FIC: He's Crushing But He's No Wave
Nov. 16th, 2007 01:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asimplechordHe's Crushing But He's No Wave. ~1100 words. Brendon Urie, Patrick Stump. PG, with only the wish for slash. Entirely unbeta'd. Started because I wanted to see something about Brendon and Patrick and the recording of 7 Minutes in Heaven, continued as a pick-me-up for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anasuede the other day. Yes, I'm slow. Sorry. But it's done, finally! Also, I only watched clips of the performances at the FOE suite during/after the VMAs, not the MTV real-time broadcast, so I have no idea about the correct order of the songs on the set list. Ergo, I just stuck some of them in random order.
Obligatory disclaimer: Fiction here. If you got here by googling your name, turn around and go back the way you came.
*
Okay, so Brendon knows he looks like the world's biggest dork, but he can't help it. The alternative is to stop dancing, but if he does he'll end up staring at Patrick while he sings, and he just can't. Brendon isn't giving Spencer any more ammunition. No way is his Patrick problem as bad as Ryan's fanboying of Pete. The two were totally different things. Completely.
(Because, come on. Pete's a decent bassist and shrewd business man, but no way is that all the fascination he holds for Ryan. No matter what Ryan says.)
Still, Brendon is glad when Travis and Wayne and Tyga start doing their thing, because then he can focus on them, away from Patrick and his lips and his ridiculous hat and the way his fingers caress the keys and the even-dorkier-than-Brendon's shuffle he was doing behind the keyboards. Brendon is fine, just fine, all the way through Carpal Tunnel and Sugar, We're Goin' Down, and Thnks Fr Th Mmrs. When they're finally all up on stage and he's got to play in addition to thinking about the lyrics to 9 In The Afternoon, he doesn't need to worry—nothing distracts him from a performance.
He has it under control until Rihanna's number, but Patrick looks so happy and excited that it's inevitable; of course Brendon's eyes are drawn to him. Brendon knows he's going to get caught staring. It's just a matter of time.
It's actually a relief when the stripper-cops force him and the other Panic! guys out of the suite. He tells himself that he's not embarrassed thatPatrick everyone is reminded how young he is, tells himself he's just relieved that the whole deal went fine.
He's not thinking at all about the weight of Patrick's hand on his back, the smooth sound of his voice, or his laugh. Or the way Patrick smiled at the chick in the short gold dress who was camped out, shaking her thing right in front of him.
He goes back to his hotel room and turns on the TV, and the first thing he sees? Coverage of the 2007 VMAs, of fucking course, complete with clips of Patrick and Pete and—oh, Christ, he really is the world's biggest doofus. Just look at him with the microphone. At least the camera didn't pick up on where his eyes kept straying.
Brendon has no idea where this Thing came from. He likes Patrick, he's always liked Patrick, from the first time they met. He'd known who he was, of course, but that was it; Brendon wasn't a LiveJournal stalker like Ryan was. So he'd been relieved by Patrick's calm manner and quiet professionalism, and by the time they got around to discussing the arrangement and lyrics for 7 Minutes In Heaven, Brendon had been comfortable, like doing this wouldn't be any different than practicing with Brent and Ryan and Spencer. Except with thousands of dollars of recording equipment in the next room.
Then Patrick opened his mouth and sang. And it was like nothing Brendon had heard on the radio or on his bootleg copies of Fall Out Boy concerts.
So, okay, maybe there's a smidgen of hero worship there, but that's all. They get along well enough, and it's never been a hardship to hang out, which is good, because Ryan drags him over to the FOB bus whenever their tour schedules have them in the same town. (Ryan always says it's to discuss lyrics with Pete; in his rare cynical moods, Brendon thinks that's a metaphor the pair of them should explore, but he knows he'll never suggest it.)
