ᝰ.ᐟ patjay twt au | chapter 1
it all started with a stupid fucking yearbook.
end of junior year. the hallway was entirely too crowded, smelling like cheap body spray, sweat, and impending freedom. jayden rockwell was leaning against a row of lockers, looking like he had literally rolled out of a dumpster. he was wearing an oversized, faded knit sweater that completely swallowed his lithe frame, dirty blonde hair falling in a messy disaster over his forehead. despite looking like a literal homeless person, he had a crowd of people swarming him. mostly girls, a few guys. he just had that effortless, infuriatingly magnetic thing going on.
patrick didn’t even know what possessed him. he was a tall, lanky guy, usually loud and taking up too much space, but right then he felt like his brain was short-circuiting. he basically wrestled his way through the crowd of giggling sophomores, practically throwing his sharpie and hardcover yearbook into jayden’s chest.
jayden blinked, catching the book. he looked up, those sharp diamond-blue eyes locking onto patrick. there was a tiny mole right under his left eye. jayden’s lips twitched upward into a slow, knowing smirk, flashing just a hint of his canines – cute little fangs that made patrick’s stomach do a violent, humiliating flip.
jayden scrawled his name across the page, shoved it back against patrick’s chest, and gave him a two-finger salute.
patrick’s heart did a stupid thing, and he hadn't known peace since.
────────────────────────────
────────────────────────────
patrick backed away from the lockers like the floor was suddenly made of ice. he clutched the heavy, glossy yearbook against his ribs like a shield of armor, his breath hitching in his throat. he felt like he was starring in some twisted, low-budget psychological thriller where the protagonist slowly loses his grip on reality – all because a guy in a dirty sweater had the audacity to smirk at him.
he practically collapsed onto the cracked, weathered concrete bench where sam and charlie were already eating their lunch under the dappled shade of a dying oak tree, a tree that seemed just as tired of high school as they were.
sam looked up from the college brochure she had been obsessively annotating, her brow furrowed in concentration. she was wearing a vintage green cardigan over a worn-out the smiths t-shirt, her short brown hair framing her bright, expressive eyes that always seemed to reflect the weight of the world. charlie, sitting cross-legged next to her, was methodically and gently picking the pepperoni off a slice of sad, soggy cafeteria pizza, completely absorbed in the task of lining up the greasy circles on his napkin with geometric precision.
“patrick, you look like you’re about to pass out,” sam noted, setting her pen down instantly, her brow furrowing with genuine, deep-seated concern. “are you sweating? your face is pale. do you need water? charlie, give him your water.”
“i got it,” patrick breathed out, his voice barely a whisper, slamming the yearbook onto the sticky, scarred metal table between them as if the book itself were a ticking bomb he was finally desperate to unload.
charlie paused his meticulous pepperoni dissection, looking up with those wide, earnest eyes that always seemed to see right through the surface level of everything. “got what, patrick? did you finally find that record you were looking for at the exchange? or did you get the extra credit assignment from mr. anderson? because i tried to ask him for it and he told me i needed to focus on passing the regular credit first, which felt slightly condescending, but maybe he was just tired.”
“no charlie,” sam sighed, a fond but exasperated smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, her voice softening as she looked at him. “he got the signature. the holy grail of depressed grunge boys. he actually went into the trenches.”
“where is mary elizabeth?” patrick demanded frantically, his eyes darting around the courtyard as if she might materialize from the shadows of the nearby buildings. “if she sees this before i’ve fully processed it, she’s going to do a tarot reading on my love life and i am not emotionally stable enough for a death card right now.”
“she’s in the darkroom developing the photos from the rocky horror dress rehearsal,” sam said, leaning forward, her posture shifting from academic to conspiratorial. “show me the book, patrick. don’t keep me in suspense”
patrick flipped the heavy cover open, his long fingers trembling slightly as he found the inside back page. there it was. jayden. it was barely legible, all sharp angles and aggressive, jagged ink strokes, ending in a messy, trailing line that practically clawed its way off the edge of the page.
“look at it,” patrick whispered, his voice tinged with a terrifying level of reverence.
sam leaned over, squinting at the page, her nose scrunching up. “it looks like a doctor’s prescription for high-grade antidepressants. seriously, it looks like he sneezed while holding a sharpie.”
