes have Technicolor tongues.
He helps a woman with a purse like a small, sequined continent find Barry Manilow, and does not say an impolite word. There are whole paragraphs written in his eyebrows and fidgets, though, and Pete still has the secret decoder ring.
There’s some freakish suburban version of “world” echoing off the shiny, shiny rows of waiting music. That the soundtrack of this mess is an unholy marriage of saxophone and accordion should really be more surprising.
He waits until Purse Woman is happily making off with Manilow, and then he clears his throat. He had ten good opening lines worked up on the plane, but as usual, he misplaces them in the moment.
“Hi.”
Patrick recognizes him instantly.
He does an honest-to-god double take with his eyes alone, and then blinks. He looks around, carefully. “Uh… hi. Not that I want to blow your cover, or anything, but… well, hi. Can I help you?”
And a little bit more of Pete crashes and burns all the way down. Because Patrick isn’t looking at him like he’s That Guy Who Sleeps On My Couch Sometimes, or That Guy Who Fought Me For That Pedal On The Bridge, or even That Asshole Who Eats My Cheerios. He’s looking at Pete like he’s That Guy From That Band.
“Just passing through.”
For a very long time, somewhere below conscious thought, this was what mattered: he knows Patrick. Always. Anywhere.
Right nouns, wrong order.
He walks out into a flat grey sky and the passing of flat grey people. There’s a corner in front of him and a lamppost, old fashioned like something from a lost Paris movie with lovers and dancing. He walks forward until his head rests against it, tightens his arms around cold metal until his hands can reach back to himself.
He’s giving in and going under. He shouldn’t, he knows, but that’s never stopped him before.
And very quietly he hears, “Hey.”
Every part of him goes independently still. After a moment, his head slips lower against the lamp, and he can feel his shoulders shaking although he tells them not to.
“You asshole.”
“I know.”
“Motherfucking prick.”
A hand comes to rest on his right shoulder blade, thumb wandering over and between vertebrae. “I know. I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t mean to, but still. No, just… Sorry. Granted, I didn’t know what I was doing… But I still didn’t mean to.”
“How the fuck do you not mean to not exist?”
Patrick stays very carefully silent, and Pete feels the water open up under him. There’s a snowglobe full of glass houses in that question. The palm on his back stays warm, though, and the thumb strokes in waltz time.
“Can we go with, ‘I’m here, therefore I am?’ ”
Pete can’t help it. It’s a conditioned response. He laughs, maybe not all there, and rolls himself until the post is at his back. Patrick’s fingers ride over the crest of his shoulder and rest on his collarbone.
And it all makes a bizarre kind of sense. This may be Pete’s nightmare, but it’s not his dream.
Patrick’s been in Pete’s head for six years now, the line between his thoughts and his voice. His very own singing telegram. There’s no reason Pete shouldn’t be in Patrick’s head right back. He’s a little more physical about it, maybe, but then he always is.
A world in which he is too close to Patrick beats the shit out of the alternative, anyway.
And of course Patrick dreams in the fifties.
He’s the lovechild of Sinatra and Bacall, all smoke and pinstripes. His left hand is in his pocket and his hat is at an angle between charm and obstruction, probably an accident, and fuck if that isn’t Patrick all over.
Pete leans into the hand on his chest, wraps his own grip around that wrist. Patrick keeps his eyes on Pete’s face, and his expression can’t seem to choose whether to live in embarrassment or worry. His bottom lip is going pale under his teeth.
He’s Patrick, and he’s here, and he knows Pete.
Pete watches his eyes until he’s too close, until it’s too dark under the hat brim.
Cinderella kissed a fella…
Later on, he’ll have time to wonder how he could have been so stupid for so long. There’s only one person in the world who could believe anything would be normal without Patrick.
He opens his eyes to darkness and the slide of miles and miles of solid pavement. Above him, Joe is snoring in harmonics.
He pulls the curtain aside slowly. Patrick’s is already open, and he watches Pete across two feet of aisle and a thousand acres of indecision.
“Hey.”
Pete doesn’t stop to think. He slides from one bunk to the next and straight through pretense. Patrick doesn’t pull away to make space for him, just rests a hand on Pete’s ribs to keep him from falling.
“So.”
“Yeah.”
“That was…”
Patrick nods, a rustle against his pillow. “Apparently.”
“See, this is what happens when you have pizza and existential angst before bed.”
It’s lame, but Patrick’s teeth glint at him in the dark. Slowly, Pete leans forward and brushes his lips against that smile.
And Patrick does not pull away.
His t-shirt is old and worn under Pete’s fingers, nothing like elegant. There is no rain-clean street smell here, just a hint of sleep sweat and warmth. Pete lays his head on the pillow and lets all of it wrap around him. He keeps his eyes closed.
“That wasn’t… That was… like your naked-in-front-of-the-class, right?”
Patrick snorts, quietly. “Nah. I have actual naked-in-front-of-the-class dreams, too. It’s always my third grade, mostly because I think Mrs. Jordan was creepy as all hell. Seriously. She had crossed eyes. No matter where you were, she was watching you.”
