Paradoxymoron [2/2]

Title: Paradoxymoron [2/2]
Band/Pairing: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Author: xxdance
Rating: R. Language. Sexual references.
Summary: In which Patrick is not a college student and Pete is not a journalist.
Disclaimer: Never happened.
Dedications: For fianna_fialena because she wanted a drabble based around "Coffee Shop Soundtrack" by All Time Low. Unfortunately, I don't understand the concept of drabble and thus, this happened. But it's kind of sort of perhaps a little cute, so I decided she could have it. Also, TWO FICS IN ONE DAY. This has to be a record. ALSO, final sidenote, if anybody has any sort of sway with Patrick whatsoever, please persuade him to cover both "Hallelujah" and "Blackbird" by the Beatles. Please. I will die.

chapter one.



Two weeks later, and Patrick still couldn't get that fucking guy out of his head.

He liked to think it was because he was curious. All he really wanted was to know more about him. Pete was pretty secretive, after all, and who wouldn't want to know more about someone like that?

Apparently not Andy. Joe held on to Andy's arm when Pete left so suddenly, because Andy had that look in his eyes that meant 'fight.' No matter how many times Patrick told Andy he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself (and he was, really), he still felt the need to threaten anybody who so much as shortchanged Patrick at the shop.

When Pete came into the shop two weeks later (to the day), Patrick choked on his soda and tried to pretend he hadn't been hoping for it the whole time.

"So, what, you're just not going to play ever again?" Pete asked, as though they'd already been deep in conversation. He leaned against the counter with his easy grace, smirking in a way that makes Patrick understand, for a moment, why Andy wanted to punch him so bad.

Patrick has this bizarre habit of deliberately mishearing the first line of any conversation. "Sorry, what?" he asked, trying to soak up the soda he'd spilled with a napkin.

"The coffee shop. You're not going to ever play again, huh?"

"Oh," Patrick replied, "that. No, probably not."

Pete slammed his fist down on the counter. "Well, why the fuck not?" he asked, too loud.

"Jesus," Patrick said, hushing his voice as though to counteract Pete's. "This is a bookstore, Pete, could you be a little quieter?"

"I'm aware of the fact that it's a bookstore," Pete said sarcastically, "judging from all the fucking books, but seriously. Why aren't you playing again?"

Patrick glared at him, just a little, because you can't just walk out of someone's life (even if you were only in it for about fifteen minutes) and then walk back in, demanding answers. "I fail to see how it's any of your business," Patrick said, abandoning his post at the counter to go fix the Young Adult shelf.

Pete followed him. "It's my business because your voice is fucking magic, Patrick, you don't even know."

Patrick blushed a little, turning squarely to face the bookshelf so Pete wouldn't see. "And anyway," he said, pretending he hadn't heard, "how do you know I haven't been there?"

Pete leaned in really close to his ear, enough to make Patrick's fingers slip and have to press his body against the bookshelf in order to keep the books he'd been holding from falling. "Would it creep you out if I said I've been there every fucking day in the hopes you'd be there, singing again?" he whispered, tickling Patrick's ear.

"No," Patrick said, face pressed into a copy of some chick-lit novel. How appropriate, he thought.

"Maybe it should," Pete said, stepping back. "But seriously, Patrick Stump, why are you not going back? You could be fucking huge."

"Maybe I don't want to be 'fucking huge,'" Patrick replied, hoping it was safe to turn around. He did it anyway. "Maybe I just want to be Patrick."

Apparently it wasn't safe as Pete leaned in again. "Maybe being Patrick isn't enough."

"Rebecca?" Patrick shouted, over Pete's shoulder. "I'm going on break, okay? I'll be back in a half hour." He glared at Pete, daring him to try to stop him. "I'll do what I want, okay? If you want fame so bad, you get up there and do it," he growled, brushing past Pete, grabbing his jacket, and breezing out of the store.

Pete ran after him. "I have before, Patrick, and it's just not the same. Do you even know what you have? I mean, people would kill for your voice."

Patrick stopped suddenly and spun on his heel. "Well they can have it, okay? If I wanted the attention I would look for it. I don't, so I don't. It's that simple. Not everybody likes to be the center of attention."

Pete was so stunned he simply let Patrick go.

---

Like a herpes outbreak, Patrick thought, Pete had the uncanny ability to show up when he was least wanted.

