Also, some of this may be true, but not on purpose.
ETA: Okay, fine. Here's something a little raunchy, because
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technosage is just that cool and Kassie gives great prompts.Cribs, by stungunbilly
“You don’t need a clean shirt, Patrick, you need a *cool* shirt,” said Pete, snatching the last piece of unstained clothing out of Patrick’s grasping hands. He was displaying his teeth in all their gleaming white perfection, and Patrick feared for his hands if he went after his “Mother Goose Really Knew How to Lay One!” tee with the big picture of an egg on the front. It was orange and faded and probably Patrick’s favorite because it was so soft. Pete hated it, having been rudely savaged by a goose in Indiana the previous summer.
Patrick gave in, and wore the smelly black shirt with the creepy satanic symbol on it, because Patrick usually gave in to Pete if it didn’t mean doing something truly gross, or wasn’t about music. As a reward, Pete dragged him out for an actual ice cream cone, pink peppermint dripping down his fingers in the crazy Chicago summer heat. They walked around aimlessly, sweating and leaning into each other and planning all the places to spend a summer where there would be cool breezes, or at least air-conditioning paid for by somebody else. It was hot, and humid, and Patrick was as happy as he remembered being in a long time, until Pete’s girlfriend called and he had to go, “she’s like, losing her shit, dude”.
They were sharing an apartment, all four of them and umpteen friends, fans, and hangers on. It sucked, a lot. Andy was a great roommate, leaving extra food for fellow vegans, paying his share of the bills early, and hanging a sign on his door when having a sleepover with one of his many friends. Joe was sometimes gone for days at a time, but when he was around his slovenly ways were mitigated by his willingness to share snacks with anyone who would game with him. He did forget to save money for the bills a lot, but Pete usually covered for him and mocked him about it, which wasn’t too bad. But nobody except Andy cleaned the bathroom or kitchen, and Pete’s friends were often completely disgusting. Plus, Pete was always lovable when you had his attention and were a member of his band and therefore not as prankable as everyone else, but his attention wandered and that included when he was supposed to lock doors, let anyone know he had a girl in his room, or flush the toilet, for instance. Not to mention that all times of the day or night were fine for forgetting he had sleeping roommates.
Patrick liked being able to ask Andy the serious questions he would have asked older students or counselors if he had gone to college, like how to handle his taxes and whether it was possible to get scurvy if you stopped taking daily vitamins. He loved gaming with Joe for the first hour or so, and Joe never got mad when he wanted to pass the controller on to somebody else and go work on garage band, though he bitched endlessly when Patrick “accidentally” took the chips with him. And Pete… when Pete focused in on him, Patrick felt more alive than normal, like he could sing and play and be more than he’d ever thought he might become. But he could as easily forget Patrick was asleep and bring a pack of rough, noisy guys into his room to check out the latest recording as he could remember that Patrick was sick that day and stop in to check his temperature and kiss his cheek as sweetly as Patrick’s Mom used to do.
Pete’s attention was kind of random, because he knew everyone, even when they were in other states. The scene traveled, in bits and pieces, like a disjointed carnival. Pete was part of the scene, like a naturally occurring landmark with funny cheeks and a hoodie. So everyone in the scene knew Pete, or of him, and there was always a lot of call for Pete to come and go. He traveled in packs, and the packs were always following him. (And sometimes snapping at his heels.)
It usually went something like this: Pete is making himself a sandwich out of lettuce and tomato, trying to roll the tomato up inside a single leaf without tearing the lettuce or squishing the tomato out either end. Patrick sits at the table playing the first part of the new song over and over until he can do it without paying attention to his hands. They haven’t really seen each other for more than a few minutes for the last two days, so the silence is comfortable but distant. And then suddenly, Patrick becomes aware that the noises of fixing and eating have stopped. He looks up, finding that Pete’s staring at his hands, food frozen halfway to his mouth. Patrick’s fingers slip on the strings and he winces at the abrupt jangle. Their eyes meet, Pete smiles, and Patrick suddenly feels warmth all over, like a plant finally getting sunlight again after a dark time. And then a phone rings, with one of Pete’s many old band members on the other end, ending the possibility of quiet or easy company in an instant.
Or like this: Patrick and Joe are playing Grand Theft Auto and munching on Doritos. Joe has crashed his third stolen car, and Patrick takes over to successfully escape the police in a high-speed chase. The advantage is Patrick’s because Joe has been smoking some kind of tightly packed Hawaiian buds that Patrick can smell in his pocket through three layers of plastic baggies. He crows his victory loudly, and maybe there is a fist-pump in there somewhere. Joe tackles Patrick and they crash into the cheap faux-wood grain coffee table and roll across the carpet, picking up bruises all along the way.
They struggle, and finally Joe is looming over Patrick, holding his wrists above his head and tickling him in exactly the way Joe knows he hates, when the front door flies open and smashes into the wall. Pete’s voice carries over the noise of the fight, weirdly strained and venomous.
“What the fuck, you guys? Do I need to come back later, or what?”
Joe releases Patrick’s wrists immediately, turns to look at Pete over his shoulder and bursts into laughter. Patrick is kind of shocked at the look on Pete’s face. He’s expecting an angry scowl, but Pete looks like he’s trying not to *cry*. Something must have happened; maybe he ran into one of his old girlfriends, or had a fight with his Mom or something. Patrick scrambles up, a little anxious to find out what’s wrong.
