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piecesof_reesesQ. So, piecesof_reeses, how come when you post fic, you always post two at once?
A. IDK. *pulls out hair* Swear To Shake It Up was right on schedule to be done around Christmastime, only then that noxious Christmas spirit took me over, and made me dash off this crazy fic over the past weekend. SO: very hastily written. Read at your own risk. :)?
Title: you are the dreamer, we are the dream
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~11,000
Pairing: Mostly gen.
Summary: A snow globe, a fight to the death, and the best joint of Joe Trohman's life. How Fall Out Boy spends Christmas. (This is a wildly, wildly cracky adaptation of A Christmas Carol.)
Warnings: Swearing. Crack. (oh god, so much crack.)
Disclaimer: Charles Dickens, I am so sorry, you don't even know. None of this is real.
Author's Notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chaoticallyclev, ilu mostest! Thanks so much for looking this over and not disowning me afterward.
"Hey, wow, thanks," Pete says, grinning.
The girl smiles back, casting her eyes demurely to the ground. "I made it myself," she confides, motioning to the snow globe she just handed him. "One of those DIY kits, you know?"
"It's awesome," Pete says honestly. It really is. Little swirls of sparkles swing around the blue base, and there are tiny people within the globe. "Hey! Hey, guys! Come look at this," he yells.
Patrick sort of slumps his way over, looking barely awake and sweaty as hell. The show had been amazing, and Pete can still feel the adrenaline thrumming through his veins. He's jittery, almost, and he's pretty sure his smile is too big, his eyes too bright, his speech just a little too fast.
But that's how he always is after a show. Patrick, on the other hand, is usually exhausted and twice as likely to punch you if you're being annoying.
Pete knows.
"Hey, yeah, that's pretty cool," Patrick offers, leaning against Pete's side.
The girl honest-to-god blushes, and then holds up her camera. "Can I, uh, can I take a picture? Of you two?"
"Sure." Pete wraps an arm around Patrick's shoulder and slouches down to smish their heads together. Patrick smells like ass.
"You smell like ass," he whispers.
"So do you," Patrick shoots back wittily.
"Okay, smile!"
Pete plasters a huge, shit-eating grin on his face, squinting against the flash.
"Thanks so much," the girl gushes. "You guys are sooo cute together."
"Uh, thanks," Patrick mumbles.
Pete lays his chin on Patrick's shoulder. "Patrick makes everyone look cute."
The girl giggles, and Patrick elbows Pete tiredly.
"So, yeah. I hope you guys enjoy the snow globe. Aaaand, uhh..." She bites her lip before continuing, "If you wanna see something really cool, you guys should, like, shake the snow globe on Christmas Eve. Okay?" the girl chirps, before pretty much bouncing away.
"Something really cool, huh?" Patrick says, sounding dubious.
"Maybe it's a time bomb," Pete says lightly.
"It probably is," Patrick grumps. "Remember the poisoned cookies? And the aphrodisiac-laced flowers? It took four guys to pull Joe off Korean Tom Cruise."
"Haha, yeah." Pete fondly remembers the Troh/Cruise t-shirts (with a screen of Joe and Korean Tom Cruise's lovechild from that online generator. The poor kid had creepy eyes and chipmunk cheeks) they had printed out before Joe threw them all into a nearby dumpster. "I'll get someone in management to look at it, or whatever."
"Fucking fangirls," Patrick mutters.
"Well, you know. Those who love us the most hurt us the most," Pete breathes into Patrick's ear. He can feel himself coming down from the show's high, and he's not really interested into putting any effort towards non-cliché replies.
"Yeah, sure."
* * *
"Patrick! Patrickpatrickpatrick!! Paaaaaaaaaaaaatrick!" Pete sings out, trying to shape Patrick's name around the refrain of Sugar.
"What the fuck, Pete." Patrick shoves open a window and glares. Pete notes gleefully that the sun is reflecting prettily off of Patrick's uncovered bald spot.
"Let me up, Patty!" he yells.
"Learn to use the fucking doorbell, jackass!"
Patrick's neighbor sticks her pretty blonde head out her window to glare at them and flip them the bird before ducking back in.
Pete smiles up angelically. "Can't, man," he says, holding up his mittened hands. "The doorbell was too small for me to push," he swears.
Patrick disappears--Pete can hear him clomping down the stairs like a big, grumpy, ginger-haired, beautifully-voiced dinosaur--and then shoves the door open.
"That didn't even make any sense, dipshit," Patrick informs him.
Pete makes a Wentzface, before belatedly remembering that he wasn't going to do that anymore. "Nothing makes sense to you before 8 in the morning."
"Then why are you here?" Patick folds his arms across his chest, puffing himself up in an attempt to block the doorway. Pete decides not to mention that there's probably enough space for Pete to vault over Patrick's head and into the house, if he were so inclined. Which he's not, because his super-awesome Supra sneakers aren't really built for such athletic endeavors. Also because Patrick hates to be reminded of his shortcomings, especially in the vertical field of things, and Patrick is a little bitch in the mornings. Pete's eyes crinkle around the corners. Patrick's always a little bitch, a.m. hours or not.
"Because," Pete sighs, a great gust of white air blowing into Patrick's rapidly reddening face.
"Because what." Patrick parrots in a monotone.
"Ashlee kicked me out before I could wake Bronx up, or whatever." Pete heaves out another sigh and looks down, scuffing sadly at the sidewalk with his left shoe.
"So you came here," Patrick says slowly, "to wake me up instead?" The tips of his ears are a delicious, rosy, apple-red color.
"Yep." Pete beams at Patrick, showing off every inch of his gleaming, freshly-brushed teeth.
Pete thinks that making such a loud noise is kind of counter-productive to getting Patrick's pretty blonde neighbor to stop hating them so much, but whatever. If Patrick wants to slam a door, then Patty can damn well slam a door.
Pete rubs his mittened hands together idly, counting slowly down from ten in his head. Before he reaches two, the door opens again.
"Well, come the fuck in," Patrick says annoyedly. "I'm up now already, it's not like I'm going to go back to sleep."
Pete's grin gets wider. He doesn't do the dropping in randomly at ass-o-clock in the morning so much anymore, but it's nice to know Patrick won't leave him outside. Pete likes to think they've evolved into being that kind of friend, you know? As opposed to when the band had just begun, and Patrick really would leave him on the front porch until noon. Pete chalks it up to Patrick's teenagerish-ness and not, of course, to how obnoxious he may or may not have been at that point in his life.
"So what've you got to eat in this damn place?" he asks, following Patrick at a sedate pace.
