is this blog inactive now? if you guys have stuff to do and you're just too busy i totally get it. just curious
this blog will literally never be inactive so long as we are still in existence
haha
patrick has been in school and taking a hell of a lot more classes than last semester so the laptop is being used 95% of the time on college work
dont worry my mobile google docs is still up and running. we just got back home from memphis too. i have a few days off so maybe we will be able to get something written and posted before say Wednesday?
dont quote me but we will try. its been a weird dry spell. a lot of personal dramatic stuff has been in effect.
A piercing sound fills my ears, as I feel the pool of saliva against my mouth and my vision is coming into focus. Damn. My fingers fumble to fix my frames, the blood rushing to my head as I sit up. South Glenbrook High School must have the most vexatious bell in the entire state.
My eyes squint attempting to focus on the faces and bodies around me. My feet always are taking me into the wrong direction, stumbling from one classroom to another. Conversations overlap each other, but to me, they combine with one another into a roar. My ears perk up at the sound of a show this weekend, coming from some guy in my math class. We converse about music, he has a decent collection. Arm? Is that what he just said? You’ve got to be fucking me. Arma Angelus. Friday....what time? I’m sure there is a poster somewhere. I’ll ask around.
The front door to my house squeaks at the slow touch. My luck is that the door will make every possible sound as I attempt not to disturb anyone. A soft crumple fills my ears. The receipt riding up my pocket and is scratching my stomach, scribbled on the back of it is the address of the venue of where the show is at. Hopefully, I will be able to read it when the time comes. My handwriting never grew up past the second grade. I’m wired, even though it’s late and I want a shower. The clock on my nightstand says it is twelve, mentally I am arguing with it, convincing myself that is nine, maybe ten o’clock at the latest. Towel. Towel, where is the...fuck it. My frames fumble as I reach for what smells like a clean towel, and I feel my way down a dark hallway. My knee buckles as my foot gives to an unidentifiable object. Megan. She was here? I stay still for a second, thinking I had heard something.
Drips of water attempt to make trails on my skin as the shower steadily flows. Calloused fingers run through my hair; my foot taps to an unknown beat. The music occupies half of my mind, as shades and hues accompany it. My elbow rests against the wall, and my head leans on my palm. I shift my hips, my left hand finding a comfortable place on the coordinating hip. A shock ripples through my body. The music fills my head again as my fingers travel down to the base of my cock, steadily holding it. My pulse is fast. My breath is short, and I release my grip on myself. The water trickles down my face as the head of the shower stops with a small shake. Hide and seek has to be my glasses’ favorite game. The goddamn things seem to completely escape me most of the time.
Soft sounds of trumpets travel from the record player on my desk. My fine motor skills are failing me as I scribble an awkward couple of lines onto a scrap of paper. I feel trapped in my room. Thirty minutes or so passes by before realization sets in for me. I am pacing back and forth between the furniture in my room, trapped mentally and physically. The bright light of my clock reads two, and I crawl into bed. My eyes scan the ceiling. Poised between my restless and the mirage of my mind rests my consciousness. An array of colors flash behind the slowly sinking eyelids. A struggle erupts, the mind against its vessel. This is why I can’t stay awake at school.
Two days. Forty-eight hours. Two thousand eight hundred and eight minutes. Let me just note that it does not matter how I attempt to acknowledge the short period of time, every one hundred and seventy-two thousand, eight hundred seconds fucking crawled. Naturally, I do not remember any of it. Concrete. The medium is solid against the soles of my sneakers as I lean against a brick wall. According to the flyer, the show begins at seven. Take a note, nine times out of ten, a show regardless of what or who is playing, is late. My patience is shrinking and this line is getting longer. My hips shift, as I fix my footing. Wait a second, the line is moving. Which would be fucking rad as hell if I was restless as shit. I cannot stay still for a goddamn second. I chuckle to myself as I scoot closer to the front of the line, thinking about how we all look like cows being herded to the front. I am incredibly lame, and this is why I am here by myself.
“My ID?” I question to the middle aged woman behind the counter.
“Your ID.” The reiteration of the two words has not changed my befuddlement. “Identification. Look kid, are you even eighteen?” I contemplate lying, but there is no use and I couldn’t live with myself. I shake my head. She sighs, “You know I can’t let you in.” The smell of tobacco from her clothes disagrees with me, and I murmur an apology as I slowly walk away.
I adventure around the building. Some guy offers me a cigarette, as a cloud of toxins flow from his mouth. My refusal is quick, but I am courteous enough to tell him I appreciate the offer. The back of the building is empty excluding a few cars parked. A pair of double doors reaches my sight. The handles give at my weak efforts. The building and I are now back to back now. Coordination of any sort escapes me as I slide down the wall, my head against one of the metal doors. I hear the roar of the crowd. My eyelids close, but I can’t escape the vision of all the people that are in there. Fucking age limits. If I am not limiting myself, my age is.
The first sound to register is his voice. Talking to the now silenced audience. My eyes stayed shut, but I began to see more than I expected. Blue streaks filled my mind as soft greens filled the spaces in my vision. His voice was the swimming pool in the middle of the heat wave, dramatic, smooth, and cool. My foot tapped to the beat. It was steady. It was my heartbeat.
Songs engulfed the time, and it was as if only minutes passed by when the venue began to empty. The thought of glancing at my watch was dismissed; I didn’t want to know. My bones tingled with the electric feeling of descending excitement. Chords and pieces stimulated my mind, the colors ascending and brightening as I hummed quietly.
