I Don't Care (Peterick/side Trohley)

1

Dance, Dance.
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o n e

I watch as Patrick spits out a sunflower seed shell before pulling his catching helmet back over his bright eyes. He signs a pitch that I can't see and sets up inside. He lets out a grunt.

Midway through the pitch that Bob Bryar throws to him, Patrick widens his stance to get a better throw. As soon as the pitch hits his glove, he throws it to their shortstop, who tags the runner out. That's it. WCH made it to the playoffs. Two more wins, and they're the state champions. If only it were that easy.

They have to beat us first. Patrick lets out a cry of triumph, a big noise that shouldn't be allowed to come out of a little boy like him, but it does. Joe Trohman lifts him unto his back as they go to hit hands with the team they just beat.

"Draggies tonight?" Andy asks from beside me, already leaving his seat next to me on the cold bleachers. I shudder and nod.

"Maybe we should get cleaned up first?" I suggest because we came straight here after our own practice to scope out the competition. Yeah, that's why. It's not to stare at Patrick Stump in baseball pants.

"Yeah. I'll be at your house around nine, okay?" Andy doesn't wait for an answer before walking to his black mustang, twirling the keys around in his hand.

"Okay," I say to myself, walking the other way to my dark blue Range Rover.

Two hours later, Andy pulls into my driveway, dressed in tight dark red skinny jeans, a black tank top, and blue beat up converse. He looks pretty damn good.

I run out to his car in a pair of ripped skinny jeans that are probably Andy's, a red and black flannel with the top buttons undone to where you can see my thorn necklace, and my favourite white sneakers.

I get in Andy's car, waving a hello to him. He smiles in return and pulls out of my driveway, heading just down the street to Draggies.

"Whiskey on the rocks," I tell the bartender. His eyebrows raise at me, but he makes it anyways. He probably figures that if I was old enough to get in here, then I'm old enough to drink a beer. I take my beer as Andy orders, but I don't bother hanging around to know that he's getting a club soda. He's always designated driver, since he's straightedge.

I see none other than Patrick Stump across the bar, watching Joe Trohman try to pick up a ginger guy that's dressed very similar to.. wait, is that Andy? I try not to laugh as I walk closer to them.

Andy shakes his head at Joe, laughing all the while drinking his soda. Joe has a defeated look on his face, and Patrick's sitting there chewing on his lip ring, trying to hold in a laugh.

"One word, and I'll rip your lip ring out, asshole," Joe threatens Patrick. "Besides, he was so into me,"

"Yeah, no he wasn't," I say, patting Patrick's back. He turns around and frowns at me. "Heard you guys made it to the playoffs," I tell him, taking the empty seat next to Joe.

"You heard right, Wentz," Patrick knocks my hand off of his back.

"I'm surprised they let you in, Stump. You look like a twelve year old," I take off his hat and ruffle his hair. He's literally gorgeous, but that doesn't make what I said any less true.

"Fuck you," He takes his hat back and punches my arm, all the while chewing on his fucking lip ring. That thing will be the death of me.

"Stumpy grew a pair, huh? You're hot when you're mad," I grin, and I'm telling the truth, although he's attractive all the time.

"Shut up," He says, blushing furiously, and I can't help but wonder what it would be like if he didn't wear a hat all the time and just let his so-blonde-almost-white hair fall perfectly. He would definitely be more attractive, if that's even possible.