Patrick shrugs. "I dunno. I've been flying around all over the country--" Pete nods, because Patrick threw a complete bitchfit when Pete texted him at apparently one in the morning wherever he was "--so my fridge is probably empty."
Patrick frowns.
"Hm?" Pete asks.
"Are you staring at my crotch, dude?" Patrick asks slowly. "Because I thought--well, prayed, actually--that we were over your bi-curious phase."
"Oh, no, of course not." Pete smiles at him easily. "I was just trying to figure out if your boxers actually had dancing elves, or if it was just my overworked brain exploding."
Patrick glares at him. "Overworked brain exploding."
Pete raises an eyebrow. Well, he tries. He probably just ended up raising both of them again.
"I'm going upstairs to change," Patrick says loudly. "Don't burn down my house while I'm gone."
Pete salutes him cheerfully, because he seriously knows how to work a stove now without making everything go up in flames after Ashlee had taken him aside for a chat, and anyways, it had only been that time, and also, Mikeyway had been there, which means it doesn't even count because Mikeyway can make domestic appliances become weapons of mass destruction with the power of his mind.
Pete's therapist tells him he's too good at making rationalizations, but then Pete just starts talking about all the homoerotic banter he has going on with Gabe, and she tries to brain herself with his file. His gigantic, foot-thick file. Pete feels a weird amount of pride that he's apparently so screwed up professionals have to use reams of paper to deal with him, but Pete's therapist tells him that's unhealthy. Pete then conscientiously tells her braining herself with his file is unhealthy. And they're back to square one again.
Pete's hands feel a familiar-shaped cardboard box in the cupboard he's been rummaging around in. Oh, man. Score.
"Dude!" he yells up the stairs. "You didn't tell me you had fucking strawberry poptarts!"
"Really?" he hears faintly. "Poptarts?"
"Well, singular poptart, anyway."
0.5 seconds later, Pete almost chokes on the poptart he has crammed into his mouth when Patrick makes a flying leap off his stairs and onto Pete.
They lock eyes. Pete tries to grin around his mouthful of delicious, delicious poptart.
"It's mine, dude. I bought them with my own money," Patrick says calmly.
"Findherus Keeperths," Pete counters.
"You're almost thirty, Pete," Patrick says exasperatedly. "Let's try not to use elementary school terminology. Also, you're spraying crumbs all over my shirt."
There's a moment of silence--the calm before a storm, Pete thinks--before the entire world seems to kick back into furious motion around him.
Patrick has one of Pete's arms pinned down in one hand, and his other hand is determinedly attempting to wrench the rest of the poptart away from Pete's mouth. Unfortunately for him, Pete's horse teeth are good for more than just smiles. He clamps them down hard around the precious snackfood and bares them at Patrick. He flails his free arm around to try to push Patrick off, but it's not working very well considering Pete can only manage to whack it uselessly against Patrick's side.
Which--huh. Pete forms his hand into a claw, and begins to mercilessly tickle Patrick, who squawks, and Pete has all of three seconds to reflect on just how bad of a tactical mistake he's just made before Patrick starts tickling him in return. Because his mouth has just opened in laughter, dropping the poptart onto the floor, and oh no. This is so not how it's going to go down.
They both lunge for the mangled poptart, but Patrick's got an advantage because he's practically on top of Pete, and he's stuffed it into his mouth before Pete can so much as whimper. Pete promptly takes hold of the end of the poptart that's sticking out of Patrick's mouth with the closest body part available. Which turn out to be his teeth, and--hm. Now they're kissing.
Pete waggles his eyebrows at Patrick, moves his lips against his, and then watches in satisfaction as Patrick rears back in horror, letting go of the poptart.
This time, Pete doesn't wait around to smell the flowers before eating the poptart. He chows that mofo down, grinding it efficiently with his big but useful teeth, and then swallowing the whole mess down. Eurgh. Pete thinks he might have eaten a dust bunny along with it.
Patrick's sitting crosslegged on the floor, looking mournfully at Pete's mouth. "Why did I even let you in?" Patrick asks the world at large. "When all you do is make fun of my girlfriend's bad taste in gifts and steal my food."
Pete snorts before he can help it. "Elisa gave you those boxers?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Patrick says loftily.
Pete pulls himself off the ground and shoves Patrick up too.
"C'mon." He swings an arm around Patrick's shoulders. "I'll buy you one of those delicious lattes at the corner coffee shop, and any pastry you like, and then I'll sit in your lap and pet the places where your sideburns used to be, and then you can forgive me for taking the last poptart."
He drops a kiss on Patrick's bald spot. Patrick's still scowling.
"But stealing a man's last poptart is, like, a capital crime. It IS a capital crime over at Fuck City. Andy almost killed Mixon for it," Patrick grouses.
"Sorry, Pattycakes," Pete says unapologetically. "I'll buy you two pastries, how about that?"
Patrick stops to think about it just to be difficult. Pete knows. He's got that I'm-Not-Angry-Anymore-But-I'm-Still-Pretending-To-Be face on. Pete's very well acquainted with it.
"Yeah, okay," Patrick concedes after a few more minutes.
"Awesome."
* * *
He's got Patrick all settled down with his two pastries and pumpkin spice latte, he's bought an espresso for himself, and there are only two paps across the street. Pete's counting it as a win, although it started off kinda shaky.
"Both chocolate?" Pete had asked with raised eyebrows.
"What?" Patrick's shoulders had hunched over in an automatic defensive posture.
"You know how Elisa feels about your blood sugar."
Patrick's scowl started making a reappearance, so Pete decided to lay off the questioning. It wasn't really any of his business, anyway. And Pete could ask around (aka stalk). He’s good at that. He's had practice.
"What are you doing?" Patrick’s food has stopped distracting him, and he’s now focusing on Pete, who was—very sneakily!—texting under the table.
“Nothing,” Pete offers up, widening his eyes before remembering that Ashlee told him it just made him look more suspicious (also demented, but Ashlee was in labor at the time, so he’s not going to take it personally).
“Who are you texting, Pete,” Patrick says flatly. Pete always forgets that Patrick’s known him way too many years for Pete to conceivably pull off a believable innocent act.
“Just our bee eff effs,” Pete says flippantly.
“What are Joe and Andy saying?” Patrick asks around a slurp of his latte.
“They say that they’re totally free to come over to your house tonight,” Pete says quickly, smiling widely.
“Come over to my house?”
“Did I stutter?” Pete tries to make his grin look stupid yet endearing. (True fact: Those were Ashlee’s exact words when he proposed to her.)
Patrick is slowly putting his latte down on the table, and Pete rushes to start talking before Patrick starts yelling.
