andwhoareyousweetheart: (Fall Out Boy)
[personal profile] andwhoareyousweetheart
Title: Believe Me, It's Easy To Scream When You're Bleeding
Rating: PG-13 (for language, mild violence, and discussion of attempted suicide)
Pairing: General (vague Patrick/Pete)
POV: Third Person (Pete centric)
Summary: Pete vaguely remembers a blind, misguided sort of wishing for his reason for fighting.  And then he remembers nothing at all.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is fiction, nothing less, nothing more.
A/N: Just a story I wrote to cure my writer's-block - apparently since Joe!fic is completed my brain feels no need to be creative whatsoever. I don't know how good this is, but it might be part of a master plan. We shall see. This is based heavily on events that occurred involving Pete that we, quite honestly, know nothing about. For evidence/an explanation of such events, just ask me in the comments what the hell it is I'm rambling about, and I'll link you to the entries on Pete's blog that explain these things. Long story short, he got beat up badly, and has never told us how/why/whatthehellevenPeter. This is my version of what might have happened that night, and in the days/weeks following. It came out a little Patrick/Pete ship-y, but not too bad - just consider it misplaced Patrick/Pete BFF angsting. The only other thing I feel I should add is that J-Mont, someone mentioned in this, is an MTV reporter notorious for writing mostly-gossiping articles about our Fall Out Boy. I would be glad to discuss his authenticity as a real person and/or my opinions on him in the comments as well. These scenes are in no order. And, finally, the title and cut text are taken from the demo version of Hedley's "Saturday". (Holy hell this breaks my personal record for "Longest A/N Ever". I apologize.)

Pete doesn't remember much.  He remembers throwing the first punch, the way solid flesh felt against his knuckles, bones threatening to bend and break with added force.  And Pete remembers the way the other guy's first punch felt, Pete's camera-ready bone structure shifting towards total collapse.  The only other person who had ever punched Pete that hard, hard enough to ruin his perfect goddamn cheekbones, was Patrick.

Pete vaguely remembers a blind, misguided sort of wishing for his reason for fighting.  And then he remembers nothing at all.


"Please don't call me.  I'm fine.  I can take a punch, you know, and Jesus...  Christ, Patrick.  Why are we doing this?  I don't want to lose you, this, I just fucking cannot -

You know what, just.  Don't call."


The cloth is cool on his forehead.  Pete's head fucking aches, the bandages wrapped so tight that they're cutting off his circulation.  Blue feelings, blue face, he almost thinks.  Almost laughs.  Pete's not sure, his head, fuck -

"Jesus, Patrick, not so hard, 'Trick," he grunts, and the hand stills.

"It's Gabe."

Pete passes out again.


The news is having a hay-day.  MTV is, anyways.  J-Mont probably already has a damn article lined up: "Pete Wentz Loses Fight, Possibly Drunken".  Good for fucking you, James, Pete thinks, as he taps his fingers with frightening irregularity on the side casing of his laptop.  I hope they promote you, my friend.

Pete has been piecing it together in his head, bit by bit.  It's slow work.  He's fuzzy and fucked up and without sleep.  He could've made a vain attempt at taking too many Advil, but his throat would have closed up after the fourth.  Excessive pill taking tends to cause immunity to the medicine, anyways.

Pete makes a list of mocking explanations for his injuries.  He wonders if he'll read it, be concerned, pick up a phone.  Pete lingers before he presses enter.

Almost adds, I fought for you, just a little bit too late.


Pete thinks that the reason he's going in circles is because he literally can't think straight.  He almost writes the line down, before he remembers that Patrick doesn't need his words.

He's got his own, now.


"How the fuck did I get on a plane?"

Gabe laughs, shakes his head, clears his throat.  "No fucking clue, man," he supplies, voice thick with tequila (alcohol is God's natural pain killer, after all).  "Not a fuckin' clue.  Did ya up good, though."

Pete nods and digs his fingers into the side of his glass.  Airport bars have shitty cups.  He could probably shatter it if he wanted to.

He swallows what's inside, and shatters himself, instead.


"Ticket to Chicago," he mutters, gruff.  His sunglasses are fucking with his reality, turning everything a depressing shade of brown, and Pete's pretty damn sure he looks like a terrorist.  But what the fuck ever, Pete has got to get on this plane, get home, get back to -

"You know," he says, as the woman in front of him types furiously on her computer, "do you think you could make that to LA instead?"


The flash from Pete's camera lights up his empty house.  He doesn't look at the picture.  He wants to look ugly as fuck, terrifying, repulsive, scary -

Mostly he wants to look hurt.

