Fall Out Boy One Shots

Your not helping-Peterick

A/n: okay so this one is really long but just stick with it, I promise it gets super cute! Also comment about what you think!

"Hey, Pete," Patrick whispered. "Are you awake?" The room was dark. The digital clock on the nightstand glared red, six inches from his face.

"No," Pete muttered. He was a dark lump on the other side of the bed, safely separated by a manly two feet. Patrick could still feel the mattress rock every time Pete rolled over and punched at his pillow.

Their motel in Detroit had somehow managed the impossible, being both overbooked and the type of high-caliber establishment to boast tissue-paper walls and rust stains around the drains in the sink and yellowed bathtub. As a result, Pete and Patrick had been crammed into one room with a double bed while Andy and Joe were in another, and Patrick was a little scared of taking a shower in the morning.

In the room next door, a man groaned loudly, and the bed started creaking again, audible both through the walls and over the hum of the wall air conditioner.

"So what are they at now," Patrick wondered idly, trying to trace with his eyes the dim shape of the crack in the ceiling over the bed. "Round three?" What started as embarrassing at midnight had modulated to hilarious at one AM, and descended to flat-out annoying at three in the morning.

"Fuck, who cares," Pete said, flipping onto his back. Even his back hitting the mattress sounded mad, and in moving stole half the covers. "I'm trying to fucking sleep."

Patrick tugged the blanket back. "We're never going to sleep again," he said morbidly. "We're in hell and never got the message. This is it. Being forced to listen to other people have sex forever."

"I bet the guy's, like, fifty years old, cheating on his wife with a dirty skanky whore," Pete said, and Patrick could tell he'd gotten Pete's imagination working. "Dude, I bet he's your dad's age." Pete started laughing, half sitting up in bed, and stuttered out, "Dude, I bet he is your dad."

Patrick cringed away, and shoved at Pete with his foot. "Shut up, God, gross."

"No," Pete protested, laughing harder, almost falling out of the bed. "I bet he's in there, workin' away--"

"Dude, shut up," Patrick hissed, trying to scrub bad mental images from his brain. "That's not funny."

"Working away," Pete repeated, and Patrick kicked him hard in the side. Pete, unbalanced, toppled sideways to land on the floor with a thump, taking most of the bedding with him.

"You're such an ass," Patrick said, lying back down with dignified grace, clutching at a corner of the sheet. "God, now I'm going to be sleep deprived and traumatized."

"Ow," drifted up from the floor. "Fucking gave me rugburn on my elbow."

"Good," Patrick said. The room was quiet for a moment, then a girl's voice filtered through, saying piercingly, in a rising refrain, "Oh God, God."

"Lord's name in vain," Pete muttered, but now he sounded more depressed than anything else.

"At least she's having a good time," Patrick said into the pillow. And then, because it was three-thirty AM, and his brain had gone to sleep a long time ago even if his mouth hadn't, he said, "I wish I were having a good time." He flushed hotly a second later, feeling suddenly, shockingly, lucid, but the words had already been said.

"Um," Pete said from the floor.

"I don't mean--" Patrick said. "I mean. I just. It's been a long time," he finished lamely. He could hear rustling noises, like Pete was shifting restlessly on the carpet.