“Hey, man, I just thought we should have a nice, old-fashioned boys’ night in.”
“At my house? Pete, what the fuck have I told you about inviting people over without actually asking me first? Or telling me about it at all? Pete, I still haven’t forgotten the hooker incident.”
“It’s just our band,” Pete says, trying to keep his voice from rising into the whiny range. “And I just…” He stares soulfully at the chipped table. Someone’s written, I see dead chicks. Someone else has written, Try to stay out of necrophilia. Dating dead chicks is a slippery slope.
Patrick’s waiting for him to finish his sentence impatiently by tapping against the side of his coffee cup and chewing with his mouth open obnoxiously.
“I just feel like we’re drifting apart, you know? We’re a band! We’re supposed to be best friends! Remember how close we all were in the good old van days?”
“Pete, in the good old van days we were so close I tried to kill you repeatedly.”
“Well, yeah, except for the choking parts.”
“Pete.” Patrick massages his temples.
“C’mon,” Pete gives in and whines. “It’ll be fun! You know it’ll be fun. I’ll even bring the beer.”
Patrick gives him a piercing look. “Ashlee just wants you out of the house, doesn’t she?”
Pete tugs at his woven hat. “Ashlee is perfectly happy to have me around 24/7. Goddamn, try to hang out with your best friend every once in a while, and he accuses you of your wife getting tired of you.”
“Uh huh. She just wants to get a full night of sleep, am I right? Between you and the baby, I’m surprised she’s still walking.”
Pete grins ruefully. “Yeah, she’s got Bronx is over at Jessica’s, too. I’m kind of afraid she’ll leave him in the oven or something, but Ashlee says it’s fine.”
Patrick smiles back, and Pete’s shoulders relax. Ashlee would love to have a night alone, yeah, but Patrick’s also been kind of tense lately, and he hadn’t seen any of Elisa’s stuff at Patrick’s at all (not to mention Patrick has resorted to wearing ugly presents his girlfriend gave him). So—just call it a best friend intervention. Or a way to keep his wife from murdering him; Pete’s flexible like that.
* * *
“Welcome to my lair,” Pete says in a dark and smoky voice, his lips curled into a smirk, and his eyes staring smolderingly from under his artfully furrowed brow.
“Don’t even try,” Andy advises him as he steps inside. “Gabe can still do it way better.”
“Also, that got old the twentieth time you said it,” Joe says prissily as he follows Andy.
“Girlfriend still not letting you smoke up in the house?” Pete asks sympathetically, noting Joe’s unusually sour mood.
Joe shrugs a sad shoulder up and down. “Yeah.”
They make their way to the kitchen, where Patrick’s putting the finishing touches on a frozen pizza, still clad in the frilly apron Pete had bullied him into earlier that afternoon.
Patrick turns around, and smirks. “Welcome to my—“
“Pete already did it,” Andy says.
Patrick frowns, and Pete swears he sees Patrick make a conscious decision not to stamp his foot. “Dude, that’s so not fair! It’s not even your lair!”
Pete just grins back at him.
“You’re gonna make a lucky someone a great housewife someday,” Joe says, eying the apron and the spatula Patrick’s holding.
Patrick’s face darkens—probably because Pete had made a few dozen similar cracks when he saw that apron, thus lowering his already low tolerance—so Pete quickly explains.
“He’s a little high-strung because the girlfriend’s not letting him—“
“Exist!” Joe breaks in, looking kind of manic. “She’s not letting me exist! I can’t live without…” He falters, looking into the distance with a heartbreakingly vacant gaze.
“Without what?” Ever since Patrick’s gone straightedge, he’s been a little slow on the uptake.
“You know.” Pete delicately makes a helpful gesture with his hands, trying not to trigger a seizure in Joe or something. “Mary. Mary Jane?”
Andy doesn’t have any such compunction. “Weed, dude. He’s talking about weed.”
“And he wants some of yours,” Joe puts in, apparently so far gone that he’s referring to himself in the third person.
“Uh. I think I might have some old weed in my bedroom. I’ll…go look? Will someone make sure the pizza doesn’t burn?”
Pete nods and waves him up genially. Make sure the pizza doesn’t burn? Sure. Easy. Pete’s got it covered.
Except then Joe starts talking to himself and rocking a little bit, so Pete has to comfort him by sticking his fingers up his nose and then pretending to be a walrus—which always works for Bronx, seriously, Andy—and somewhere along the way the fire alarm’s gone off.
By the time Patrick storms back down, bag of weed in hand—“Weed,” Joe breathes brokenly—Andy’s trying to salvage the pizza (he says he has a lot of experience with that) and Pete is frantically using his hoodie to fan at the smoke alarm.
“H-Hi, Patrick,” Pete grins. It must look kind of douche-y, though, and Pete really can’t help that shit-eating grins are his default expression, because Patrick somehow flies across the floor to strangle Pete, but Joe gets in the way with glazed eyes and reaching fingers for the pot, which Patrick was for some reason holding in front of his crotch, and—
Anyway. The pizza burnt. Andy says he got some great shots, though, and that he’s totally posting them to the Fuck City website.
Patrick lets out a noise like an injured hippopotamus, but doesn’t make any further moves.
“Uh. Sorry for, like, getting to third base with you,” Joe says in a small voice.
Patrick waves a hand feebly to let him know that all is forgiven.
Andy is still excitedly muttering about how these pictures are going to make great strides in the movement for free love.
Pete hasn’t had such a great time since the “good old van days,” and also, Patrick’s ass is right in his face. He smiles blissfully.
* * *
Everyone gets a lot more relaxed after a joint—Patrick and Andy don’t partake, but the air is, like, bursting with weed fumes, so Pete doesn’t know who they think they’re kidding.
“Man, this is so awesome,” Joe says lazily. Pete’s relieved to hear that Joe’s voice has gone back into his customary lower range, and that he’s stopped making all sense at all. It’s great to have Joe back.
“What is?” Patrick lolls his head to look at Joe. They’re all situated on the couch, and the (burnt) pizza is long gone.
“The ceiling,” Joe says earnestly. “It’s just so, like…” He scratches his afro. “What was I saying again?”
“Something about the ceiling,” Patrick reminds him. “The white ceiling. White as…” He stares up at it curiously, like he’s never seen it before. “White as snow. Snow white. Ahaha, pun.”
Andy gives him a withering look. Pete is secretly very impressed with Andy’s ability to stay sober in a hotboxed room.
“Not so secretly if you’re saying it aloud,” Andy says.
Oh. Oops.
Patrick is still rhapsodizing about the white ceiling. “It’s seriously, seriously like snow. I love snow. I hate winter, though.” Patrick scratches his nose and makes a confused noise.
