Title: Sessions
Author: Kasha
Rating: R-ish
Summary: Completely self-indulgent AU crack!fic. Patrick is a studio musician. Peter is in a boyband. No, seriously.
Author’s Notes: So false. Also, this baby’s going to be long, but we’re winding down now, kids. Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! Also, props to anyone who can identify the hold music.

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They still went to Taco Bell.

Patrick ordered a #4 with sour cream on the side, and Pete ordered a soft taco kids meal just so he could get a free Star Wars watch. When he got C-3PO instead of Darth Vader, he made Patrick get back in line and hassle the acne-ridden sixteen-year-old behind the register until “Hi, My Name Is TRAINEE” finally caved and procured a Dark Lord of the Sith from somewhere in the back, behind the nachos.

Their conversation while they ate wasn’t awkward so much as it was nonexistent—both of them sat on the same side of the booth and spent the entirety of the meal reading the tabloid spread out between them. (Pete had bribed it off of the girl by giving her his old library card, which was just, yeah, creepy, and made Patrick regret even more that Pete refused to follow his whispered advice to shove the kid to the sidewalk and run.)

The article itself was full of fabricated quotes and comma errors, and Patrick didn’t really get to read all of it because Pete had the somewhat distracting habit of mumbling words out loud to himself as he read them. This habit, coupled with Pete’s tendency to talk with his mouth full, created an environment not at all conducive to in-depth reading.

What Patrick did manage to read, though, was enough to give him the general idea: Chris wrote a tell-all letter to the editor explaining that Pete had decided to leave Fyre on his own (something about “musical freedom”) and that Mr. Bowens and Mr. Reynolds had cooked up the drug story in an attempt to save the rest of the band. Also, apparently, according to the giant sidebar on page 9, Pete’s budding relationship with song-siren Ashlee Simpson was still going strong despite his drug abuse rumors and her own battle with bird flu.

So, while Patrick appreciated that Chris was trying to do the right thing, he really, really hoped the guy had had enough sense to send his letter to a few slightly more reputable sources as well. Because, seriously: “Our love runs too deep to be conquered by man or God or the Avian Kingdom,” Simpson told this reporter, tears of passion in her eyes.

When they were done eating, Pete carefully folded up the tabloid and tucked it under one arm for safekeeping. Then, he proceeded to spend the entire walk back to Patrick’s apartment growing increasingly frustrated with his Darth Vader watch.

“Why the fuck does it still say ‘am,’ Patrick? I pushed in that stupid knob thing,” Pete was saying as Patrick let them in. “Or was I supposed to push this other thing?”

Patrick did not respond.

“Trick?” Pete looked up from the uncooperative hunk of plastic in his hands long enough to glare at the uncooperative hunk of carbon and mostly water next to him. “I could use some help here, you know. This is really fucking complicated.”

Patrick still did not respond.

“Patrick,” and Pete was getting annoyed now, Patrick could tell by the edge in his voice. “Are you even listening to me?”

Patrick finally responded, in the form of a finger pointed toward the couch.

Which was currently home to the slouching figures of the remaining members of Fyre.

(The theme of the day—and Patrick was grudgingly impressed they were still sticking to a theme even while missing a member—was hats. Chris had on a bright red beret with his name stitched on it in green. Somewhere in the distance, Patrick thought he could hear the faint wail of baby Jesus crying.)

Pete gaped, but Patrick just threw up his arms in frustration and stalked off to the kitchen to find the phonebook—partly because he wanted to give Pete some privacy to work things out with the band, but mostly because he didn’t think there was anyone left in the entire tri-state area who hadn’t broken into his apartment, and it was really starting to get kind of ridiculous.

So that was how Patrick spent the next twenty minutes: leaning against the kitchen counter, listening to the hold music for Leapin’ Lou’s Locksmith League and pretending not to be listening to the tense snatches of conversation coming from the other room.

“—my motto’s always been ‘when it’s right, it’s right.’ Why wait until the middle of a cold, dark—”

“—still don’t see how you could just fucking up and leave, man, after everything—”

“—rubbing sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite, and the thought of loving you is getting so—”

“—didn’t even know he was going to do that, Pete, come on, that was all Bowens. We wouldn’t do that to you, not—”

“—you for holding. Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line, and Leapin’ Lou will be—”

“—were a joke, guys. I hate to say it, but you know we weren’t real. It wouldn’t have lasted much—”

“Hello and thank you for calling Leapin’ Lou’s. This is Martha speaking, and how may I help you today?”

Patrick snapped out of his daze, blushing and looking down guiltily even though there was no one around to witness his eavesdropping, then began quizzing Martha on how best to intruder-proof his apartment.



* * *



Patrick wound up spending a good forty-five minutes on the phone with Martha—maybe ten of which were spent actually discussing locks and lock-related accessories. The rest were spent in a rather heated debate on the merits of the band Deadbolt.

By the time Patrick made his way back out into the living room, then, everyone was already gone. Except Pete, of course, who was gripping the armrests of Patrick’s grungy old chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white, and who didn’t even look up when Patrick sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of him.

“Didn’t go well?” Patrick ventured.

“No,” Pete said, still not looking up. “I mean, yeah, I guess. Went as well as could be expected. Just…not really a good situation, you know?”

“Yeah,” and that was the understatement of the fucking century.

“Chris says he sent that letter out to everyone. Rolling Stone, People, The National Enquirer. The New York Times. Only that one tabloid’s printed it so far. But, you know. It’s only been a few days, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Patrick repeated stupidly. “Maybe they just haven’t had time to figure out how to spin it. Or whatever.”

Pete nodded, rather unconvincingly, but didn’t say anything.

“Are things at least cool with the rest of the band?”

Pete finally looked up at that, unclenching his hands and smiling ruefully.

“Yeah. More or less. I mean, we’re not going to be having, like, slumber parties and pillowfights in our underwear or anything, but I’m not going to wake up to a brick being hurled through my window. So that’s something.”

Patrick laughed at that, a little bit at the mental image of Chris in a camisole and boyshorts, painting fingernails and gossiping, but mostly just out of relief that Pete was no longer trying to strangle his furniture.

“I noticed, before I left the room, um. Hats.” Patrick paused, unsure as to how, exactly, to phrase his question. “I always wanted to ask you about that, you know.”

“About hats? Well, they’re a form of cranial decoration—”

“Can it, Wentz. You know that’s not what I meant. I was talking about the whole ‘themed clothing’ thing.”

Pete looked like he might deny it for a minute, then snorted and shook his head.

“Bowens had this team of fashion consultants. Paid ‘em ridiculous salaries just to put together these insane wardrobe schemes. So every week we’d get these, like, color-coded schedules telling us what to wear and how to accessorize, all that stuff.”

Patrick couldn’t help it. He tried to stop it. Honest. But he couldn’t. Color-coded? He laughed.

No, he fucking howled.

Pete frowned and dug around in his pocket for something to throw. “Some supportive boyfriend you are.”

“Ouch,” Patrick said, because Darth Vader was one pointy little bastard.

But he was smiling too widely over the “boyfriend” bit to sound very hurt.