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Paper Hearts
by Nicola
Rating: R
Warnings: If the idea of underage!William having sex with not-so-underage!Pete squicks you, give this one a miss.
Note: The action of this fic is set roughly 1999-2001. I believe Trohman was around on the Chicago scene at this time, in case his non-FOB presence confuses you.
1.
Pete stood by himself, a good distance from the venue's exit. If William were less dumb and impulsive, he might have realized that there was a good reason the guy was alone, body slack against the brick wall and fingers picking intently at a hole in his jeans. Instead, William bounded over to him. He slowed abruptly to an almost-halt once he hit the edge of Pete's personal bubble.
"Hi," he said shyly, edging a few steps closer. He smiled big, before remembering what someone had told him about that (the words, it makes you look like a loser might have been dropped). He rearranged his face into an alluring pout. "Hey," he prompted, and finally the guy looked up.
Pete didn't say anything. His eyes looked glassy—flat. ("Shit-brown," Pete will call them years later as he strokes on eyeliner and gives William a look that is half menacing, half amused. But William thought then—still thinks now—that Pete's eyes are warm and open, until he slams shut some kind of door in his brain and then it's… nothing. Plate glass, peeling paint and a sign that says, beware of the dog.)
William waited a long moment for a response and then said, "We've got a show next week." He thrust forward a flyer. It was bright orange with his band name printed in 72pt Impact. "It's gonna be awesome," William added and the smile slipped out again.
Slowly, Pete reached out to take the flyer. He glanced down at it and then mumbled, "Snap."
Pete fumbled in the pocket of his hoodie and produced a fistful of orange flyers. He waved them in William's direction.
"Oh cool," William said faintly, as he grabbed a flyer. "Is this your band?"
"I guess." Pete paused to consider, like it was a tough question. "I think we might be breaking up. Or I'm leaving. Or they're kicking me out." For the first time, a lick of humor appeared in Pete's face. He smiled, looking straight at William. "Place your bets now."
Now that Pete's attention had shifted fully to him, William found himself unnerved, but excited. Emerging with whiplash-inducing speed from his earlier funk, Pete was suddenly upbeat. The traces of melancholy seemed to have been rubbed away, like day-old eyeliner. William had the sense that he was being sized up by the other boy—man—no, boy—the guy might be older, but he had an aura of inescapable boyishness.
"I, uh, I'm Bill," he said, groping for something to fill the silence created by Pete's smirking, appraising stare. "William," he corrected himself. "Is what I mean."
"How old are you, William?" asked Pete.
The compulsion to lie overcame him before he even had time to ask himself why. "Sixteen," he said. Pete seemed unimpressed and William wondered if he should have said he was eighteen.
"You're out late on a school night." Pete said it knowingly, without malice. Then he added, "You need a ride home?"
William chewed uncertainly on his bottom lip. Pete's eyes dimmed. "Don't worry," said Pete, "I wasn't planning on kidnapping you." He made a show of taking off his hoodie. He tossed it carelessly on the sidewalk and spread his arms wide. "See? No concealed weapons."
William's first guess had been that the guy was seventeen. Now he wondered if he was older. (He certainly acted older, but then, everyone on the scene seemed eager to cultivate an attitude of world-weary cynicism—with mixed results.) William swallowed hard. Pete was muscled, the black t-shirt that he wore straining across his chest. Two clear inches of hard abs were revealed where his t-shirt rode up.
William realized that his eyes had been lingering where they weren't supposed to. He blushed. By the time he met Pete's eyes again, he felt like his face was burning. The corner of Pete's mouth quirked and William became sure that Pete was somehow able to read his mind. (It's a suspicion that has dogged him for years.)
Pete reached out a hand toward him and for one giddy/petrified second, William thought he was going to pull him close and kiss him. But Pete merely tugged the flyer lightly from his grasp. He pulled a Sharpie from his back pocket and scrawled, Pete and a phone number across the bottom. "That's me," he said. He folded the flyer carefully and then placed it carefully in William's hands.