Snow. Oh, right!
“Hey, guys, guys, look what I have!” Pete searches through his bag before coming up with the snow globe.
“That’s…a snow globe.” Andy says, raising an eyebrow.
Pete sometimes thinks that Andy tries so hard to be sober around stoned people that he actually becomes uber sober. Like, even more serious and unimpressed and generally unlikable.
“Wait, is that the same one that girl gave us at Nokia?” Patrick asks.
“Yeah. Apparently it’s completely and totally bomb, poison, tracking device, and aphrodisiac-free,” Pete says.
“Amazing,” Patrick says, and Pete agrees fervently.
“Why’d you bring it here?” Andy asks. His eyebrow still hasn’t gone down. Pete is beginning to suspect Andy’s supposed sobriety.
“Because it’s pretty! Duh,” Joe says, then waves his hand through the air, making airplane noises.
Pete exchanges a glance with Patrick. Maybe Joe’s been without weed for so long he’s having an uber reaction to it. Pete really likes the word uber. It just sounds cool. Uber. Pete Wentz is uber cool.
Pete’s still giggling about that when Patrick nudges him. “So,” Patrick says pointedly. “What did you bring it for?”
Pete coughs. “Well, she said if we wanted to see something uber cool, we should shake it on Christmas Eve! And…it’s Christmas Eve!”
Wow, Pete still has incisive logic even when he’s stoned. That must be, like, a special talent or something. Then he thinks to himself, Somewhere Ashlee is laughing at me, and she doesn’t know why. Pete frowns. Wait. He doesn’t know why either.
“So you’re going to shake it?” Joe asks.
“Sure,” Pete shrugs.
“We’re all going to die,” Andy predicts. He looks considerably cheered by the prospect.
“Cool,” Joe agrees.
So Pete shakes it. And shakes it and shakes it and shakes it and why is he still shaking it wow it looks like it’s snowing like the white walls are becoming snow flakes and it’s snowing all around them which is really pretty and Pete tilts his head back just enjoying the snow but his hand is still shaking the snow globe until—
It stops.
* * *
“This isn’t Kansas anymore, Toto,” Andy says dismally.
Pete wants to hit him for three reasons: 1. For stating the obvious. 2. For using a horrible literary allusion to state the obvious. 3. For being in a snow globe while using a horrible literary allusion to state the obvious!!
Joe giggles. “Toto.”
“We were never in Kansas,” Patrick says insightfully.
Wow, Pete’s high is wearing off really fucking fast.
“Why the hell are we in a snow globe, guys? That might be the question to focus on first,” he says patiently. Well, semi-patiently. He isn’t yelling yet, all right? Even though he’s got a baby and a wife waiting for him and also the snow is soaking through his Supra sneakers.
Andy gives him a look. “You were the one who shook it.”
“What,” Pete sputters, “Are we pointing fingers now? This is exactly what they want us to do! Fight amongst ourselves until we’re divided and weak!”
“Well, Andy’s right,” Patrick says reasonably. “Also—what the hell? ‘They?’”
Pete reflects that maybe his high hasn’t worn off. Maybe it’s just manifesting in a different manner. Like paranoia. Although then again, when you’re in a snow globe, Pete doesn’t really think you can be paranoid enough.
Joe has started marching through the snow, hands out zombie-style.
“Dude, where are you going?” Pete asks. “We can’t see fucking anything.”
It’s true. They’re knee-deep in snow, and more flakes are gusting around them. Complete white-out. It’d be almost cool, if they weren’t in a fucking snow globe.
“Maybe this is like a videogame, and we have to find the door to the next level,” Joe says knowledgably.
“The next level,” Patrick repeats. His hands are clenching in and out of fists by his sides.
“Well, we better follow him before we lose him, right?” Pete grabs a hold of Joe’s afro and starts walking.
“Losing this idiot might not be such a bad thing,” Patrick mutters, but he’s just mad that the wind’s blown off his hat.
They all trudge through the snow for what seems like at least two hours, with a small interlude in which Pete tried to get Patrick to sing to pass the time, and Patrick accidentally started trying to bury Pete in the snow. But Pete’s good. He’s fine. He’s only got snow down his fucking underwear, and his hair is poofing out after becoming wet by the snow. Fucking awesome.
“I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world—“
“Oh, hey, it’s Ryan!” Pete digs out his sidekick happily.
“We get reception here?” Andy asks incredulously.
“Well, tell him to get us some help!” Patrick waves his hands around.
“What’s he going to do; break into your house and crack the snow globe open?” Pete asks dubiously, but he texts, stuk in snowglb send help plz.
A few minutes later, Ryan texts back, Spence wants wutever ur smoking.
“Uh, I know this might come as a surprise, but he doesn’t exactly believe us, guys,” Pete says.
“What do you mean he doesn’t believe us? You’re his fucking boss!” Patrick’s arm-waving has gotten considerably more violent. Joe ducks.
Andy rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure getting us out of snow globes wasn’t in the employment contract. Also, this is most logically just a pot-induced hallucination shared by all of us.”
Pete stares at him.
“Ooh, like folie a quatre?” Joe says.
“Exactly,” says Andy, and they high-five.
“Text. Someone. Else,” Patrick grits out. “I’m not fucking waiting around on the off-chance that our high will wear off, or whatever the fuck.”
“Sure, Pattycakes, don’t get all riled up. You know you have to mind your blood pressure,” Pete says absentmindedly.
Patrick starts muttering under his breath.
Well, here goes.
“So?” Patrick asks five minutes later.
“Mikey says he’s too busy feeding Pinky and being on the other side of the country to help us, sorry. But he sent us an awesome picture of Piglet with her kibble. Wanna see?”
Patrick glares. “Just text someone who’s actually in LA, dipshit!”
Pete shrugs. “Ashlee’s not answering, but…”
Gabanti we need sum help.
Que es el problema skywalker?
Stuk in snow glbe.
Where did u get it?
Fangrl
Oh.
Five seconds later, Ima have Nate call you.
His phone starts belting out the Macarena, and Pete quickly answers it. Joe starts trying to get everyone to do the Macarena. Patrick starts trying to strangle Joe with his afro.
“Hey, Nate.”
“So, stuck in a snow globe, huh?” Nate asks, his voice slightly scratchy on the other end.
“Yeah.”
“If this is anything like that time Ryland and Alex got trapped in an ink pen, you’re just going to have to wait it out.”
“Wait it out?” Pete repeats. “And—what pen?”