Brendon and Patrick are comfortable together, and there's shared amusement in watching Ryan and Pete do their mating dance. So it had been a shock to Brendon's system when, while they were up in the FOE suite, Patrick's hand landing firmly between Brendon's shoulder blades as he set up the keyboard and the guitar stand ("Thanks, man. I appreciate your help," Patrick said. "I don't know where Pete ran off to.") sent a shiver down his spine. Not in a bad way, just an unexpected one. Because this was Patrick, with his hats and his baggy sweaters and shaggy hair, and nothing he had ever said or done caused this sort of reaction in Brendon before.
(Brendon smiled weakly. "No problem. I'm, um, I'm gonna go see if Spence's back yet." Then he made his escape.)
Brendon figures he'll go to sleep and wake up, and this whole day, with all of its wonder and weirdness, will have been a dream. He's got the remote in hand, ready to turn off MTV, when a new clip of the fantasy suite footage appears on-screen. For once, Brendon doesn't even know what the host is saying, he's all about the visual: the camera picks up Patrick again, who is singing, a smile curving his (wide, pink) lips as he gazes at… Brendon.
Huh.
Huh.
He's still staring, although it's gone to commercial, when the phone rings.
"Hey Brendon, where'd you go? We're looking for you guys. The cop thing was a joke." Patrick sounds vaguely disturbed, as if he's afraid the "arrest" was traumatic.
"I came downstairs to my room. I think Jon went back to the party—he's actually old enough to drink, so he didn't really have to leave to begin with. Spence went to find Haley."
"And I saw Ross come back in with Pete."
"You still there?"
"Nah, Fall Out Boy is done for the night. It's a drunken revel now. I skipped out, left Pete in charge."
Brendon knows that being the guy everyone looks to is Patrick's least favorite thing ever, so he's not surprised.
"Does Fall Out Boy have enough in the bank to cover Pete-related damages for the suite?"
Patrick laughs. "Jon Walker can browbeat even Pete into submission, but if worse comes to worst, I think we can handle it."
"Hm." What else can he say to that?
"So, I found a twenty-four hour Starbucks. You want to have a coffee?"
Coffee, at this hour of the night? Probably not a good idea. But Brendon wouldn’t say no to a hot chocolate or a caramel apple cider. He weighs the plus of sugar and cream against his newfound inability to control his eyes and his brain when in the presence of one Patrick Martin Stump. Then he thinks about Patrick smiling at him while he sings, about the single glance the TV camera captured.
"Meet you in the lobby? I'll be right down."
anasuede the other day. Yes, I'm slow. Sorry. But it's done, finally! Also, I only watched clips of the performances at the FOE suite during/after the VMAs, not the MTV real-time broadcast, so I have no idea about the correct order of the songs on the set list. Ergo, I just stuck some of them in random order.Obligatory disclaimer: Fiction here. If you got here by googling your name, turn around and go back the way you came.
Okay, so Brendon knows he looks like the world's biggest dork, but he can't help it. The alternative is to stop dancing, but if he does he'll end up staring at Patrick while he sings, and he just can't. Brendon isn't giving Spencer any more ammunition. No way is his Patrick problem as bad as Ryan's fanboying of Pete. The two were totally different things. Completely.
(Because, come on. Pete's a decent bassist and shrewd business man, but no way is that all the fascination he holds for Ryan. No matter what Ryan says.)
Still, Brendon is glad when Travis and Wayne and Tyga start doing their thing, because then he can focus on them, away from Patrick and his lips and his ridiculous hat and the way his fingers caress the keys and the even-dorkier-than-Brendon's shuffle he was doing behind the keyboards. Brendon is fine, just fine, all the way through Carpal Tunnel and Sugar, We're Goin' Down, and Thnks Fr Th Mmrs. When they're finally all up on stage and he's got to play in addition to thinking about the lyrics to 9 In The Afternoon, he doesn't need to worry—nothing distracts him from a performance.
He has it under control until Rihanna's number, but Patrick looks so happy and excited that it's inevitable; of course Brendon's eyes are drawn to him. Brendon knows he's going to get caught staring. It's just a matter of time.
It's actually a relief when the stripper-cops force him and the other Panic! guys out of the suite. He tells himself that he's not embarrassed that
He's not thinking at all about the weight of Patrick's hand on his back, the smooth sound of his voice, or his laugh. Or the way Patrick smiled at the chick in the short gold dress who was camped out, shaking her thing right in front of him.
