literature

It Takes Two

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The house is silent when Patrick wakes up. And for one frantic moment, he can't remember why. Until he realizes that he's alone in bed, and oh yeah. That's why. Heaving himself to his feet, he stumbles past the piles of dirty clothes dotting his bedroom floor and downstairs into the kitchen. He could really use a cup of coffee-oh, wait. There is no coffee. The coffee jar got shattered last night when…well, he'd really rather not think about that just now.

The newspaper, then. A good, sharp dose of reality should be almost as good as caffeine. Shrugging on a hoodie dangling off the back of a chair, he shuffles through the living room and opens the front door. Squinting his eyes against the brilliant mid-morning sun, he takes a step out onto the front walk and almost breaks his foot on the large, heavy object sitting on his doorstep.

"Ffffffow!" he yelps, leaping back and regarding the alien object suspiciously. It's big, black, and narrow, with tarnished silver clasps and a handle hanging forlornly off one side. As the fog of pain and shock clears from his brain, he realizes that it's sort of…guitar-shaped…

"Oh, fuck," he mutters, turning on his heel and dashing back inside. The door slams shut behind him.


"Do you have any idea what fucking time it is?"

Joe's voice is thick with irritation and sleep, but at the moment Patrick's not feeling too sympathetic.

"It's eleven thirty. You should be up anyway," he snaps into the phone, fingers tapping impatiently on his kitchen counter.

"Mmph, someone's a wee bit pissy this fine morning," Joe remarks with a loud yawn. "What's gone up your butt?"

"Joe," Patrick says sharply, this close to completely losing it. He can't, though; now is not the time. He needs to save his rage. "Can I…can I interest you in a guitar?"

"No."

The reply, rapid and almost automatic, leaves Patrick momentarily speechless.

"Uhh…this is Joe Trohman I'm speaking to, right?"

"It is indeed."

"So…you really just said no? Joe Trohman refused a free guitar?"

"It's free? Well, now, that's a different matter…"

A faint sigh of relief escapes Patrick, and he slumps back against the counter. Problem solved. Good old Joe.

"Wait," Joe says suddenly. Patrick stiffens; that's not a good sign.

"I…can't," Joe grits out slowly, as if each word is causing him some deep internal pain.

"Why not?" Patrick all but shrieks. Dammit, no. Joe can't bail on him now!

"I, uh…I don't have, uh, room," Joe mumbles. "In my house. Uh. You know. Too many guitars."

"Uh huh." Patrick's voice is getting dangerous, he can tell. So, apparently, can Joe; there's a deep intake of breath on the other end of the line.

"Look, uh…Pete told me to say no," he says rapidly.

A silence. Staring blankly at his bare toes, Patrick feels his shoulders sag. Somewhere, deep down, he knew this was going to happen. Pete is just too damn sneaky to let him off that easily.

"Don't be mad at me, Rick," Joe adds hastily. "I don't know what's going on with you two, but I don't want to…"

"It's fine," Patrick says shortly.

"Really, I'm sorry, he just-"

"It's fine, Joe. Go back to bed." With a sigh, Patrick hangs up the phone. Eyes narrowed, he stares at it for a few long moments before picking it up and dialing again.


"Hello?"

Patrick doesn't waste a moment. "You fucking bastard," he snarls, hunching over and bracing one hand against his kitchen table. "You goddamn little sneak! I fucking told you not to do this anymore! I fucking told you!"

"Patrick." The warmth and cheerfulness of Pete's voice only serves to irritate Patrick more. "I thought you'd call."

"You fucking knew I'd call," Patrick retorts, "Because I don't want it."

"Want what?"

"You fucking know what."

"Don't swear so much, Trick. It's unbecoming."

"Goddammit, Pete, I'm going to kill you!"

"I'd rather you didn't, but whatever floats your boat."

"I told you," Patrick hisses, stomach clenching in rage. "I fucking told you, you know I hate it when you do this!"

"I still don't know what you're talking about," Pete replies innocently.

"I want this thing gone, you understand?" Patrick damn near shouts. "You need to fucking get rid of it, and get rid of it now."