“Hannah Montana,” Nate says cheerfully. “You’ve probably seen it; Ryland’s takes that thing everywhere with him.”
“Right,” Pete says. Whenever he talks to anyone from Cobra, he feels like he’s getting a contact high.
“So, a spiritual guide should be coming around right about now,” Nate says casually.
“Ohmigod hiiii!” comes from behind them.
“I think she just arrived,” Pete says.
“Sweet. I need to go, Gabe wants someone to poof his pillows. Have fun, dude,” and Nate hangs up.
“Who the hell are you,” Patrick says in a dark voice, apparently trying to kill the girl with his eyes.
Instead of bursting into flames, she dimples. “You guys, like, met me at the Nokia Theater? Great show, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Joe smiles.
“Why did you put us in here?” Andy crosses his arm, giving her what Pete likes to think of as the Soulless Anarchist Glare.
“Well, you two weren’t supposed to be in here,” she says, as if it were their fault they got sucked in. “It was only supposed to get Pete and Patrick.”
“I’m sorry you haven’t worked out all the kinks in your little celebrity-capturing-device yet,” Andy says dryly. “Now get us the fuck out of here.”
She twists her hair around one finger. “You guys can’t get out until it’s, like, done. The process.”
The process. That sounds vaguely ominous.
“And why the fuck did you just want me and Pete?” Patrick glares harder. His glasses have slipped down his nose, and he looks like a red-faced, angry little gnome.
She gives him a shy gaze and giggles. Pete starts feeling a little irritated.
“More importantly, what process are you talking about?”
“Well, you know. Like, you’re going to see Christmases Past, Present, and Future. And then you and Patrick will—“ she dissolves into giggles again.
“We’ll what?” Patrick interrupts in a hard voice.
“You’ll understand you’re mfeo!” She winks.
“What the fuck?”
“Sorry, Patrick’s internet illiterate. She means we’re made for each other,” Pete translates.
They all exchange glances. This is definitely more serious than they thought.
“I know Pete’s like married, or whatever, but after tonight I know you’ll come to your senses!” She claps her hands together and gives a little squeal. “I’ll be right back, don’t go anywheeeeere!” Her voice seems to stretch out strangely as she slowly fades out of existence.
“This is bad, guys.” Pete puts his head into his hands.
Andy shakes his head. “I hadn’t realized we were dealing with that kind of fangirl. Man, they’re fucking vicious. And delusional. The forums on Fuck City…” He shudders.
Patrick looks ill. “Remember that period of time they kept giving us stories? About…” Patrick blanches.
“I’m confused,” Joe says plaintively.
“Dude, I’m sure I explained to you before,” Pete tells him. “You know? Peterick? Patrete? Wentzump? Stentz? Any and all other horrible name smushes? Man,” he says to Patrick, “it’s really too bad we don’t have names that smush well together. Like Brangelina. Now that is a good namesmush.”
“Yeah. Too bad.” Now Patrick’s just being sarcastic. Pete frowns at him.
Joe is blinking slowly. “Wait, Peterick? I thought…”
“What?”
“I thought you were just fantasizing, honestly. I was like, Pete, I don’t wanna know whatever kind of torch you’re holding for our lead singer, especially if it involves mpreg, but then you just kept emailing me stuff!” Joe looks haunted. “It took me hours of lolcats to erase the images!”
Pete glares. “No. I wasn’t just ‘fantasizing.’ And anyway, if I had written that stuff, I would have done it way better.”
“It wouldn’t have any punctuation, for starters,” Andy murmurs.
“That is so not the point. What are we going to do?”
“Wait it out?” Joe offers.
Andy shrugs. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ve got time.”
“Are you guys crazy? Giving in? We’re not even going to try to get out?” Patrick spits. His hands have balled into fists, and he looks ready to fight.
Then he squawks, and attempts to jump on top of Joe. Pete is kind of jealous.
Joe is laughing hysterically and also attempting to stuff more snow down Patrick’s shirt. “We have so much snow we might as well take advantage of it, right?” Instead of fighting like jackasses goes unsaid.
“By shoving snow down my pants?” Patrick bellows.
Pete grins and joins in on the attack. Andy’s already smashing snowballs onto Joe’s afro. Pete suspects that the afro is so thick Joe doesn’t even notice.
By the time the Batshit Insane Bitch, as Pete’s christened her inside his head (BIB for short; he’s kind of impressed with his acronym abilities) comes back, he’s straddling Patrick and screaming “Eat snow!” while Joe takes cheap shots from the side and Andy is focused on making the “perfect snow missile of doom.”
“Oh my gosh! Is this, like, foreplay?”
Everyone freezes. Pete momentarily stops rubbing snow over Patrick’s face.
“No,” they all say at the same time (except for Joe, who is mouthing foreplay and looking kind of confused). She looks disturbingly disappointed.
“Well, okay. Anyway, you all have to come with me. Because I am…” she twirls, “the Ghost Of Christmas Past!”
“Oh god,” Pete can hear from under him, muffled by the snow he piled over Patrick’s mouth.
“Charles Dickens is rolling in his grave,” Andy mutters.
Part 2
A. IDK. *pulls out hair* Swear To Shake It Up was right on schedule to be done around Christmastime, only then that noxious Christmas spirit took me over, and made me dash off this crazy fic over the past weekend. SO: very hastily written. Read at your own risk. :)?
Title: you are the dreamer, we are the dream
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~11,000
Pairing: Mostly gen.
Summary: A snow globe, a fight to the death, and the best joint of Joe Trohman's life. How Fall Out Boy spends Christmas. (This is a wildly, wildly cracky adaptation of A Christmas Carol.)
Warnings: Swearing. Crack. (oh god, so much crack.)
Disclaimer: Charles Dickens, I am so sorry, you don't even know. None of this is real.
Author's Notes:
chaoticallyclev, ilu mostest! Thanks so much for looking this over and not disowning me afterward."Hey, wow, thanks," Pete says, grinning.
The girl smiles back, casting her eyes demurely to the ground. "I made it myself," she confides, motioning to the snow globe she just handed him. "One of those DIY kits, you know?"
"It's awesome," Pete says honestly. It really is. Little swirls of sparkles swing around the blue base, and there are tiny people within the globe. "Hey! Hey, guys! Come look at this," he yells.
Patrick sort of slumps his way over, looking barely awake and sweaty as hell. The show had been amazing, and Pete can still feel the adrenaline thrumming through his veins. He's jittery, almost, and he's pretty sure his smile is too big, his eyes too bright, his speech just a little too fast.
But that's how he always is after a show. Patrick, on the other hand, is usually exhausted and twice as likely to punch you if you're being annoying.
Pete knows.
