HEy nOW, HEY NOW. New chap full of experiences that Patrick doesn't need right now and I've literally had this written for days and I've been afraid of posting because I'm a big chicken who can't flap their wings. Anyway posting this now for the sheer fact that I'm going to see fob tonight and hOly shit, but yeah enjoy!
Patrick let out a quiet groan, turning his head to the side he reluctantly cracked an eye open, immediately met with the most horrific thing. Sunlight, that is. Resisting the urge to hiss like a vampire, he blearily opens his eyes and at a snail's pace, sits up.
Taking a glance at his surroundings, he's met with the color beige. "Plain Jane," he softly mutters at the sight. It takes him at least twenty seconds to realize he's not in his own home, but Pete's apartment.
Ah, yes, falling asleep while watching soap operas at two in the morning with your so-called "friend," Patrick thinks to himself, with a glum frown. He kicks his feet out, striving for a more comfortable position, but manages a faint collision to something solid. With a furrowed brow he peers down and is met with the most adorable spectacle.
Pete Wentz, the guy currently ruining his life, curled around a plush pillow in between his legs with tufts of hair laid carelessly astray. Unkempt and disheveled, yet Patrick can't help but find it endearing. Ignoring the faint traces of drool on Pete's bottom lip, Patrick ponders to himself whether or not this is creepy before he hears the sound of a door jingling.
He struggles out of the duvet wrinkled over his lap and briskly stands up. So quick he goes lightheaded and his vision is victorious in blacking out and he almost stumbles over the coffee table in front of him. Gently shaking his head back and forth, his sight comes to and he's met with a tall lanky dude clad in glasses and a dark jacket stood at the front door. Well to be quite honest every one seems tall to Patrick.
The guy's expression is blank, but his eyes are filled with a blazing fury that would turn anyone to stone. Seconds pass of them staring at one another - Patrick wondering whether or not they're having a stare-down from the tension overwhelming the room and all that is in it. He can tell this dude isn't too happy - the look of him makes that clear.
Say something. Say something. Say something. Patrick thinks, berating himself to speak and defuse the dislike cooking up in this frying pan of a situation.
"Um," is all that comes out of his mouth - so to say he's definitely the next Shakespeare with his vast vocabulary. The guy arches a brow at him, gives him a one look over and wrinkles his nose in distaste. Okay, Patrick's used to the look of disgust because he doesn't exactly look "child friendly," but come on.
He realizes the guy's still gazing at his chest, making an irritated expression, so being reasonably curious his eyes dip down and - oh. He's not wearing a shirt - why the hell isn't he wearing a shirt? Where did his shirt go? Looking back and forth from the ugly beige to the chocolate brown coffee table his shirt is no where in plain sight.
Well isn't this awkward.
"This totally isn't what it looks like," Patrick puts in abruptly when he notices the man's eyes go from him to Pete on the couch with his drool soaked pillow - which Patrick would normally find unpleasant, but who could find something so small and cute, gross?...Not him apparently.
YOU ARE READING
The Silence in my head is deafening (Peterick)
RandomPete's eyes scan over the article, from the image of the man himself, holding a guitar on stage, Pete's assuming he's a musician, seems his name is Patrick Stump, and he's twenty years old, young, Pete muses, before shaking his head. He's not even...