“it’s beautiful,” patrick countered, completely, agonizingly serious. he traced his finger an inch above the ink, not daring to make physical contact. “he looked at me, sam. like, really looked at me. and he has a mole. right here.” patrick aggressively tapped his own left cheekbone. “and fangs. literal fangs when he smiles. well, when he smirks. i don’t think he actually knows how to smile.”
“i think it’s nice,” charlie offered warmly, pushing a clean napkin toward patrick as if to catch the overflowing emotion. “it’s very... expressive handwriting. does he play an instrument? it looks like a musician’s handwriting.”
“he’s in a band,” patrick said quickly, chewing on his bottom lip. “i think. some grunge thing.”
before sam could properly analyze patrick’s newest fixation, the atmosphere in the courtyard shifted, turning colder, sharper. patrick’s spine instantly went rigid, his posture betraying him. the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his stomach plummeted past his shoes.
“speak of the devil, and he shall appear in a letterman jacket,” sam murmured, her voice instantly dropping its warmth as if a veil had been pulled over the sun.
patrick whipped his head around, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. brad was standing there. brad, with his perfectly broad shoulders, his straight, chemically whitened teeth, and the heavy black and white letterman jacket that meant he effectively owned every square inch of the school. brad, the star quarterback, who in public treated patrick like a mildly amusing, slightly irritating background character, but in private…
“oh. hey, brad,” patrick said, his voice jumping half an octave. he quickly shoved his forearms over the open yearbook, hiding jayden’s messy scrawl from view like it was contraband.
sam immediately looked away, her jaw tightening. she didn’t say a word, but the protective, fierce tension radiating off her was palpable. she hated how brad treated her brother. she hated him with a burning, passionate, white-hot fury that could easily power a small city block.
“you coming to sarah’s party tonight?” brad asked, his voice booming, loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear, perfectly calibrated to project confidence. he was playing his role to perfection, the benevolent, popular jock gracing the weird kids with his charitable, fleeting presence.
but underneath the table, hidden from the gaze of the school, the hard, unforgiving toe of brad’s expensive sneaker pressed firmly, intentionally, against patrick’s ankle.
patrick’s breath hitched in his throat. “uh, yeah. yeah, definitely. wouldn’t miss it.”
brad smiled, that winning, camera-ready smile that made half the cheerleading squad swoon, but his dark eyes dropped down to patrick’s mouth for a fraction of a second. it was a micro-expression, gone as fast as it appeared. “cool. it’s going to be packed. totally crazy inside. the pool house is usually dead, though. if you need a quiet place to, you know, chill out.”
it wasn’t a suggestion. it was an instruction. the pool house. meet me there.
“right. pool house. got it,” patrick swallowed hard, nodding once, his own voice sounding like a ghost of itself.
brad gave a quick, generic salute, entirely different from jayden’s slow, mocking one. brad's was practiced. rehearsed. “catch you later, patty.”
he turned and jogged back to his friends, instantly getting swallowed up in a sea of high-fives and loud jokes.
the second he was out of earshot, sam reached across the table and put her hand gently, insistently, over patrick’s.
“patrick,” she said quietly, her eyes entirely sad, brimming with a protective ferocity. “i hate him. i hate how he does this to you in front of everyone, like he’s playing some cruel game.”
“sam, stop, people will hear you,” patrick hissed, pulling his legs back under his chair, his ankle still feeling the phantom pressure of the contact.
“i don't care,” sam pleaded softly, ignoring the passersby. “you are not a secret, patrick. you’re amazing. you shouldn’t let him summon you into dark rooms just so his stupid quarterback friends don’t suspect anything about his fragile ego.”
“it’s not like that,” patrick lied, looking down at his lap, his fingers twisting into the fabric of his jeans.
“it is exactly like that,” sam countered, squeezing his hand to ground him. “he walks around all day holding his girlfriend’s hand, and then he makes you hide. you deserve to go to a party and just be someone’s date, not a dirty secret.”
“he’s just... figuring things out, it’s complicated,” patrick whispered, the excuse tasting stale and pathetic in his own mouth. he had been using it since october, and the shelf life of that lie had expired long ago.
charlie tilted his head, looking deeply concerned. “sneaking around sounds very lonely, patrick. i think sam is right. you should be with someone who wants to walk you through the front door. someone who wants to introduce you to their friends with pride.”
patrick didn’t answer. he just stared at the closed cover of his yearbook. he thought about the guy with the fangs and the dirty sweater, the guy who didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him. and then he thought about brad, who cared so much about what everyone thought that he was willing to crush patrick to keep his performative image perfect.
