When All the Stars Align (For You and I)

when all the stars align.

***Long time no see!  In honor of my home state and of Valentine's Day, here's some Peterick, California lovin'-style.***

When Pete calls, Patrick's in the middle of a study session—and by "study session," he means staring at a physics textbook and cursing Cornell University and the whole goddamn Ivy League for dictating his note-taking requirements. There are eraser shavings in his lap and his entire thumb is smudged gray with graphite, and when he closes his eyes all he can see is highlighter yellow across the vastness of overwritten binder paper.

Basically, Wentzus Interruptus is a fucking godsend.

Patrick's screen lights up with the graduation selfie they took last May, his stupid face and Pete's stupid tongue staring up at him while "...Baby One More Time" blares from the tiny speakers. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he slides right, holding the phone to his ear. "Long time, no speak, asshole."

"Time is a social construct," intones Pete, in his best imitation of a wise guru voice. It's basically his normal voice if he took, like, a shit-ton of Ambien, but Pete's never been much of an actor; Patrick's willing to give credit where credit's due. "You ever stop to wonder why lunch is always at noon? Or why dinner's always at six?"

"I eat lunch at 11:30, so stop generalizing," says Patrick, which feels like a familiar response even though he's certain they've never actually had this conversation before. "Seriously, if this is all you're doing, your parents should ask for their money back."

"Oh, don't worry. I save all my best intellectual material for fighting college professors."

"Glad to know I get the short end of the stick."

"Au contraire, mon Pattycakes," says Pete, and Patrick may or may not feel his ears start to burn at the familiar nickname, the way he can hear Pete grinning around it. "Think of it this way: I'm diverting your attention from physics or precalc or whatever-the-fuck other useless shit you could be doing right now, and making you think about stuff that's, like, actually relevant."

"Right, because rotational mechanics isn't nearly as important as the psychology of mealtimes—" and that, he's sure, is a line he's used before. Maybe not the specifics of it (he didn't actually know what rotational mechanics was up until about a week ago, after all), but definitely the general gist, if not the wording. Patrick doesn't mind, though; it's been a while since he's pulled out his Tried-and-Trusted List of Response Templates for Pete Wentz, since the last time Pete wheedled his way into Patrick's concentration with some stupid trivia regarding the capital of Liechtenstein (Vaduz, 6.7 square miles, birthplace of Bollywood actor Ruslaan Mumtaz) or his musings on hole punchers and their superiority to staplers ("What's worse, 'Trick, wasting paper or wasting metal? Don't give me that look, man, you know I'm right"). He'll be the first to admit: he's missed it. He's missed this. "What's on your mind, Wentz?"

Pete sighs, a long slow exhale on the other line. "I don't know," he says, a verbal shrug. "The usual, I guess. But enough about me, what's new with you, Lunchbox?"

Patrick frowns. He'd expected at least another five or so minutes of Pete ranting about therapists, or asshole professors, or the bullshit American education system. Pete usually doesn't throw him into the conversational deep end like that. "What's new with me?" he repeats, chuckling awkwardly. "I have, uh, homework. Like, I have to write an essay on Gatsby for next week—"

"Oh, come on, Stumph, you can do better than that. Tell me, I don't know, about your—your new trucker hat, or—or the $200 pair of shoes you just bought, or, oh, oh—Valentine's Day, dude! You got any plans for Valentine's Day?"