Pete hesitated. For a moment William thought he was going to say, We should hook up or whatever it was alluring strangers said after they gave you their number. Instead Pete bent down to retrieve his hoodie and began to walk away. As he backed away from William, he said, "Let me know how your band gets on."
And the thing is, he definitely said it in a We should hook up tone of voice.
2.
William pouted.
"Stop pouting, you loser," said Joe, and the sentence's sibilance increased due to his lisp and laughter.
Pete was onstage—new band, but the same old demons. That's what everyone said anyway. Since their first meeting, William had become aware of the whispers about Pete Wentz—and they were always whispers, always giddy and knowing. William could hear the band performing through the chaos of backstage. He sat fiddling with his guitar and only partly paying attention as he tried to recall G.
"I'm not pouting. I just… I have legitimate stuff going on." William did a single, forceful strum of his guitar and then, with a sigh, he pushed it aside.
"Sure, sure." Joe nodded as he spoke, but he looked completely unconcerned. He grinned and added, "But cheer up, okay?"
Joe ambled off and William glared at his retreating back.
In the time that it took for Arma Angelus to finish their set, William drank three beers. He had started in on a wobbly version of Stairway To Heaven on his guitar when Pete appeared.
"What's up?" Pete stood over him and William had to crane his neck to see Pete's face. He shrugged in response to the question and then let his head droop back down, contenting himself to look at Pete's shoes.
"Joe said you got stood up by some girl," Pete prompted and William wondered if he heard mocking in his voice. "Shucks, man. And on Valentine's Day? That sucks."
Yeah, definite mocking.
"We weren't that serious," William muttered. "I just wanted someone to…"
"Give you flowers and candy?"
William made a face at Pete's shoes and refused to say any more. Finally, he watched as the beat-up Converse walked away. He resumed strumming at his guitar.
Over the course of the evening, William's petulant resentment wore down into a sleepy, general sort of melancholy. He stood on the sidewalk outside the Metro and yawned hugely as he tried to remember who he was getting a ride home with.
"You leaving?" a voice said, and William felt someone slap him on the shoulder. He strained to see who it was and was able to muster only a vague glower when he realized that it was Pete. "See you around. Happy Valentine's, kid," Pete added, "even if it does suck."
William checked his watched pedantically. "Past midnight. It's officially the fifteenth."
"What, so romance is dead?" Pete moved around to face him and William saw that he was smiling.
William squinted, trying not to grin. "Pretty much."
As Pete turned to leave, he pressed something into William's hand. "See you around," he repeated firmly and moved away, easily swallowed up by the milling crowd.
William looked down at the piece of paper in the palm of his hand. It was a heart. The ragged, uneven edges evidenced that it had been torn into its heart shape. William realized that he recognized the garish pink paper. The heart had started life as the flyer for some suicide hotline, tacked up on the bathroom door.
William looked around for Pete, but he was long gone. He glanced back down at the paper heart and realized that he was smiling.
3.
"You lied to me!" Pete half-shouted to be heard over the noise of the band.
"What?" In the smothering half-darkness of the club, William couldn't see the expression on Pete's face, even though he was pressed close to him.
This time when Pete spoke, he leaned even closer to William, his hand molded around his shoulder, his lips brushing William's cheek. "When we first met," said Pete, "you told me you were sixteen." William gave a guilty stutter, but he could hear the smile in Pete's voice. "That was two years ago. Happy birthday, you cunt."
The band that was playing weren't even very good (William had developed a critical ear at this point, he liked to think), but the heavy roar of the music, combined with an elicit six-pack of beer, made him feel relaxed and determined.
Screwing up his courage, William brought his lips close to Pete's ear. "I just said that so you wouldn't feel so guilty about fucking me." As he added the words, "dirty old man," he allowed his lips to skid deliberately across Pete's jaw line. Then he pulled away, unable to stop himself from laughing. He was glad that it was too dark for Pete to see the color that had crept into his cheeks.