────────────────────────────────────
jayden kicked the heavy metal door of ‘the void’ open with the toe of his scuffed combat boot, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the stagnant air. the venue was essentially a glorified, damp, windowless basement beneath an abandoned bowling alley on the edge of town. the air inside was thick, smelling permanently of stale beer, dust, and old, overheated amps. to jayden, it was the only place in the entire world that felt like he could actually breathe, a sanctuary for the disillusioned.
he lugged his heavy hardshell guitar case down the concrete stairs, his movements sluggish with fatigue. the room was mostly dark, illuminated only by a string of cheap, flickering red fairy lights strung up over the drum kit, casting long, eerie shadows.
cristal was sitting cross-legged on the faded, moth-eaten vintage rug in the center of the room. she was wearing an oversized black type o negative shirt that hung loosely off her shoulders, her pastel pink hair pulled back into messy, uneven pigtails that looked like they had survived a hurricane. she had her bass resting in her lap, but she wasn’t playing, she was just meticulously applying a chipped, thick coat of black nail polish, completely focused.
when she heard his boots on the stairs, she looked up, her dark eyeliner smudged artistically around her eyes. she immediately caught the exhausted, heavy slump of his shoulders.
“rough day in the spotlight, rockstar?” she asked, her voice devoid of its usual mocking edge. it was soft, warm, and entirely unjudging.
jayden let out a long, heavy exhale, dropping his case onto the floor and collapsing onto the rug right next to her. he let his head fall onto her shoulder, hiding his face in the dark, comforting fabric of her shirt.
“i hate everyone,” he mumbled into her shoulder, his voice muffled. “i literally hate everyone in that building. all of them. except you.”
cristal didn’t push him off. she just carefully capped her nail polish and rested her cheek against the top of his messy blonde head, offering a silent anchor. “i know, jay. they suck. they’re superficial, and they have no idea what it actually means to exist.”
they sat like that for a long minute. the silence in the basement wasn’t awkward, it was deeply, profoundly comfortable, a rare quietude in a noisy world. jayden and cristal had spent so much time existing in the exact same orbit, collaborating on lyrics, writing riffs until 3 am, and just understanding the tangled, messy parts of each other’s brains. when jayden felt out of sync with everything else, cristal was the only thing that grounded him.
“here,” she shifted slightly, reaching over to the monitor speaker and grabbing a bright green bag of candy. she dropped it into his lap. “sour patch kids. to replenish the energy you lost fending off the rabid fangirls.”
jayden lifted his head, a genuine, tired, soft smile finally breaking through his permanent scowl. “you’re actually an angel. a fucking tyrant, but still an angel.”
“don’t let it go to your head,” she bumped her shoulder against his affectionately. “now, tell me about this kid. the one who almost broke your ribs with a yearbook.”
jayden ripped the candy bag open, popping a red one into his mouth, his jaw working slowly. he stared across the dark room at the drum kit. “he was just... intense. loud. he pushed past like, ten people just to get to me.”
“and?” cristal prompted gently, picking up her bass again and resting her chin on the cool, solid wood of the body.
“and…” jayden trailed off, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece it together. “he looked terrified. his hands were literally shaking. but he also looked at me like... like he actually saw me. not the sweater, not the stupid ‘brooding guy’ act. just me. he had these massive, wide, completely frantic eyes. it was weird.”
cristal smiled, a soft, knowing curve of her lips. she reached out and ruffled his hair, messing up the dirty blonde strands even more.
“maybe he did see you, jay. maybe someone finally realized you’re just a softie under all that angry distortion.”
“i am not a softie,” jayden grumbled, swatting her hand away, though he wasn’t really trying.
“sure you aren’t,” she laughed, pushing herself up off the floor and plugging her bass cable into her amp. “alright, enough feelings. get up. andrew is going to be here in ten minutes and if we don’t have the transition for the deftones cover locked down, i’m going to scream.”
jayden groaned, dramatically dragging himself up from the rug and popping the latches on his guitar case. “you're a literal tyrant, cris.”
