emono_omae (emono_omae) wrote in pete_n_patrickx,
emono_omae
emono_omae
pete_n_patrickx

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Title: I’ll Let These Pencil Marks Say What I Won’t

Main Pairing: Patrick/Pete

Warnings: Absolute crack, Sally is talking to Patrick and everything
Summary:
Sometimes Patrick just doesn’t get Pete’s lyrics, and sometimes he doesn’t get Pete.

Rating: PG-13 for slash
Inspiration:
“I love you in the same way there’s a chapel in a hospital” Was one of the best and most confusing FOB lyric for me, I luv it...and yet I didn’t understand it. I kinda just guessed the meaning, and that’s enough for me ;) And I actually thought of this while doing it *blushes* It was a very awkward moment, thinking about Peterick in a tub...
Disclaimer:
*sniggers at the noises coming from her closet* Well, I wouldn’t say I own them as much as I would say I’ve borrowed them.

 

Patrick: Help! *bangs on closet door* This girl is insane! She insists on slashing me!!

Pete: Yeah, get us out, she doesn’t slash me enough!

Emono: *takes out electric cattle prod* You were saying?

PxP: *whimpers*

Emono: ;) That’s what I thought

 

AN: Actually, this goes out to the OGT people who only gave me a 417 on my writing OGT and Advanced me in everything else. Take that! Ha! This is a good piece of literature, and I’m a damn good writer!

“Pete, I think I’ve got the chorus figured out, but...” Patrick emerged from his private study (he used it like a studio, really), shaking his head down at a piece of paper “But those last lyrics, I don’t get them at-”

 

Patrick looked up to find himself quite alone, only a base and discarded notepaper balls were left in the man’s wake...to show he was there at all. The read head’s brow drew in confusion; he could have swore he had heard Pete playing just outside his door not ten minutes ago.

 

Patrick set out in search of his best friend, confused to why he would suddenly get up and leave like that. He headed first to the kitchen, but Joe merely gave a grunt past his large steak (that was shoved halfway down his throat, and was in danger of choking on) and pointed towards the hall. Patrick followed the hall, stopping at their actual practice room to find Andy shaking his head (which looked ridiculous, considering he had headphones on bigger than his fists put together.) The scruffy drummer didn’t stop his playing, only paused on a rest to point (with his sticks) further down the hallway.

 

Patrick sighed, making it halfway down the hall before he met with Hemmingway (Pete’s adorable pup, as if every FOB fangirl doesn’t know that?) The dog seemed to cock his head, give a snuff, then point with his paw towards the bathroom.

 

If a short burst of running water was a sign, Hemmy was right.

 

With a prompt ‘thank you’ to Hemmy, Patrick made his way towards the large bathroom that was meant for two people (the group had another just like it on the other end of the house, with four men in one house...it got crowded.)

 

“Pete? What are you doing?” Patrick pushed open the door, revealing the room in all it’s glory. It was starch white, except for the splotches of black (Pete had demanded it needed color.) The rim of the mirror, the furry cover on the toilet, the patches of carpet here and there, and the shower curtain were all dyed black. That particular curtain blocked his view to any form behind it, but there was a constant tapping and clunks of water. A scratchy sound followed it, like sharp talons against flesh...

 

“Pete, are you ok?” Patrick stumbled forward, balling the plastic material into his fist. He took in a shaky breath, aware how stupid he was being, and flung it back with a flourish. Two startled cries echoed throughout the room, but Andy couldn’t be bothered to heart it and Joe had steak coming out of his ears. So only Hemmy perked up at the shouts, but he was much too enthralled with sprawling out on Patrick’s bed while he was away...

 

“...Pete?”

 

“Trick, you scared me!” Pete scolded, taking his arms down. He had brought them up in some maidenly defense, having crossed them over his chest. He burst out into a smile, large horse teeth shining in the light and dark eyes sparkling madly. “What do you think you’re trying to pull? I knew you wanted me naked, but damn...sneaking up on me in the bathroom? That’s violation! Restraining-order material!”

 

“Ok, if anyone wants anyone, you’re hot for me” Patrick bantered back, ignoring the way the bassist nodded as if his point was valid. Jade eyes lowered, wandering along the length of Pete’s body (not what you think...or is it?), his brow drew in confusion yet again. “Pete...uhm, if you don’t mind me asking. Are you...are you shaving your legs?”