"Is that an invitation I hear?" Pete's voice is syrupy sweet, and Patrick's heart sinks as he realizes the trap he's fallen into.

"I-what, no-don't-" he splutters, but it's too late.

"Okay! I'll be right over!" Pete chirps. The line goes dead and the phone crashes to the floor, some hopefully unimportant piece breaking off, skittering across the room, and disappearing under a counter.

"Fuck!"


If Patrick had any sense, he wouldn't have answered that doorbell. He would have stayed safely in his living room, curled up in a ball of barely controlled fury. He would have blocked out the increasingly frantic ringing, only listening when the doorbell stopped and the engine of a car started up and drove away.

As things stand, however, he's standing in his open doorway, arms folded, glaring at the grinning apparition on his doorstep.

"Go away," he snaps in one last-ditch effort to avoid the fiasco this is inevitably going to turn into.

"After I came all this way? Patrick, dearest, you know how I hate wasting my time." Pete smiles an evil, evil smile that makes Patrick want to run away and crawl into his closet and shut the door and rock back and forth quietly for a while until he forgets who the hell Pete Wentz is.

"Besides, I got you a present," Pete adds, presenting the hefty black guitar case for Patrick's disapproving inspection.

"I don't want it, Pete," he groans, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "You know I hate it when you do this."

"I thought you liked guitars." Pouting, Pete sets the case down inches from Patrick's toes. And it is awfully tempting, but…no. He can't give in.

"I do," Patrick affirms. Pete brightens, until he adds, "But that doesn't mean I need a new one. I'm perfectly fine with the ones I've got."

"You don't even have that many," Pete sulks.

"I don't need that many."

"Joe has a lot of guitars."

"Joe is a freak of nature."

"Point taken."

"Good. Now take that thing," Patrick shoots the case at his feet a hostile glance, "And go home."

"Oh, no, no, no," Pete chuckles. "Do you really think it's going to be that easy? Patrick, love, you underestimate me."

"No, I don't," Patrick mutters, glaring into the bassist's dark-lined eyes. "I knew perfectly well that you were going to stick around and draw this out like a total fucking tool."

"Patrick, darling, how you wound me," Pete declares, placing a hand over his heart and fluttering his eyelashes. It's almost cute. Almost. "The least you could do is invite me in."

"No," Patrick says shortly, a new resolve springing up inside him. "Go away."
With that, he turns away and slams the door shut.

Or tries to; there's something keeping it open. For a few moments, he'd like to pretend that he doesn't know what it is. Viciously, he gives the doorknob a few extra tugs and is rewarded by a yelp of pain from outside.

"Easy, easy on the foot, man. These are new Supras."

All the hairs on the back of Patrick's neck stand on end as Pete's voice materializes right beside his ear.

"Get," he begins, spinning around, "Out. Of. My. House."

"But I've only just gotten here!" Pete wails, clutching the case in front of him in mock-fear.

He's making fun of me, Patrick tells himself, feeling his blood pressure skyrocket. He's fucking making fun of me, I know it.

"Nice place you've got here," Pete remarks from across the room. Patrick shuts the door all the way and twirls on his heel to find that Pete's sitting on the couch, leaning the guitar case against his knees and looking around like he hasn't seen this room dozens upon dozens of times. "How come all your furniture's banged up?"

"Pete." Pressing hard against his closed eyelids, Patrick tries to fish a few coherent words out of the angry soup of his mind. "Stop."

"Why should I?" Pete's tone is light, but Patrick knows better than to trust that voice. Shoulders tensed, he presses harder against his eyes as he hears the clasps on the case snapping open.

"Pete."

"You gave me hell last night," Pete goes on conversationally, "So why shouldn't I give you hell now?"

Right about then, Patrick stops breathing. He'd been hoping for a day or two of peace and quiet and alone time to clear his head. Maybe then he could have handled this reasonably. Stupid, stupid, stupid; Pete would never have let that happen. Patrick's honestly kind of surprised that he even got eight hours.