"Hey, yeah, that's pretty cool," Patrick offers, leaning against Pete's side.
The girl honest-to-god blushes, and then holds up her camera. "Can I, uh, can I take a picture? Of you two?"
"Sure." Pete wraps an arm around Patrick's shoulder and slouches down to smish their heads together. Patrick smells like ass.
"You smell like ass," he whispers.
"So do you," Patrick shoots back wittily.
"Okay, smile!"
Pete plasters a huge, shit-eating grin on his face, squinting against the flash.
"Thanks so much," the girl gushes. "You guys are sooo cute together."
"Uh, thanks," Patrick mumbles.
Pete lays his chin on Patrick's shoulder. "Patrick makes everyone look cute."
The girl giggles, and Patrick elbows Pete tiredly.
"So, yeah. I hope you guys enjoy the snow globe. Aaaand, uhh..." She bites her lip before continuing, "If you wanna see something really cool, you guys should, like, shake the snow globe on Christmas Eve. Okay?" the girl chirps, before pretty much bouncing away.
"Something really cool, huh?" Patrick says, sounding dubious.
"Maybe it's a time bomb," Pete says lightly.
"It probably is," Patrick grumps. "Remember the poisoned cookies? And the aphrodisiac-laced flowers? It took four guys to pull Joe off Korean Tom Cruise."
"Haha, yeah." Pete fondly remembers the Troh/Cruise t-shirts (with a screen of Joe and Korean Tom Cruise's lovechild from that online generator. The poor kid had creepy eyes and chipmunk cheeks) they had printed out before Joe threw them all into a nearby dumpster. "I'll get someone in management to look at it, or whatever."
"Fucking fangirls," Patrick mutters.
"Well, you know. Those who love us the most hurt us the most," Pete breathes into Patrick's ear. He can feel himself coming down from the show's high, and he's not really interested into putting any effort towards non-cliché replies.
"Yeah, sure."
* * *
"Patrick! Patrickpatrickpatrick!! Paaaaaaaaaaaaatrick!" Pete sings out, trying to shape Patrick's name around the refrain of Sugar.
"What the fuck, Pete." Patrick shoves open a window and glares. Pete notes gleefully that the sun is reflecting prettily off of Patrick's uncovered bald spot.
"Let me up, Patty!" he yells.
"Learn to use the fucking doorbell, jackass!"
Patrick's neighbor sticks her pretty blonde head out her window to glare at them and flip them the bird before ducking back in.
Pete smiles up angelically. "Can't, man," he says, holding up his mittened hands. "The doorbell was too small for me to push," he swears.
Patrick disappears--Pete can hear him clomping down the stairs like a big, grumpy, ginger-haired, beautifully-voiced dinosaur--and then shoves the door open.
"That didn't even make any sense, dipshit," Patrick informs him.
Pete makes a Wentzface, before belatedly remembering that he wasn't going to do that anymore. "Nothing makes sense to you before 8 in the morning."
"Then why are you here?" Patick folds his arms across his chest, puffing himself up in an attempt to block the doorway. Pete decides not to mention that there's probably enough space for Pete to vault over Patrick's head and into the house, if he were so inclined. Which he's not, because his super-awesome Supra sneakers aren't really built for such athletic endeavors. Also because Patrick hates to be reminded of his shortcomings, especially in the vertical field of things, and Patrick is a little bitch in the mornings. Pete's eyes crinkle around the corners. Patrick's always a little bitch, a.m. hours or not.
"Because," Pete sighs, a great gust of white air blowing into Patrick's rapidly reddening face.
"Because what." Patrick parrots in a monotone.
"Ashlee kicked me out before I could wake Bronx up, or whatever." Pete heaves out another sigh and looks down, scuffing sadly at the sidewalk with his left shoe.
"So you came here," Patrick says slowly, "to wake me up instead?" The tips of his ears are a delicious, rosy, apple-red color.
"Yep." Pete beams at Patrick, showing off every inch of his gleaming, freshly-brushed teeth.
Pete thinks that making such a loud noise is kind of counter-productive to getting Patrick's pretty blonde neighbor to stop hating them so much, but whatever. If Patrick wants to slam a door, then Patty can damn well slam a door.
Pete rubs his mittened hands together idly, counting slowly down from ten in his head. Before he reaches two, the door opens again.
"Well, come the fuck in," Patrick says annoyedly. "I'm up now already, it's not like I'm going to go back to sleep."
Pete's grin gets wider. He doesn't do the dropping in randomly at ass-o-clock in the morning so much anymore, but it's nice to know Patrick won't leave him outside. Pete likes to think they've evolved into being that kind of friend, you know? As opposed to when the band had just begun, and Patrick really would leave him on the front porch until noon. Pete chalks it up to Patrick's teenagerish-ness and not, of course, to how obnoxious he may or may not have been at that point in his life.
"So what've you got to eat in this damn place?" he asks, following Patrick at a sedate pace.
Patrick shrugs. "I dunno. I've been flying around all over the country--" Pete nods, because Patrick threw a complete bitchfit when Pete texted him at apparently one in the morning wherever he was "--so my fridge is probably empty."
Patrick frowns.
"Hm?" Pete asks.
"Are you staring at my crotch, dude?" Patrick asks slowly. "Because I thought--well, prayed, actually--that we were over your bi-curious phase."
"Oh, no, of course not." Pete smiles at him easily. "I was just trying to figure out if your boxers actually had dancing elves, or if it was just my overworked brain exploding."
Patrick glares at him. "Overworked brain exploding."
Pete raises an eyebrow. Well, he tries. He probably just ended up raising both of them again.
"I'm going upstairs to change," Patrick says loudly. "Don't burn down my house while I'm gone."
Pete salutes him cheerfully, because he seriously knows how to work a stove now without making everything go up in flames after Ashlee had taken him aside for a chat, and anyways, it had only been that time, and also, Mikeyway had been there, which means it doesn't even count because Mikeyway can make domestic appliances become weapons of mass destruction with the power of his mind.
Pete's therapist tells him he's too good at making rationalizations, but then Pete just starts talking about all the homoerotic banter he has going on with Gabe, and she tries to brain herself with his file. His gigantic, foot-thick file. Pete feels a weird amount of pride that he's apparently so screwed up professionals have to use reams of paper to deal with him, but Pete's therapist tells him that's unhealthy. Pete then conscientiously tells her braining herself with his file is unhealthy. And they're back to square one again.
Pete's hands feel a familiar-shaped cardboard box in the cupboard he's been rummaging around in. Oh, man. Score.
"Dude!" he yells up the stairs. "You didn't tell me you had fucking strawberry poptarts!"