 

“Huh?” the dark haired bassist looked down, pushing water-soaked-blood-dyed bangs out of his eyes to peer down at his legs. One was propped up against the end of the tub, half-covered in white lather and the other half smooth and a bit paler than his face. The other leg was half-hidden in the foggy water, still waiting to be shaved. Pete stared down at his legs like he had been a merman not five minutes before, then his too-big mouth curled up in a pearly smile.

 

“Pete?”

 

“Oh yeah, totally” Pete nodded, taking the razor in his hand again and swiping a shiny streak up his leg “I’m about half-way done. I was sitting in there, waiting on you to do your composing magick, when suddenly...duh! I haven’t shaved my legs this week. Good a time as any.”

 

“You mean you do this regularly?” Patrick’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline “Since when?”

 

“Since ever” Pete scoffed, water-droplets clinging to his chest and arms (making it difficult for Patrick to remember why he was searching Pete out in the first place) “Smooth legs are hot, you should try it Trick. Ladies love ‘em.”

 

“If you haven’t noticed, I don’t really care what the ladies love” Patrick gave an eye roll “Pete, you are one complex man in girl jeans and make-up.”

 

“Yeah, and you’re one gooey chocolate-chip cookie” Pete batted his lashes, finishing up his leg and dousing it with water “Now lay it on me, Angel-Pipes, and show me what you’ve come up with.”

 

“The chorus is down pact, but these last lyrics...” Patrick sighed, seating himself on top of the black-furred toilet cover. He kept his eyes fixated on the Nightmare Before Christmas towel in front of him, it seemed as if Sally was scolding him for lookin too long at Pete’s naked form and flirting with him at the same time. “They confuse me, that’s all...”

 

“Which ones, Trick?” Pete was now absent-mindedly lathering up his other leg, rich chocolate eyes sneaking a glance at the distressed singer.

 

“ ‘I love you in the same way, there’s a chapel in a hospital’ ” Patrick sang out slowly, using the music he had created to give a bit of life to the bassist’s words “Those words...I usually get the meaning behind your lyrics, but I don’t have the faintest clue what those are supposed to mean.”

 

“You don’t?” Pete almost pouted, reaching up to inattentively flick his bangs out of his eyes again...only to leave a streak of shaving cream clinging to the dyed hairs “But Trick...really?”

 

“If you’re just going to mock me-” Patrick made a move to stand, but a sodden hand clung to his forearm and stopped him dead in his tracks. Pete’s lips quirked in a half-hearted smile at his attempt to get away, the pink razor lying limp and forgotten at the bottom of the tub.

 

“They’re vague, I get it” Pete slowly but surely released his grip on his best friend, making sure the other wasn’t about to sprint like a gazelle back to his study alone “But at least you know they have meaning. That’s something, ne?”

 

“I suppose” Patrick watched the bassist return to his legs, picking up his neon pink razor and brushing it over his legs (with some skill, the singer observed) “So...are you going to tell me their meaning, or are you just going to continue to show off that your legs are longer than mine?”

 

“I’m gathering my thoughts” Pete’s voice took on a serious edge; the red head gave a quick nod and let his eyes drift back to the finger-wagging-winking Sally on the towel. When Pete was gathering his thoughts, it was best just to leave him to it. Poor, sweet, hyperactive Brendon had tried to pull Pete out of one of his creative streaks and...

 

Well, let’s just say that they received a rather nasty phone call from a pissy Ryan Ross the next morning. Pete sat there, the phone pressed to his ear wincing every 30 seconds or so while Joe, Andy, and Patrick all tried to pretend they couldn’t hear the bitching of a lightweight singer who could never fulfill the threats he was spewing out.

 

Pete had deserved it though, the triangle-shaped bruise Brendon had received (from the paperweight Pete had thrown at him) was nasty enough to make even Andy wince.

 

“I love you in the same way there’s a chapel in a hospital...you’ve seen chapels there before, haven’t you?” Patrick only nodded, though the singer knew Pete was now talking to himself more than anyone “They’re small, pale in comparison to real churches. But they stand out significantly, glaring anyone down and showing that it’s superior to modern medicine. To love someone like that...it’s like loving someone against your will, having it thrown in your face every day and knowing you can’t change it. You could be a whole different religion, but you’re still sick and it’s still there.”