He goes back to his hotel room and turns on the TV, and the first thing he sees? Coverage of the 2007 VMAs, of fucking course, complete with clips of Patrick and Pete and—oh, Christ, he really is the world's biggest doofus. Just look at him with the microphone. At least the camera didn't pick up on where his eyes kept straying.
Brendon has no idea where this Thing came from. He likes Patrick, he's always liked Patrick, from the first time they met. He'd known who he was, of course, but that was it; Brendon wasn't a LiveJournal stalker like Ryan was. So he'd been relieved by Patrick's calm manner and quiet professionalism, and by the time they got around to discussing the arrangement and lyrics for 7 Minutes In Heaven, Brendon had been comfortable, like doing this wouldn't be any different than practicing with Brent and Ryan and Spencer. Except with thousands of dollars of recording equipment in the next room.
Then Patrick opened his mouth and sang. And it was like nothing Brendon had heard on the radio or on his bootleg copies of Fall Out Boy concerts.
So, okay, maybe there's a smidgen of hero worship there, but that's all. They get along well enough, and it's never been a hardship to hang out, which is good, because Ryan drags him over to the FOB bus whenever their tour schedules have them in the same town. (Ryan always says it's to discuss lyrics with Pete; in his rare cynical moods, Brendon thinks that's a metaphor the pair of them should explore, but he knows he'll never suggest it.)
Brendon and Patrick are comfortable together, and there's shared amusement in watching Ryan and Pete do their mating dance. So it had been a shock to Brendon's system when, while they were up in the FOE suite, Patrick's hand landing firmly between Brendon's shoulder blades as he set up the keyboard and the guitar stand ("Thanks, man. I appreciate your help," Patrick said. "I don't know where Pete ran off to.") sent a shiver down his spine. Not in a bad way, just an unexpected one. Because this was Patrick, with his hats and his baggy sweaters and shaggy hair, and nothing he had ever said or done caused this sort of reaction in Brendon before.
(Brendon smiled weakly. "No problem. I'm, um, I'm gonna go see if Spence's back yet." Then he made his escape.)
Brendon figures he'll go to sleep and wake up, and this whole day, with all of its wonder and weirdness, will have been a dream. He's got the remote in hand, ready to turn off MTV, when a new clip of the fantasy suite footage appears on-screen. For once, Brendon doesn't even know what the host is saying, he's all about the visual: the camera picks up Patrick again, who is singing, a smile curving his (wide, pink) lips as he gazes at… Brendon.
Huh.
Huh.
He's still staring, although it's gone to commercial, when the phone rings.
"Hey Brendon, where'd you go? We're looking for you guys. The cop thing was a joke." Patrick sounds vaguely disturbed, as if he's afraid the "arrest" was traumatic.
"I came downstairs to my room. I think Jon went back to the party—he's actually old enough to drink, so he didn't really have to leave to begin with. Spence went to find Haley."
"And I saw Ross come back in with Pete."
"You still there?"
"Nah, Fall Out Boy is done for the night. It's a drunken revel now. I skipped out, left Pete in charge."
Brendon knows that being the guy everyone looks to is Patrick's least favorite thing ever, so he's not surprised.
"Does Fall Out Boy have enough in the bank to cover Pete-related damages for the suite?"
Patrick laughs. "Jon Walker can browbeat even Pete into submission, but if worse comes to worst, I think we can handle it."
"Hm." What else can he say to that?
"So, I found a twenty-four hour Starbucks. You want to have a coffee?"
Coffee, at this hour of the night? Probably not a good idea. But Brendon wouldn’t say no to a hot chocolate or a caramel apple cider. He weighs the plus of sugar and cream against his newfound inability to control his eyes and his brain when in the presence of one Patrick Martin Stump. Then he thinks about Patrick smiling at him while he sings, about the single glance the TV camera captured.
"Meet you in the lobby? I'll be right down."