“No, hey, I just completely schooled Joe on Grand Theft Auto and his ego couldn’t take it. You okay, man? Did something happen?” He kicks Joe a little, to make him shut up.
Pete looks suddenly relieved, his face falling into more normal lines, which, what? He starts to speak, but Joe cuts in, gasping out between bursts of laughter, “No, no, dude, he thinks I was sexing you up, Patrick, and he’s, he’s,” and then is unable to speak for a moment of particular hilarity.
Pete looks pissed, finally, and kicks Joe, who finally chokes out “He’s jealous!” before dissolving into helpless amusement again.
Patrick snorts, “Yeah, right, Joe, you ass. Seriously, Pete, everything good by you?” And Pete smiles a little, finally, saying, “Yeah, yeah, it’s all good. Just had a weird idea for a minute there,” and he kicks at Joe again, who gets enough self-control to grab Pete’s ankle and pull him to the ground. From there things get a little dangerous, with Pete and Joe rolling into the furniture, Pete’s cackling blending into Joe’s bellows, and Patrick seizes the moment and grabs the Doritos. He’s curled on the couch around his prize, with in-house entertainment, and he has a victory to celebrate. He’s feeling pretty good.
Pete’s weirdness stills bugs him a little, so when Joe heads into the kitchen for soda, Patrick calls him over to the couch and lets Pete sit curled around him. It’s been weeks, and he can feel muscles he didn’t know were tense starting to relax at the contact. Pete smiles at him a little, eyes warm, and Patrick opens his mouth to ask for a little more information.
A roar from outside stops him. It’s the sound of an angry mob, and one familiar to Patrick from long association with Pete. The racket of howls and jeers stops at their door, and the crowd that pours through the door has Patrick on his feet and moving towards his bedroom within a few seconds. He feels a tug at the sleeve of his sweater, but nothing could induce him to stay cuddling with Pete when his pack of hardcore pranksters is swirling around the couch.
Half an hour and two attempts to get Patrick to come join in the “fun” of a trick-cycling competition later, the horde has passed back out the door, and taken Pete with it.
And that is how these things went.
~
Years later, Patrick spent a summer sharing an apartment with Bob Bryar. Bob was a good guy, and it was a relief to Patrick to share space with someone who had such a gift for self-discipline. At least, Bob seemed gifted compared to the people Patrick had been spending time and sharing homes and busses with for the last several years. It was an obvious choice to room together; they got along, they both had complained to each other about the other guys in their bands being slobs, and Patrick figured they had plenty in common to make the company a pleasure rather than an annoyance.
It turned out, though, that Patrick’s comparative neatness was only in relation to Pete, Joe, and Pete’s friends. There were a million annoying things you had to do to maintain an apartment, and it turned out that Andy had mostly taken care of the absolutely necessary ones back when Fall Out Boy were living together. Now, Bob kept looking at Patrick with round eyes and it was really embarrassing. He said things that made Patrick feel like a kid.
“Don’t you know how to unclog the shower drain, dude? How have you survived with long hair without learning how to use a plunger and some Drano?”
Or “I don’t mind doing some of your dishes, but you are on your own if you’re going to make fish, Stump. Smells disgusting in here. I’d suggest opening the window next time.”
Since Patrick had always thought he was an awesome buddy for doing his own dishes within two or three days, he didn’t know what to make of the little posted notes asking him to put the dishes away, because Bob needed to actually use the drainer- only a day after Patrick left them there. He did the laundry every couple of weeks, too, so the whole idea of washing towels before they smelled was kind of foreign also. At least the one time he set the toaster on fire, Bob was out with a bunch of friends, and Patrick had time to call Andy over to help get the kitchen looking normal. The shiny new toaster was purchased by Joe, and Patrick spent at least twenty minutes online looking for old downloadable games for Joe’s cell in thanks.
Bob, on the other hand, did things like leave extra spaghetti and meatless sauce in tupperware containers for Patrick after he’d cooked, and fix the bathtub faucet himself when it starting squirting water in Patrick’s face every time he tried to take a bath. There were even drapes on the windows in the living room, dark blue with white designs on them, that Bob’s mom gave him and he hung up himself. They soundproofed the extra bedroom together, and Patrick was awed at being able to play music in his own place as loud as he fucking wanted. Bob smiled at him when his hands started waving in his enthusiasm about it, and it felt a little like having a real home again.
So Patrick really liked Bob’s neatness and competence, and the guy loved music the same way Patrick did. He thought, sometimes, that he might have a tiny little crush on Bob. But it made him feel like such a jerk to fail at being a good roommate, and really Patrick couldn’t help the way Pete kept showing up with new bands he’d signed and scene kids he liked and everyone’s girlfriends and their security and various other attachments. He and Bob tried to spend time hanging out, just the two of them, and the little they managed was awesome. Their connection even seemed to be building into something special, once or twice, but Patrick’s phone kept ringing and he had to answer the door when Pete was on the other side. By the time Patrick left, suddenly and leaving a giant mess because Pete said he *had* to go to LA with him *immediately* and wouldn’t take next week for an answer, he was resigned to losing the possibility of real closeness with Bob.
He felt pretty bad when he caught Bob’s interview, mentioning how messy he was. They stayed friends, Patrick apologized, but that little extra spark was gone, before Patrick could really figure out what it meant. It wasn’t as if Patrick felt himself, any longer, to be the kind of guy worthy of living with someone as together and cool as Bob Bryar.
To be completely fair to Patrick, he had been at least partially raised by wolves.
~