I still hadn’t gotten up. It wasn’t long before my focus was broken by the sound of the side door of the building opening. My ears adapted to the white noise, and I was in a mediated state again. This was a rare occurrence. I couldn’t literally do anything without being distracted. To be completely honest, I don't know how much time passed as I sat there. My mind was in limbo and content.
Then I heard his voice; my eyes following the sound. His laughter rang through my ears the pair of doors near me opened. A pair of young legs strutted out, a girl with a face that was probably younger than me. Her makeup hid it though, and her smile had experience behind it.
Confident footsteps followed her. Artificial expressions showcased a smile; he was full of shit, and he knew it. Regardless of whether she was aware of this was irrelevant to his current situation. Engulfed by the scenario, he was completely submersed in her and totally ignoring her at the same time. Reactions fueled him, she was his experiment. His touches were intricate and precise. It was as he danced her up to the brick wall; his hands pressed against the wall, her cheek against his arm. Submissive. The only common adjective they shared. Her for going along with his bullshit, and him for the submission to the allure of this mind fuck. The best part of it? The fact I'm jealous. Not of him, I mean I am almost positive she is an admirable and attractive girl. Fuck, this is completely irrational. Heavy is the feeling of my stomach, and my envy has completely surrounded me.
My observations are quick, noticing the muscles flexing in his arms. The tapping of his foot, which is completely off. All of this is a nervous habit, as if he is trying to escape. His eyes are on her, but his vision has diverted. Pardon me for not giving his physique the amount of credit it deserves, but his mind is causing my infatuation.
How creepy am I? Here I am sitting against a wall, like a drunken bum while they are having a moment. Seriously, I’m fucking disturbing as hell. This is why I don’t come out of my room often. I realize my eyelids are sore from not blinking. I close them. Get the fuck up. I stretch my legs and get my footing dust off the shit off my legs. Turning my back to the couple, my feet heavily step their path home.
My bed sinks around me, as the sheets conform to my form. The four walls that encompassed me were silent, but my mind was continuous with his vocals piercing any thought other than him. Beat. Notes the strings followed filled my conscious, the music played repeatedly again in my mind. It had been four hours since the show, and my body still felt the rush. You know, the rush that one gets when you first open and listen to an album? Exploring. Venturing into a world I had never could begin to imagine. My body yearned for examination of itself. Immediately, what I would imagine warm fingers traced my collarbones. His speech was coarse, was symmetrical to his hair. My fingers raced through it, grasping on the back of his neck. The figure was above me, his hands now under me. His hands were spread eagle, supporting my shoulder blades. My imagination didn’t have to force the literally unreal figure to an unbelievable sexual height; the ideal of him touching was enough. I had never been so hard in my life. My fingertips trace the length of my cock; I bite my bottom lip. Fuck, I need this. In my head, he is still on top of me, his face directly above mine. Every thrust is deeper than before, and I am drenched in sweat. I’m trying to muffle my moans as much as possible, and I can’t stop even after I have finished. Every scenario is more intense than the last, and my grunting was almost uncontrollable. I lost count after four rounds.
The passing weeks were filled with more writing than I had managed in six months. A project band I had been working on wanted to practice. The drive to write was unbearable though, I was literally falling asleep at my desk. Better yet, I was falling asleep as I was writing, the pen marks sliding across the page. The thought of seeing him was daunting, but I knew that it was not likely to happen. I didn’t know his name. Finding out would not be difficult, but no, I couldn’t. Seriously, doing that would fuck me up even more. I didn’t need any help.
Come to find out, I didn’t need help. Who honestly would have thought a trip to Borders was all I had to have. Conversation in the music section, searching for this particular album, and then I met this curly haired guy. Tell him I am a drummer and songwriter. Apparently, that was all he needed to ask me to come by, for his band. I tell I will sleep on it, and he insists on me giving him my address. Says I seriously need to consider it, and if he can’t talk me into it, he knows someone who can. Honestly, I almost forget about the situation completely.
From what I remember next, I am hearing a knock on the door. The ideal movie knock, with the lens focus that goes all hazy. You know something is going to happen, and for some odd reason, I did also. The handle of the door resides in my palm perfectly. AsI open the door, the weight of my body is heavy. My socks are uncomfortable. I can’t breathe. He is smiling though, and it takes everything in me not to grin from ear to ear. I fix my glasses, and he shifts his feet as he begins to tap his foot off beat, just as I remember.
“Hey. Patrick, right? I’m Pete,” he says hands in his pockets, “Joe’s friend. Here to convince you.”
The Kid Was Alright
Pairing: Eventual Peterick (Pete Wentz/Patrick Stump)
Words: around 2,600
Summary: Pete Wentz is Senior in high school. A soccer jock, popular, comes from a great family. He's also clinically depressed. Maybe it's the feeling he gets when it's night time and he's all alone with his thoughts or the dreams he has, but the depression is real and the suburban monotonous blanket is threatening to swallow him whole. He puts on a good face though, he really does. He controls it. For now.
Patrick, the new kid at school is bullied to the max, by the kids and his parents. Pete learns about Patrick's recent suicide attempt as he jogs by one morning, and now he just can't help but stick his nose in Patrick's business. Little does he know he's going to find more than a friend in Patrick Stump.
Notes: So. This would be my first attempt at writing a fan fiction. I suck at summaries. Um. I hope you like it. I guess it's going to have chapters if people like it. . .enjoy(: Oh, and they will end up forming Fall Out Boy :D