“i am the tyrannical glue holding this band together, gayden. respect the hierarchy,” she declared, stepping on her pedal and letting a heavy, sludgy, soul-shaking bass note rattle the walls. “now plug in. tempo is at 110. and if you rush the bridge again, i’m taking the candy back.”
jayden slung his strap over his shoulder, the familiar weight settling perfectly. he looked over at cristal, who was already lost in the rhythm, her pink pigtails bouncing slightly as she nodded her head to the beat. he smiled, hitting his distortion pedal. let the school be fake. let the rest of the world be exhausting. as long as he had this basement, and this exact dynamic, he would survive.
────────────────────────────
the bass from sarah’s house party was so loud it rattled the windows of sam’s pickup truck as they parked down the street, a stark contrast to the quiet suburban road.
patrick sat in the passenger seat, staring at the front door. people were spilling out onto the front lawn, holding red plastic cups, laughing too loudly, a scene from a teen movie he had zero interest in being an extra in.
“we don’t have to go in,” sam said quietly, killing the engine and looking over at her brother softly, her eyes searching his face. “we can turn around right now. go to the big boy and get fries, just the two of us.”
“i have to,” patrick said, his voice thin, resigned. he opened the door, the humid, stifling night air hitting him immediately.
they walked inside, the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and whatever bad cologne the quarterback team wore hitting patrick like a physical wall. he navigated through the kitchen, keeping his head down, ignoring the occasional weird look from the popular kids. he found a spot against the far counter and glued himself to it, pulling his phone out.
patrick shoved his phone into his pocket. his heart was doing that painful, heavy thumping against his ribs. he looked over at sam, who was watching him from across the kitchen, her eyes filled with a quiet, devastating, and accurate knowingness.
“i’m gonna go to the bathroom,” patrick lied smoothly, breaking eye contact and slipping away before she could stop him.
he pushed through the sliding glass door at the back of the kitchen, stepping out into the muggy backyard. the main party was mostly inside, leaving the pool deck relatively dark and empty, a void of silence compared to the chaos inside.
the air in the pool house was heavy with chlorine and heat. patrick slipped through the glass sliding door, shutting it as quietly as he could behind him. the muffled bass from the party inside the main house vibrated through the wooden floorboards beneath his sneakers.
brad was sitting on a wicker lounge chair in the dark corner. the second the door clicked shut, brad stood up. he didn’t say a word. he just crossed the room, grabbed patrick by the front of his maroon shirt, and pulled him in hard.
it was aggressive. fast. hungry. brad backed patrick against the cool glass of the door, kissing him hard enough that their teeth clashed. patrick’s hands automatically went up to grip brad's broad shoulders, his heart hammering erratically in his chest. this was what he waited for. this secret, stolen, desperate intensity. it was the only time brad looked at him like he was the only person in the world, a delusion he was willing to pay a high price for.
“you look good enough to eat,” brad murmured roughly against his neck, his hands sliding down patrick’s waist, gripping tightly, possessively.
“you ignored me all night,” patrick breathed out, trying to keep his voice steady, trying not to sound like he was begging.
“you know how it is,” brad said, dismissively, pulling back just enough to look at him. his eyes were dark in the dim, blue light filtering in from the pool outside. “carter was standing right next to me. nancy was right there. i can’t just act weird.”
“treating me like a normal human being isn’t acting weird,” patrick whispered, the hurt bleeding through his tone, the realization of his worth settling in his gut like lead.
brad sighed, a heavy, annoyed sound that instantly made patrick feel like a massive burden. “don’t start this right now, patty. please. i just want to chill with you. don’t ruin it.”
before patrick could reply, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed sharply outside on the concrete pool deck. loud laughter. shouting. they were coming straight toward the pool house.
brad froze. his entire body went completely rigid. his grip on patrick’s waist instantly vanished, his hands recoiling like patrick’s skin had burned him. he practically shoved patrick away, stepping back so fast he tripped over the leg of the wicker lounge chair.
“get in the bathroom,” brad hissed, raw panic bleeding heavily into his voice.
patrick just stared at him, his back pressed against the wall, stunned. “what?”
“get in the fucking bathroom, pat! now! if that's tyler or mason they cannot see us in here alone in the dark.”
the humiliation was instant, sharp, and absolute. a cold bucket of water dumped straight over patrick’s head, freezing the blood in his veins. he didn’t argue. he didn’t fight back. he just spun around, opened the small, cramped pool house bathroom door, and stepped inside, clicking the lock into place just as the main glass door slid open loudly.