"If you've come here," Patrick begins quietly, keeping his eyes closed, "To carry on where you left off last night, you can get the fuck out right this minute. I am done fighting with you."

"I'm not here to fight," Pete replies softly.

"Really? Because it pretty fucking well seems like you are!" Patrick snaps, opening his eyes but keeping them fixed on the floor for now. The last thing he needs right now is to see those pretty fucking brown puppy eyes.

"You're the one fighting with me."

"It takes two to tango," Patrick replies through gritted teeth. "Get. Out."

"I'm here to make amends." The words are punctuated with a chord. And man, it sounds fucking terrible. There's Pete Wentz for you: spends nine years with guitarists and doesn't learn a fucking thing.

"Put that thing away right now," Patrick orders icily.

"But I bought it for you." And this time Pete sounds genuinely sad, and it's enough to make Patrick want to rip his throat out.

"How many fucking times do I have to tell you?" he shrieks, finally raising his eyes to Pete's pathetic little face. "You can't just get me a guitar every time I'm angry at you!"

And then his throat sort of closes up, because he finally catches sight of the guitar in question. Patrick would really, really like to hate it like he hates the man holding it, but the fact is, it's gorgeous. A beautiful old acoustic, it's a warm golden color with sides and neck of a dark shade of honey. The sound hole is ringed by a simple dark red and green border, and a delicate filigree of hairline cracks stretches across the body. Catching sight of the name on the headstock, he feels his eyes go round.

"Is that a Goya?" he blurts out before he realizes what he's saying.

"Vintage," Pete nods, clearly fighting to keep a smirk off his stupid face.

"Stop smiling," Patrick snaps, striding forward and snatching the guitar off his lap.

"I wasn't smiling!" Pete protests, but Patrick's not even listening anymore. Tossing himself down into the nearest chair, he settles the guitar onto his lap and marvels at its shape, at the way the curves of the body fit so perfectly against him. He runs his fingers down the fret board, noting where the frets have been worn down by years of use. Now this is a guitar that he could really get used to.

Looking up, he realizes that Pete's watching him with big, hopeful eyes. He has the sadistic impulse to hand him back the guitar, but he doesn't have the heart to carry it out. Instead, he says, weakly, "I can't keep this."

"Oh, but you can," Pete says earnestly, rocking forward with barely contained glee. "I've paid it off and everything."

"You can't keep doing this," Patrick mumbles, knowing that he's fighting a losing battle. "You can't just buy me a guitar every time you screw up."

"I know, I know," Pete sighs, hanging his head. But it snaps back up as he adds, "But there's always drums and bass, and maybe one day a tambourine."

Blowing an exasperated sigh past his pursed lips, Patrick tries to ignore Pete laughing and getting to his feet. Resolve melting like a snowball in hell, he turns his gaze back to the guitar and plucks a few strings softly.

"This doesn't mean that I've forgiven you, you know," he says finally, looking up into Pete's childishly excited face.

"I know," he smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to Patrick's cheek. "But I figure it's a start."
OHAY YOU GUIZ REMEMBER ME LOL?
Yeah. It's been a while.
I had a sudden moment of feeling bad for not posting anything in like forever and a half, so I wrote this up in two or so hours. It's kind of retarded, but oh well.

Inspired by something that Pete Wentz posted on his Twitter, quoting 10 Things I Hate About You. And the darling :iconrubellainfectious: for providing the other half of the quote, of course.

The title's majorly stupid, I know, I just couldn't think of anything. Anyway. Hope you like. Comment and all that crap, you know what to do. Give me a reason to keep writing this silliness.

PS: I have a Goya. It brings me happiness. :3

Info for Peterick Contest
My quote: You can't just buy me a guitar every time you screw up.
I don't know if this is even elligible to submit, since it just occurred to me that the quote isn't a Pete Wentz original. I'm quoting Pete Wentz quoting Ten Things I Hate About You.

Anywaayyy, the quote inspired me because, yeah, they're in a band, and guitars. But it also seemed like something that Pete would do. So hope that's enough of an explanation.
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littlefreak101's avatar
What was Patrick mad about