"Really?" he hears faintly. "Poptarts?"
"Well, singular poptart, anyway."
0.5 seconds later, Pete almost chokes on the poptart he has crammed into his mouth when Patrick makes a flying leap off his stairs and onto Pete.
They lock eyes. Pete tries to grin around his mouthful of delicious, delicious poptart.
"It's mine, dude. I bought them with my own money," Patrick says calmly.
"Findherus Keeperths," Pete counters.
"You're almost thirty, Pete," Patrick says exasperatedly. "Let's try not to use elementary school terminology. Also, you're spraying crumbs all over my shirt."
There's a moment of silence--the calm before a storm, Pete thinks--before the entire world seems to kick back into furious motion around him.
Patrick has one of Pete's arms pinned down in one hand, and his other hand is determinedly attempting to wrench the rest of the poptart away from Pete's mouth. Unfortunately for him, Pete's horse teeth are good for more than just smiles. He clamps them down hard around the precious snackfood and bares them at Patrick. He flails his free arm around to try to push Patrick off, but it's not working very well considering Pete can only manage to whack it uselessly against Patrick's side.
Which--huh. Pete forms his hand into a claw, and begins to mercilessly tickle Patrick, who squawks, and Pete has all of three seconds to reflect on just how bad of a tactical mistake he's just made before Patrick starts tickling him in return. Because his mouth has just opened in laughter, dropping the poptart onto the floor, and oh no. This is so not how it's going to go down.
They both lunge for the mangled poptart, but Patrick's got an advantage because he's practically on top of Pete, and he's stuffed it into his mouth before Pete can so much as whimper. Pete promptly takes hold of the end of the poptart that's sticking out of Patrick's mouth with the closest body part available. Which turn out to be his teeth, and--hm. Now they're kissing.
Pete waggles his eyebrows at Patrick, moves his lips against his, and then watches in satisfaction as Patrick rears back in horror, letting go of the poptart.
This time, Pete doesn't wait around to smell the flowers before eating the poptart. He chows that mofo down, grinding it efficiently with his big but useful teeth, and then swallowing the whole mess down. Eurgh. Pete thinks he might have eaten a dust bunny along with it.
Patrick's sitting crosslegged on the floor, looking mournfully at Pete's mouth. "Why did I even let you in?" Patrick asks the world at large. "When all you do is make fun of my girlfriend's bad taste in gifts and steal my food."
Pete snorts before he can help it. "Elisa gave you those boxers?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Patrick says loftily.
Pete pulls himself off the ground and shoves Patrick up too.
"C'mon." He swings an arm around Patrick's shoulders. "I'll buy you one of those delicious lattes at the corner coffee shop, and any pastry you like, and then I'll sit in your lap and pet the places where your sideburns used to be, and then you can forgive me for taking the last poptart."
He drops a kiss on Patrick's bald spot. Patrick's still scowling.
"But stealing a man's last poptart is, like, a capital crime. It IS a capital crime over at Fuck City. Andy almost killed Mixon for it," Patrick grouses.
"Sorry, Pattycakes," Pete says unapologetically. "I'll buy you two pastries, how about that?"
Patrick stops to think about it just to be difficult. Pete knows. He's got that I'm-Not-Angry-Anymore-But-I'm-Still-Pretending-To-Be face on. Pete's very well acquainted with it.
"Yeah, okay," Patrick concedes after a few more minutes.
"Awesome."
* * *
He's got Patrick all settled down with his two pastries and pumpkin spice latte, he's bought an espresso for himself, and there are only two paps across the street. Pete's counting it as a win, although it started off kinda shaky.
"Both chocolate?" Pete had asked with raised eyebrows.
"What?" Patrick's shoulders had hunched over in an automatic defensive posture.
"You know how Elisa feels about your blood sugar."
Patrick's scowl started making a reappearance, so Pete decided to lay off the questioning. It wasn't really any of his business, anyway. And Pete could ask around (aka stalk). He’s good at that. He's had practice.
"What are you doing?" Patrick’s food has stopped distracting him, and he’s now focusing on Pete, who was—very sneakily!—texting under the table.
“Nothing,” Pete offers up, widening his eyes before remembering that Ashlee told him it just made him look more suspicious (also demented, but Ashlee was in labor at the time, so he’s not going to take it personally).
“Who are you texting, Pete,” Patrick says flatly. Pete always forgets that Patrick’s known him way too many years for Pete to conceivably pull off a believable innocent act.
“Just our bee eff effs,” Pete says flippantly.
“What are Joe and Andy saying?” Patrick asks around a slurp of his latte.
“They say that they’re totally free to come over to your house tonight,” Pete says quickly, smiling widely.
“Come over to my house?”
“Did I stutter?” Pete tries to make his grin look stupid yet endearing. (True fact: Those were Ashlee’s exact words when he proposed to her.)
Patrick is slowly putting his latte down on the table, and Pete rushes to start talking before Patrick starts yelling.
“Hey, man, I just thought we should have a nice, old-fashioned boys’ night in.”
“At my house? Pete, what the fuck have I told you about inviting people over without actually asking me first? Or telling me about it at all? Pete, I still haven’t forgotten the hooker incident.”
“It’s just our band,” Pete says, trying to keep his voice from rising into the whiny range. “And I just…” He stares soulfully at the chipped table. Someone’s written, I see dead chicks. Someone else has written, Try to stay out of necrophilia. Dating dead chicks is a slippery slope.
Patrick’s waiting for him to finish his sentence impatiently by tapping against the side of his coffee cup and chewing with his mouth open obnoxiously.
“I just feel like we’re drifting apart, you know? We’re a band! We’re supposed to be best friends! Remember how close we all were in the good old van days?”
“Pete, in the good old van days we were so close I tried to kill you repeatedly.”
“Well, yeah, except for the choking parts.”
“Pete.” Patrick massages his temples.
“C’mon,” Pete gives in and whines. “It’ll be fun! You know it’ll be fun. I’ll even bring the beer.”
Patrick gives him a piercing look. “Ashlee just wants you out of the house, doesn’t she?”
Pete tugs at his woven hat. “Ashlee is perfectly happy to have me around 24/7. Goddamn, try to hang out with your best friend every once in a while, and he accuses you of your wife getting tired of you.”
“Uh huh. She just wants to get a full night of sleep, am I right? Between you and the baby, I’m surprised she’s still walking.”
Pete grins ruefully. “Yeah, she’s got Bronx is over at Jessica’s, too. I’m kind of afraid she’ll leave him in the oven or something, but Ashlee says it’s fine.”