“yo, brad! what are you doing hiding out in here man?” a loud, booming voice echoed through the thin walls, vibrating in patrick’s bones.
“nothing,” brad’s voice was instantly smooth again. confident. relaxed. entirely normal. “just needed a minute away from the noise. dropping a text to my dad so he doesn’t freak out.”
“classic. come on back inside, daddy’s boy, nancy’s looking for you. wants to take some pictures for insta before her makeup melts.”
the glass door slid shut. the pool house fell dead silent again.
patrick stood in the pitch-black bathroom, staring at where he assumed the mirror was. his lips were still swollen from brad’s mouth. his chest physically ached, a tight, squeezing pain that made it hard to breathe. sam was right. it wasn’t complicated. it was just pathetic.
he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. the bright screen illuminated his pale face in the dark. his hands were shaking again, but not the way they had been in the hallway that afternoon.
patrick walked slowly down the empty suburban street, the cool, damp night air biting at the exposed skin of his arms. the thumping bass from the party faded into nothing the further he walked, until the only sound was the scuff of his boots against the pavement.
he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, shivering slightly, kicking a loose piece of gravel down the sidewalk, the rhythmic sound accompanying his racing thoughts.
as he walked under a flickering, orange streetlamp, surrounded by the quiet hum of the sleeping neighborhood, his mind inexplicably flashed back to earlier that day. the sharp, earthy scent of old knitwear. the messy, dirty blonde hair falling over pale eyes. the intense, diamond-blue stare that cut right through him, leaving him feeling exposed in the best possible way.
jayden rockwell wouldn’t hide in a bathroom for anyone. jayden rockwell looked like he wanted to burn the whole school down just for looking at him wrong. jayden didn’t care what anyone thought, and that was the most alluring thing patrick had ever encountered.
for the first time all day, a genuine, albeit tiny, smile tugged at the corner of patrick’s mouth, a spark of hope amidst the wreckage of his evening.
────────────────────────────
miles away, on the other side of town, jayden was making a very similar walk, his mind just as preoccupied.
the pavement outside ‘the void’ was slick with condensation, reflecting the amber glow of the scattered streetlights. his guitar case bumped heavily against his leg with every step, his muscles aching with the familiar, satisfying exhaustion that only came after three straight hours of playing his heart out.
he pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one and letting the smoke drift up into the damp night air, a swirling grey ghost in the dark. the street was completely deserted. quiet.
he should have been thinking about the setlist for their upcoming show. he should have been thinking about the essay he definitely wasn’t going to write for history class.
instead, as he took a drag, his mind conjured up the exact image of a lanky, dark-haired kid shoving a yearbook into his chest, his eyes wide and pleading.
it was stupid. he didn’t even know the kid’s name. he had probably signed fifty yearbooks that day for people he didn’t care about, all of them blurring together into one massive, annoying blob of high school superficiality.
but that kid had been different. he had been so visibly, terribly alive. there was no cool facade, no practiced apathy, no shield. just pure, unadulterated panic and focus, a raw nerve exposed to the world.
jayden exhaled a cloud of smoke, shaking his head at the asphalt.
“fucking drama club kids,” he muttered to the empty street, though there was no real venom in his voice, only a strange, lingering curiosity.
he finally reached his house, sneaking in through the back door to avoid waking his mom, and threw his case onto the floor of his bedroom. the room was a mess of vinyl records and tangled cables. he flopped onto his mattress fully clothed, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars peeling off his ceiling, feeling a strange restlessness.
jayden locked his phone and tossed it onto the nightstand, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
across town, in a room plastered with old movie posters, patrick was doing the exact same thing. he crawled under his duvet, still wearing his clothes, and pulled the heavy yearbook onto his chest. he let his fingers trace over the messy black sharpie ink one last time in the dark before letting his eyes drift shut.
two different rooms, two entirely different worlds, separated by miles of quiet suburban streets, both of them falling asleep thinking about the exact same completely insignificant, yet life-altering, moment in the hallway. the night was deep, the stars were hidden, and the distance between them felt, for the first time, like something that could be bridged.
YAYYYYY, GUESS WHO WON THE FIGHT AGAINST TUMBLR AND ITS ERORRS
also hi baby @sunkissedcream