The music was too loud to hear Pete's response as he disentangled himself, but William was sure he caught the perfect o of the word cocktease form on Pete's lips.
Pete slipped away through the crowd. William didn't hesitate long before following him.
The wall of cold air that greeted William outside was combined with a sudden realization that his ears were ringing. He also couldn't entirely walk in a straight line, but he decided to pass that off as a swagger. William rubbed distractedly at his ears and looked around for Pete. He heard a voice behind him.
"I remember you, standing there, looking like you might faint from the shock if someone offered to suck your cock." A note of anger combined with mocking in Pete's voice, and William wondered vaguely if his earlier comment had struck a nerve.
"And you were such a gentleman," William replied. His consonants sounded slightly fuzzy. He grinned suddenly. "But you thought about it. You thought about fucking me. Fourteen and you wanted your dick inside me." The words spilled off his tongue unchecked and yeah, his consonants definitely didn't sound right.
Pete grabbed him by the shoulders, making him skid backward slightly. William's eyes widened. He had heard about the fights that Pete got into; he'd seen him take the stage at the Metro with a split lip and an imprint of someone else's fist on his face. Pete's grip on him was rough, however, but not mean. "You're drunk," Pete said evenly. He let go of William and pushed him a spare foot-and-a-half against the brick wall. William found that he was grateful to be propped up by something.
"It's my birthday," he mumbled petulantly.
"I have something for you in my car," said Pete. He stretched out his arm, leaning himself against the wall. He was close enough that William could smell the synthetic sweetness of his hair product, the wood-shavings-sharp scent of his antiperspirant (cologne?), mingled with someone else's smoke.
"Is it my present?" William tried to act coy, but the result was more like drunken spaz. He slumped forward, angling his body toward Pete. If he bowed his head just so, he could almost lean his forehead against Pete's. He dragged his tongue across his bottom lip. "I think I need a ride home, Pete." That time he definitely made his voice sound coquettish.
William allowed his eyelids to droop half-closed—partly due to tiredness; partly from a deep-seated need for Pete to be kissing him now, thankyouverymuch.
Pete reached out to grab a fistful of his shirt and yanked him into motion. William blinked and found that Pete was already walking away. "Come on," he called.
Pete had parked on a dark side street. The area looked industrial and run-down. William could smell wood-smoke and he briefly imagined hobos roasting marshmallows. If William had been in Pete's car before, he couldn't remember it. It was an aging Corolla, in a dingy metallic red that gave William an unformed desire to start posing on its hood. Instead, William was content to arrange himself against the driver's side window, jutting his hips forward and letting a slight pout form on his lips.
Pete stood close by, key chain hooked over his thumb. "I can't open the door if you're in the way," he pointed out.
Something stupid like, why don't you drive me instead? rolled through his mind, but William had a tiny impression that he might be sobering up. He said instead, "I'm not a kid, Pete. I have a band and…" He groped absently for more proof of his grown-up-ness. "I know what I want," he finished lamely.
"And what's that?" Pete asked. He had been fidgeting with his car keys, but now he stilled.
"…want you to suck my cock." His voice dipped, a stutter demolishing the word suck—but he didn't faint. He stared Pete down. His words were clear as he said, "I want you."
When girls kissed William (and it was something they'd started doing a lot in the last year), their hands tended to go for his hair, fingers stroking softly as they pressed their warm mouths to his lips. (It made him think that maybe he should grow his hair longer.) But when Pete stepped forward, shifting into William's personal space, he reached down.
By the time Pete's lips met his, William had already let out a choking gasp of surprise as Pete pushed the heal of his hand against William's belt buckle and let his fingers squeeze hard at William's cock. Unlike the slightly-academic kisses William had shared with girls (head tilt? insert tongue now?), it was a uncontrolled kiss, instinctive and wanton. His tongue slipped into Pete's mouth simply because it felt good; he moved his head for better angles, more sensation.
After the initial squeeze, Pete's fingers only coaxed lightly at William's erection. He wondered if he might explode from the lack of friction. It was a feeling that was compounded when Pete withdrew. William slackened against the car as Pete rocked back on his heels.