Pete doesn’t follow his script and laugh. His hand tightens on Patrick’s shirt. “No bullshit. You don’t… Tell me you don’t think…”
And as usual, Patrick knows what words fill in the blanks. He hesitates, and then he doesn’t. All it takes is a tilt of his chin, and Pete feels the careful press of lips against his own. “Not for long.”
Maybe it’s just because Patrick is Patrick. Maybe there is no changing that. Maybe Pete will try anyway.
Not right now, though. Pete’s eyes don’t open when he asks, and Patrick’s breathing is evening out. His arm is heavy over Pete’s waist.
He wonders what Patrick’s other dreams are.
*******
As for why this is Pete Wentz's fault:
Hypothetically asking, Ok, what if one day you woke up and Patrick was not there. Would you be worried?
Asked by I Didnt Do It on 2005-06-14 19:59:00
it would make me want to disappear to wherever he was.
Answered by pete on 2005-06-14
Seriously. How can you expect me to resist that?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-06-13 01:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-13 02:24 am (UTC)You know, I think my brain agrees with you about that 'every day' thing, though. I keep spending my afternoons in the wilds with the antics of band boys in my head. (Not that I'm complaining, mind you. *g*) Given the pace that I write at lately, that means something new will get finished long about February, but... hey, I've got a title. What more do you need? *g*
that quote is just too good to pass up.
It is. I stumbled across another article last night, and it still makes me boggle the stuff these guys will say about each other. I am so very all for attractive men who compare their writing partnership to sex. *nods*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-13 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 12:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-13 04:57 pm (UTC)This whole premise was amazing, and as im writing this comment im planning to reread this a couple of times and put it in my memories.
Also, random fact, but I totally clicked this because I wrote a fic with that exact same title, "But I digress" :D
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 12:17 am (UTC)Hah! When I picked the title, I was pretty sure someone else must have got there first. I have really terrible title skills, most of the time; in general, they're either too weird to make any sense, or so very taken. *headdesk*
You know, the funny thing about writing this was, I had no idea where Patrick was when I started. I'd figured out that Pete was hanging out, being Pete, and that suddenly Patrick was MIA, and that there was someone else in his place. And then I went back to read over it and thought, Oh. So that's where he's been hiding. Huh.
Ambushed by my own brain. *g*
Thanks for sharing the title with me, and for the kind words.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-13 05:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 12:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 12:23 am (UTC)Also: Hee. That right there is an icon which totally fits the description "Creeped Out So Good". *g*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-13 08:38 pm (UTC)you... with the guy? In the place? And it's...
Oh.
*composes oneself*
For your first FOB fic, that's ridiculously good. You characterized them perfectly. Something inside my chest cracked open and spilled all down into my belly there. So... yes.
Well done.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 12:29 am (UTC)I'm completely thrilled to hear that the characterization came off okay. I always freak out mightily about that when I'm trying out new people (and also pretty much all the time *g*).
Thank you so much for liking this one, and taking the time to let me know.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-13 09:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 12:31 am (UTC)Well, a title, anyway. That's a start, right? *g*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-13 11:17 pm (UTC)i'm sorry i can't submit a better response but i really wasn't able to concentrate with my tamagotchi beeping at me. :3
i will probably read this everyday for the next week. i love sci-fi type stuff and your writing is exceptionally good! (:
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 12:34 am (UTC)(And I hope the tamagotchi is happier now. I don't quite know how they work, but I'm guessing beeping is a displeased response? *g*)
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 01:02 am (UTC)ummm...at first i was like "WTF?!?!?! A WORLD WITHOUT PATRICK!?!?! IMPOSSIBLE!" and then i kept reading and was happy that pete found him.
i can picture patrick having dreams like this and pete making it all better
so wonderful
more now please!
*mems*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 02:28 am (UTC)...at first i was like "WTF?!?!?! A WORLD WITHOUT PATRICK!?!?! IMPOSSIBLE!"
Hee. Yep, the whole writing schtick went pretty much:
1. Read quote. Decide Pete Wentz is both surprisingly sweet and bad for my brain.
2. Wonder what a Patrick-less world would be like.
3. Wonder where the hell Patrick went.
4. Find Patrick, and be as surprised as Pete.
As for the more: I'm working on it. Promise. Although this one's more like, "Find Patrick. Wonder how the hell he got there." *g*
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 03:44 am (UTC)I haven't even read the whole thing, only to here, but wow, this line really struck a chord with me. It just encompasses the whole Pete/Patrick relationship. How adult the feeling and connection is but really, Pete never will grow up. Wow
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 03:55 am (UTC)That was so good! I read it was your first time writing FOB and that was some of the best characterization I have ever seen. Excellent job!
It was cute and funny, as well as deep and touching, and I really enjoyed the line, "Because Patrick isn’t looking at him like he’s That Guy Who Sleeps On My Couch Sometimes, or That Guy Who Fought Me For That Pedal On The Bridge, or even That Asshole Who Eats My Cheerios," particularly the Cheerios bit just because, well, I feel like its completely true and hilarious.
Okay I am done now.