His excuse for the phone sitting right next to him is that he'll need it if he grows a pair and decides to take all the medicine prescribed to him, but a phone waiting for a call has a different sort of weight than one that is not.



"Why'd you do it?"

"I don't know," Pete says.

It's a lie.


Pete talks to a lawyer.  The man bores him to death, brings the white noise in the corners and recesses of Pete's mind to full focus.  He talks about legal obligations, the consequences possible for Pete's actions, whether or not anyone has proof, and Pete allows his vision to blur.

"This isn't what I want," Pete says eventually, and the man freezes, mid-sentence.  "I don't want - I'm not four years old. I can take care of myself."

The lawyer eyes Pete's bandages and raises an eyebrow.  Pete goes back to listening to his own static.


"You asshole," Joe says.  Pete can't believe he's here.  "You ass, do you have any idea -"

"Joe," Pete says.  "You're not in New York."

Joe blinks.  "I'm here," he supplies slowly, "which means that I, like, can't be in New York.  You sure you're okay, dude?"

Pete nods his head, and says, "No."

Joe doesn't blink, wince, or complain when Pete collapses forward into him.


Pete is pretty sure blood thins when you're in the upper layers of the atmosphere.  It's like a mind game - if blood thins up high, and Pete takes double the amount of Advil he's supposed to, then he'll either die faster or slower, depending on whether or not -

But thinned blood isn't less blood, it's just thinner.  So would anything really change at all?

Everything would change, Pete thinks, in spite of himself, and then he's leaning forward to let his head rest against the back of the seat in front of him with a loud thump.

Pete realizes that blood might actually thicken up here, for all he knows.  That would explain the painful, sharp contractions in his heart.


"Are you really okay, man?"

It's weird for Pete, having Joe right next to him, sitting on his couch with a Playstation controller in his hand and staring right at him.  Pete had been getting his ass schooled thoroughly in Mario Kart before Joe had inexplicably paused the game.

"'m fine," he mutters, looking at the screen and not at Joe.  "I'm just fan-fucking-tastic."

"More like sar-fucking-castic," Joe says.  His voice sounds soft with a slight edge of worry, like liquid disapproval mixed with a tad of off-color longing, but he sighs and un-pauses the game anyways.

It's easy for Joe to be worried about him.  Joe has Marie and The Damned Things.  Andy has Fuck City and Mixon and Ryan and all his other dudes.  Patrick has his music, his girlfriend, his life.

Pete has his memories of a life of music with Patrick.  Pete has nothing.


"What the fuck, Pete?"

Pete just stands there, staring at her.  His face hurts.  Hurts like fucking hell, and his vision is blurring at the edges, alcohol mixing with pain medication to form some beautiful, golden concoction.

"I dunno," he slurs, before he giggles a little.  "I dunno, Ash, s'now big deal."

"No fucking -  Pete.  You're drunk and covered in blood and I have to leave for New York tonight.  You were supposed to be here hours ago to take care of Bronx."

He doesn't say anything.

In the end, she takes Bronx with her.  Pete misses him - he's his kid.  But maybe he's a little relieved.  The little dude is young and innocent, and Pete's has no desire to ruin someone else's life tonight.

Besides, it's not like he can even take care of anyone (including himself).


I don't miss you.  I miss what we used to be.  Singing on a stage, "We'll be okay", and I lied through my teeth for you.  You were always better than little old me and I was always overcompensating for something I didn't even want in the first place.  You&I were never we, we were F-O-B.  Don't you remember?

I do(n't).


"What's the truth, Pete?" Joe asks, and Pete laughs a little.

"He asked me what young, innocent kids I was going to ruin now that I was done with Fall Out Boy.  I snapped.  I didn't try to ruin him, Joe, or you, and I -"

"You didn't ruin me," Joe says, and his voice is eggshell-walking soft.  "I did that all on my own."

"Catalyst," Pete grumbles, and Joe sighs.

"Catalysts don't do anything on their own, dude.  You still gotta have a reaction for it to, like, work.  I paid attention in Chemistry, man, I know how this shit goes."

Pete half laughs, half cries.  "He was my best friend.  What now?"

"You get a dog?"

Pete's never been more thankful that he corrupted Joe.


When Pete turns on his phone two weeks after the incident, the voice mail is waiting for him.

He deletes it without listening, and feels none the more empty for it.


"Dude, I know I keep calling, but I just want you to know that I'm fine, and...  And I promised I'd always call, even just to say I'm not calling.  I'm not going to call anymore, unless it's to tell you that I'm not calling, in which case I'll be calling.

I miss my words in your voice.  My voice isn't as good with them.

I fought for you, but I forgot that you didn't ask me to.  I fought for you, but I forgot that you hate fighting.

Sometimes it still hurts."
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