"Move," said Pete.
William blinked uncomprehendingly at him.
Pete smiled—a wan, indulgent smile—and rolled his eyes slightly. He reached out and hooked his index finger through one of William's belt loops. Pete tugged hard. William staggered, soft and unbalanced as he crashed forward into Pete.
Pete paused to kiss him again, with less steely intent this time. William was aware, for the first time, of their height difference; the way he had to bend his shoulders, cricking his neck as Pete coaxed their mouths together. Then Pete pushed him away again, lightly, with what William guessed was a concerted effort at gentleness.
As William lolled nearby, Pete unlocked the car. He yanked open the door and gestured for William to get into the backseat.
(Two weeks after his seventeenth birthday, William will lose his virginity for real to a girl named Julie. He'll use words like beautiful and moving to describe it. It will be a touching, important experience in his life—totally more than just "getting some", he'll insist sagely to anyone who asks. That will be the true cherry-popping; the time he feels mature and ready. Even still, there's a part of William which thinks that, even though he was drunk and unsure and horny and childish, something kind of profound happened in the backseat of Pete's car on the night of his sixteenth birthday.)
"Oh fuck," William choked out, and his voice sounded strangled, embarrassingly high-pitched. It was the first thing he'd been able to verbalize since Pete licked slowly up the underside of his cock. Pete might have laughed—William was aware of a humming sensation, but that only made his hips twitch involuntarily. He had a deep, half-formed desire to buck and to be held firmly by strong hands at his thighs. The thought dissolved as Pete swallowed the head of his cock.
("He came in about five seconds," Pete will say, when William is twenty and the incident has taken on the nostalgic glaze of something embarrassing-but-sweet. He says it not unkindly, but with Wentz-ian honesty. Unsurprisingly, it is Gabe's presence that provokes this trip down memory lane—to the red Corolla, rust shot through it, that's still parked there.
Gabe leans close to William, pantomiming a whisper as he eyes Pete from across the tour bus. "So does he spit or swallow?" he asks William.)
Pete swallowed. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and glanced up at William, who was splayed across the back seat, in very real danger of bodily disintegration, melting into the worn leather. William's head reeled back, colliding with the glass of the window. His lips formed a surprised OW and he caught the tint of amusement form in Pete's expression.
"I really do have something for you," Pete said.
William didn't reply; he merely watched, glazed, as Pete climbed nimbly across the shift stick, slithering through the gap in the front seats and sliding into place at the wheel. Finally, as Pete rummaged under his seat, William formed the presence of mind to pull his pants back on, yanking them up over bony hips.
With a flourish, Pete produced the an envelope, bent at one corner. He tossed it in William's direction. "Happy birthday, kid."
"… thanks," William managed to say. Maybe it was the effect of some whacked-out afterglow, but he felt unexpectedly touched. He tore at the envelope.
The card said, Congratulations on your 25th wedding anniversary.
William looked over at Pete, who grinned. "It was the only card I could find at the gas station," he explained blithely.
The outside of the card was all gaudy gold lettering; inside, Pete had drawn a slightly laborious doodle of a monster baring its teeth. There was no message, not even a, To William. Pete's name was scrawled across the bottom of the page, and underneath, in almost illegible handwriting, was written,
a perfect stranger
forever a fair-weather
friend, but always true
It's hard to be sentimental about objects when everything you own gets stuffed into a trailer that's hooked to your tour bus. It's also hard when you're sentimental about Pete Wentz, who has spent most of the last five years becoming a caricature of feeling and expression. But William has kept the card. There have been birthdays since—and blowjobs—but no gold, monster-filled anniversary cards. Inside the card is tucked the flyer for a defunct band, with a defunct number for a person who seems to William like he'll never be defunct (but even still, he won't stop shifting). Ironically—or perhaps fittingly—the valentine's heart is lost. Maybe it got caught in a gust of wind and blew away.
October 2006
Note: For Jessa.
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