"So when are you guys going to start carrying CDs?" he asked, day sixteen of his apparent 'Bother Patrick on a Daily Basis Until He Cracks' plan. Not that Patrick was counting.

"We're not Barnes and Noble or Borders," Patrick said, with the kind of soft annoyance he'd come to learn was only reserved for Pete. "We're Rebecca's Books. We carry books. And magazines. And homemade scones. We don't carry CDs."

"If you don't start carrying CDs, I'm going to run out of excuses to come here aside from the fact that I think the cashier is cute," Pete said.

Patrick ducked behind the counter again, blushing. You'd think, after sixteen days, he'd develop some kind of resistance. He didn't.

"Wouldn't that just be tragic," Patrick said, from under the counter.

Pete jumped half over the counter, head and arms hanging over the edge. "Admit it, Patrick--you want me around. I'm like the devil."

"I'll say."

"Everybody wants the devil around, Patrick."

"Really," Patrick said, staring up at Pete's grin from the floor. "Because I sure don't."

"If he's around, you can keep an eye on him. Plus he's cute and charismatic and cute little cashier boys think he doesn't notice when they stare at his ass as he leaves," Pete said.

"I do not," Patrick scoffed, tying his already-tied shoe.

"I was actually talking about the guy at the record store down the street," Pete said, and Patrick could hear the grin in his voice. "But thanks for confirming that. You're a horrible liar, you know that?"

"Rebecca?" Patrick called, still on the floor. "Break!"

---

Day twenty-four, and Pete didn't show up.

At first, Patrick pretended to be relieved. An hour went by. Two. By the third, he was panicking.

At hour six, the phone rang.

"I'm sick," Pete's voice said. "I'm dying."

"Judging from your sniffling," Patrick said drily, ignoring the way his heartbeat instantly calmed down, "you have a cold."

"It's SARS, Patrick," Pete said, sounding pained. "I'm a goner, and you never made out with me before I died."

Patrick nearly dropped the phone. "What makes you think I would do that?"

"Tell me you'll at least bring me soup? No chicken, please, I'm vegetarian, but broccoli-cheddar would be great, thanks."

"I am not going to bring you soup," Patrick scoffed, twirling the phone cord around a finger.

"Just bring yourself, then, and I'll eat you."

This time, Patrick really did drop the phone. When he picked it back up, he could hear Pete laughing.

"C'mon, please? I come by every day to see you and you won't pop in to see me on my deathbed. That's cold, Patrick, that's really fucking cold."

"I'm at work, Pete."

"And you'll be off in a half hour, Patrick. Come on, surely you can take fifteen minutes out of your busy schedule to come hang out with me? Please?"

And Patrick wasn't going to--no, really, he wasn't--but Pete said 'please.' Please. Pete fucking Wentz, of all people, said
'please.'

Patrick sighed. "Okay, what's your address?"

---

When Patrick showed up at the door an hour later with a bouquet of daisies (two bucks, you can't pass up a deal like that, not even for Pete), he didn't expect to find Pete actually looking sick.

"Flowers," Pete said, holding a tissue under his nose. "You fucking brought me flowers. You really are something, Stump."

"If I get sick because of this--"

"I'll come visit you every day and make you homemade soup," Pete said, accepting the daisies. "So I'll be sure to sneeze on you."

What Patrick found when he entered Pete's apartment was not what he was expecting. What he was expecting was a disaster. Pete, surprisingly, kept his apartment fairly neat, aside from the papers scattered all over his table and the pile of clothes outside what Patrick assumed was the bathroom.

"Since you weren't nice enough to bring me soup," Pete said, gesturing to his couch, "I won't be able to offer you anything to eat. Well, I could, but I get the feeling that if I did you'd run out the door."

"You've already made that joke once today," Patrick said, trying to conceal a grin.

"No, see, this time it's me instead of you." Pete paused, absorbing Patrick's ill-guarded smile. "Fuck you, Stump, I'm sick."

Patrick felt all of a sudden uncomfortable, because this was entirely too comfortable. He was in the apartment of a twenty-two year old guy who was quite obviously hitting on him, and he'd brought him flowers, and shit, Patrick was obviously blushing now, and Patrick really hated Pete, didn't he? He was obnoxious and loud and far too pushy. So why was he suddenly unable to breathe exactly right?

"Pete," Patrick said, rather desperately. "Pete, could you open a window? It's eight hundred fucking degrees in here."