 

“So...it’s about loving someone against your will?” Patrick inquired slowly.

 

“Yep, that’s it” Pete paused, the pink razor halfway up his leg. Dark eyes peered up at Patrick sheepishly, lips quirked “At least...that’s what I was going for, you know?”

 

“No, it works” the lead singer nodded earnestly “I get it.”

 

“Good” Pete leant up, elbows braced on the tub. The porcelain must have hut a bit, but Pete showed no sign with his large smirk. The dark haired man leant closer, until he could finally rest his head against his lead singer’s firm thigh. Patrick scoffed, water soaking into his jeans and leaving a dark circle on his pants. Though it seemed like Pete didn’t care, for he only sighed and looked up from beneath dark lashes and dyed bangs (which were clinging like tentacles to his face.)

 

“Pete, come off it...” Patrick tried lackadaisically to shove away the bassist, but his skin was wet and that only made his pale cheeks flush more.

 

“You’re the only one who gets me, Trick...” Pete purred, nestling closer and resting his dripping digits on Patrick’s thigh to further soak him through “My muse...”

 

“You know very well everything you write is for Ashlee” the red head rolled his eyes, but made no further attempt to shove away the dark haired man.

 

“Not everything, Trick” Pete murmured, almost unhappily it seemed, as he eased himself back into the shadowed water and rinsed off what lather was left on his legs. He brightened up instantly, pearly teeth flashing again. “Look there! Smooth and pale! I just love my legs!”

 

Pete planted a wet, loud smack onto each of his kneecaps...then grimaced as he caught a bit of shaving cream on his lips.

 

“Ech!” the bassist made a face, then stood unceremoniously from the tub.

 

“Ah!” Patrick covered his eyes instantly, making a show not to look. Pete made a show of looking disappointed, but the singer only threw a towel at him. Heaving a sigh, Pete wrapped the black towel around his waist and stepped out of the tub.

 

“See you later then, Trick” Pete’s voice held an air of one who had just discovered the last carton of Rocky Road ice cream was gone. He trudged heavily out of the bathroom, leaving a trail of water right back to his room.

 

Hemmingway, thoroughly rejuvenated by his forbidden nap on Patrick’s bed, trailed after his master...ready to comfort the bassist and bring him a pencil to sketch down more heartbroken lyrics.

 

Patrick made sure Pete’s door was locked before he lowered his hands, still blushing and feeling rather much like a school boy. Pete may as well have handed him a piece of lined notebook paper with Do you like me? Yes_ or No_ written down in intelligible chicken scratch while hiding behind someone and eagerly awaiting Patrick’s answer.

 

Why did he have to make up some elaborate attempt at getting his attention? Honestly! Putting down those lyrics...of course Patrick would hunt him down!

 

Bottle green eyes rose, staring at the Sally towel and silently imploring her opinion. The breeze from the vent made her dance a bit, giving the appearance of a wink followed by a sympathetic look.

 

It’s all for the best, Patrick, all for the best.

 

“Stupid prophet...” Patrick grumbled, reaching out and ripping down the towel. It fluttered to the floor, face down and as silent as the lambs. “Take that! You don’t look so smug now, do you?”

 

“Patrick?” he looked up, spotting a confused John Mayer...who seemed to be wrapped up in a white-bottle-blonde-rapper coat named after candy “Are you...talking to a towel?”

 

“Your boy’s loosing it, John” the blonde with always an angry word on his tongue snorted out.

 

“Hush!” John snapped, tapping the rapper on the head. Thoroughly scolded, John cast puppy eyes back on Patrick “Marshall was just teasing, you’re perfectly sane Patrick. Even if you were...er, talking to a towel.”

 

Patrick watched the couple continue down the hallway like some four-legged beast, he gave a sigh and didn’t even wonder why they were in the band’s house.

 

“Maybe Gabe was right, maybe I should go see that therapist...talking towels, honestly!”

 

As if talking to yourself isn’t crazy came Sally’s poor attempt at attention.

 

“Will you just die already?!” Patrick started stomping on the towel, a little bit passed pissed “You stupid glorified stalker! Jack should have gotten a restraining order on you!”

 

And with that, Patrick promptly left the bathroom muttering about how maybe his hats were on too tight.

 

 

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