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 09:04 pm (UTC)I will be adding this to my memories and reccing it to everyone I know.
Thanks for posting this!
no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 02:42 am (UTC)Plus, you know, you're allowed to keep your own schedule any time you stop by to say kind things. Which is to say, thank you for taking the time to let my know you liked it. *g*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 01:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-15 09:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-16 07:33 am (UTC)this is a seriously fucking brilliant opening line, and story to match. thank you!
no subject
Date: 2007-06-17 05:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-16 07:10 pm (UTC)He’s the lovechild of Sinatra and Bacall, all smoke and pinstripes.
I simply adored this whole plot-line. (And leave it to Pete to have something to do with it. xD)
♥
no subject
Date: 2007-06-17 05:07 pm (UTC)That Pete. He's a bad, bad influence. The sneaking sweetness is my kryptonite. *g*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-17 12:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-17 05:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-17 10:45 pm (UTC)Looking forward to a LOT more Patrick/Pete from you. =]
PS: I just NOW read this. Usually I'm the biggest stalker ever. But my computer had crashed.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-19 04:29 am (UTC)I'm looking forward to there being a little more Patrick/Pete in the near future, myself. They're kind of a lot of fun, those boys. *g*
And as for computer crashings: ouch. I have nightmares where that happens. It's like Night of the Living Dead CPU. *shudder* Hope it all got sorted out, and you're not stuck on borrowed screentime.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-19 02:23 am (UTC)I just loved loved that description. It made my heart hurt a little. I love how in real concerts Pete snuggles up to Patrick and Patrick just supports him, and a world without that... Wow. It would end.
Also love: just cuz.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-19 04:39 am (UTC)That first line makes me crack up a little, just because it was such a bear to finish. I had the whole thing together, and then I went through about twenty different proposed titles for tossed Pete songs. I wound up googling so damned many 80's movies... It was like reliving my childhood in soundbites. *g*
I love how in real concerts Pete snuggles up to Patrick and Patrick just supports him
I kind of adore the way they snuggle, too. I have yet to find actual footage of this, which is a crime, but the stills are nice in their own right. There's just something very comfortable about the whole thing which makes me all warm and fuzzy.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-19 05:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 05:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-19 06:12 am (UTC)The Pete on his screen pulls away and keeps playing like the world hasn’t just ended. MMMMMMMPPPPHHHHHH!!!!
THIS WHOLE THING WAS SO AMAZING AND OH MY GOD, EVEN CAPSLOCK CANNOT EXPRESS HOW HAPPY THIS MADE ME. Well, I don't know if "happy" is the right word. But. Um. AMAZING. I think I have to read this again when I'm less tired, because I'm pretty sure I missed something, because it was all so subtle, but even so, I absolutely loved it. Memories, definitely.
it would make me want to disappear to wherever he was.
OH, PETER. He has to stop teasing us like that!!!!
But if this is his fault, I should definitely thank him.no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 05:51 pm (UTC)Incoherency and capslock! Whee! These make me do the happy dance of greatest joy. *happy dance of greatest joy*
And yeah, Pete Wenzt sneaks up on you. It's like he's all sparkly, bizarrely tough, barely-held-together-ness, and then you turn around and there's this hint of quiet, semi-bewildered sweet hiding in there. Huh. Go, Pete. Keep doing that. *g*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-19 09:08 am (UTC)Also it's the first FOB fan fiction I've ever read. Because I've been denial since their invasion of MCR fandom. But you've convinced me that my pride has been tragic waste of time. Thank you for ushering me into the light. I appreciate the pitch-Pete Wentz undertones in this--I am pretty sure he wrote it himself, though I'm not sure he could muster all the style you've put out. Sorry, I can barely type for tiredness. But it is good. Favorite.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 05:57 pm (UTC)And I have no stones to throw where pride is concerned. I used to think I would never find myself in the bandslash camp. It was just never my thing, and I didn't really have time, etc., etc... you know? And then one day, I learned better. Something new everyday, isn't it? *g* Of course, there's still MCR to be pulled into...
Thanks for taking a chance on a new bunch of boys, and an author new to them herself.
(And, incidentally, sorry I'm slow with the comment response. Work whapped me but good this last week or so.)
no subject
Date: 2007-06-19 10:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 05:59 pm (UTC)Which is to say, thank you. (A few days late, but no less meant. I got tossed about by work for a bit there. Sorry.)
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-23 06:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 06:48 pm (UTC)Heh. Magical realism it is! I'm a little stunned, really, by how well magical realism/weirdness/just plain cracked out oddity works in this fandom. It shouldn't, because, you know, real people... and yet. Yeah. I've read some stuff that just feels natural beyond words, and I can't help being surprised. Pleasantly, though. *g*
no subject
Date: 2007-06-25 05:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 06:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 04:35 pm (UTC)Just so you know.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-26 06:51 pm (UTC)...and it ate my brain.
Hang on a sec, somewhere around here I've got an extra... do you mind the Abby Normal label?
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2007-06-27 06:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-03 08:25 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading it, and for the kind words!
(Also, that icon is adorable. Kitten thumbs. Hee.)