Pete quirked an eyebrow, looking at the thermostat. "It's sixty-four, Patrick. And it's like eighty at your store so don't even try to tell me that's too warm."

"Well, I, uh," Patrick said, stuttering. "I have to get going, I've got a ton of homework--"

And Pete, damn him, actually looks hurt. "Oh. Um. Okay, then, see you around I guess," he told his feet.

"Yeah, okay," Patrick said, rushing to the door.

"Wait, Patrick," Pete asked, now staring right at him. Fuck. "Look, do you want me to come visit you tomorrow or not?"

Patrick thought about it. Yes, he did. No, definitely not. Of course. Of course not.

He sighed.

"I really don't know, Pete."

"Ah," Pete said, still looking hurt. "Well, I'll--I'll just pop in tomorrow and then leave you alone, okay? I actually have something to buy tomorrow."

"All right, okay, see you tomorrow then," Patrick said, even though his chest felt tight.

"Yeah, right. Definitely, see you tomorrow."

Patrick made it sixteen steps from Pete's door before he turned right around and knocked.

"Oh," Pete said, looking behind him, "what'd you leave? I'll grab it."

And Patrick grabbed him by the face, ignoring the fact that Pete had a tissue in one hand and a Advil Cold and Sinus pill in the other, and kissed him.

And okay, it wasn't the best kiss in the world. Pete was honestly to surprised to do anything but blink, and Patrick was rather deficient in the area of kissing guys (anybody, really) so he kind of just made it up as he went along.

Pete pulled away suddenly, and sneezed into his elbow.

"Oh shit," Patrick said, hands raising up towards his face. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry, I just--"

"Oh you had better not be sorry," Pete scowled. "You don't fucking do that and then say you're sorry, Stump. You do that and mean it."

Patrick just gaped for a minute, unable to do anything but watch Pete wipe his nose. It was gross, really, especially considering the fact that he just kissed him, but he honestly couldn't move to do anything different.

"I am all too aware of the fact that you're seventeen right now," Pete said. "Stop it."

Patrick swallowed. "Yeah, okay. I just, um. Can I sit down?"

"Yeah," Pete said, smiling. "Obviously, you were just sitting down before you left."

"Right," Patrick said, still lost. "Okay."

A few moments passed.

"So are you going to sit down, or what?"

Patrick sat.

"Listen, Stump, if you're going to get all teenager on me this is just not going to work, okay?" Pete said.

"Will you stop calling me Stump already, Wentz? My name is Patrick," Patrick exclaimed, frowning.

Pete grinned. "I knew you were still in there, Stump."

---

Day thirty, and Patrick had butterflies that told him maybe instead of kissing Pete, he should have punched him.

He shuffled up to the microphone, guitar slung over his shoulder. He could learn to hate that stool.

"Patrick Stump," he said. "I'm Patrick Stump, I mean."

A volley of cheers from Andy, Joe, and Pete.

"Jesus, guys, that's unnecessary. Anyway, I'm going to play a song now so I don't have to listen to them," he said, trying to choke down a smile.

Patrick even saw a few hipster heads nod when he played "Blackbird." Everybody can appreciate the Beatles, he thought, and congratulated himself on his choice.

He didn't even mess it up, except maybe for when his finger slipped during the second chorus, but nobody seemed to mind judging from the applause when he finished. Applause. For him.

"Okay," Patrick told Pete afterwards. "Okay, but that's fucking it."

"My ass that's it," Pete growled, much to the amusement of Andy and Joe (apparently, Andy had discovered that Patrick could take care of himself, for the most part). "You're getting up there every fucking week until you're a star."

Patrick scowled. "No, I'm not. I don't care if I sing like a fucking siren--"

"His parents are going to kill us," Andy whispered to Joe, "before he started hanging out with us I never heard him so much as say 'crap.'"

"--I am keeping it to myself, Pete."

Pete glared.

Patrick glared back.

"Well, okay," Pete said, sighing. "For now. But there are rules. You have to sing around me on a daily basis--"

Patrick nodded, taking a sip of coffee.

"--Naked."

Patrick spit his coffee onto Pete. "That's it, you're not making the rules anymore."

"Like hell, I'm not," Pete said, crossing his arms.

Patrick grabbed his coat and coffee, storming off towards the door. "Whatever, Wentz."

Pete just grinned. Okay, so he wasn't a journalist, and Patrick wasn't the next teen heartthrob.

But they were something, all right.