Patrick smiles back, and Pete’s shoulders relax. Ashlee would love to have a night alone, yeah, but Patrick’s also been kind of tense lately, and he hadn’t seen any of Elisa’s stuff at Patrick’s at all (not to mention Patrick has resorted to wearing ugly presents his girlfriend gave him). So—just call it a best friend intervention. Or a way to keep his wife from murdering him; Pete’s flexible like that.
* * *
“Welcome to my lair,” Pete says in a dark and smoky voice, his lips curled into a smirk, and his eyes staring smolderingly from under his artfully furrowed brow.
“Don’t even try,” Andy advises him as he steps inside. “Gabe can still do it way better.”
“Also, that got old the twentieth time you said it,” Joe says prissily as he follows Andy.
“Girlfriend still not letting you smoke up in the house?” Pete asks sympathetically, noting Joe’s unusually sour mood.
Joe shrugs a sad shoulder up and down. “Yeah.”
They make their way to the kitchen, where Patrick’s putting the finishing touches on a frozen pizza, still clad in the frilly apron Pete had bullied him into earlier that afternoon.
Patrick turns around, and smirks. “Welcome to my—“
“Pete already did it,” Andy says.
Patrick frowns, and Pete swears he sees Patrick make a conscious decision not to stamp his foot. “Dude, that’s so not fair! It’s not even your lair!”
Pete just grins back at him.
“You’re gonna make a lucky someone a great housewife someday,” Joe says, eying the apron and the spatula Patrick’s holding.
Patrick’s face darkens—probably because Pete had made a few dozen similar cracks when he saw that apron, thus lowering his already low tolerance—so Pete quickly explains.
“He’s a little high-strung because the girlfriend’s not letting him—“
“Exist!” Joe breaks in, looking kind of manic. “She’s not letting me exist! I can’t live without…” He falters, looking into the distance with a heartbreakingly vacant gaze.
“Without what?” Ever since Patrick’s gone straightedge, he’s been a little slow on the uptake.
“You know.” Pete delicately makes a helpful gesture with his hands, trying not to trigger a seizure in Joe or something. “Mary. Mary Jane?”
Andy doesn’t have any such compunction. “Weed, dude. He’s talking about weed.”
“And he wants some of yours,” Joe puts in, apparently so far gone that he’s referring to himself in the third person.
“Uh. I think I might have some old weed in my bedroom. I’ll…go look? Will someone make sure the pizza doesn’t burn?”
Pete nods and waves him up genially. Make sure the pizza doesn’t burn? Sure. Easy. Pete’s got it covered.
Except then Joe starts talking to himself and rocking a little bit, so Pete has to comfort him by sticking his fingers up his nose and then pretending to be a walrus—which always works for Bronx, seriously, Andy—and somewhere along the way the fire alarm’s gone off.
By the time Patrick storms back down, bag of weed in hand—“Weed,” Joe breathes brokenly—Andy’s trying to salvage the pizza (he says he has a lot of experience with that) and Pete is frantically using his hoodie to fan at the smoke alarm.
“H-Hi, Patrick,” Pete grins. It must look kind of douche-y, though, and Pete really can’t help that shit-eating grins are his default expression, because Patrick somehow flies across the floor to strangle Pete, but Joe gets in the way with glazed eyes and reaching fingers for the pot, which Patrick was for some reason holding in front of his crotch, and—
Anyway. The pizza burnt. Andy says he got some great shots, though, and that he’s totally posting them to the Fuck City website.
Patrick lets out a noise like an injured hippopotamus, but doesn’t make any further moves.
“Uh. Sorry for, like, getting to third base with you,” Joe says in a small voice.
Patrick waves a hand feebly to let him know that all is forgiven.
Andy is still excitedly muttering about how these pictures are going to make great strides in the movement for free love.
Pete hasn’t had such a great time since the “good old van days,” and also, Patrick’s ass is right in his face. He smiles blissfully.
* * *
Everyone gets a lot more relaxed after a joint—Patrick and Andy don’t partake, but the air is, like, bursting with weed fumes, so Pete doesn’t know who they think they’re kidding.
“Man, this is so awesome,” Joe says lazily. Pete’s relieved to hear that Joe’s voice has gone back into his customary lower range, and that he’s stopped making all sense at all. It’s great to have Joe back.
“What is?” Patrick lolls his head to look at Joe. They’re all situated on the couch, and the (burnt) pizza is long gone.
“The ceiling,” Joe says earnestly. “It’s just so, like…” He scratches his afro. “What was I saying again?”
“Something about the ceiling,” Patrick reminds him. “The white ceiling. White as…” He stares up at it curiously, like he’s never seen it before. “White as snow. Snow white. Ahaha, pun.”
Andy gives him a withering look. Pete is secretly very impressed with Andy’s ability to stay sober in a hotboxed room.
“Not so secretly if you’re saying it aloud,” Andy says.
Oh. Oops.
Patrick is still rhapsodizing about the white ceiling. “It’s seriously, seriously like snow. I love snow. I hate winter, though.” Patrick scratches his nose and makes a confused noise.
Snow. Oh, right!
“Hey, guys, guys, look what I have!” Pete searches through his bag before coming up with the snow globe.
“That’s…a snow globe.” Andy says, raising an eyebrow.
Pete sometimes thinks that Andy tries so hard to be sober around stoned people that he actually becomes uber sober. Like, even more serious and unimpressed and generally unlikable.
“Wait, is that the same one that girl gave us at Nokia?” Patrick asks.
“Yeah. Apparently it’s completely and totally bomb, poison, tracking device, and aphrodisiac-free,” Pete says.
“Amazing,” Patrick says, and Pete agrees fervently.
“Why’d you bring it here?” Andy asks. His eyebrow still hasn’t gone down. Pete is beginning to suspect Andy’s supposed sobriety.
“Because it’s pretty! Duh,” Joe says, then waves his hand through the air, making airplane noises.
Pete exchanges a glance with Patrick. Maybe Joe’s been without weed for so long he’s having an uber reaction to it. Pete really likes the word uber. It just sounds cool. Uber. Pete Wentz is uber cool.
Pete’s still giggling about that when Patrick nudges him. “So,” Patrick says pointedly. “What did you bring it for?”
Pete coughs. “Well, she said if we wanted to see something uber cool, we should shake it on Christmas Eve! And…it’s Christmas Eve!”
Wow, Pete still has incisive logic even when he’s stoned. That must be, like, a special talent or something. Then he thinks to himself, Somewhere Ashlee is laughing at me, and she doesn’t know why. Pete frowns. Wait. He doesn’t know why either.
“So you’re going to shake it?” Joe asks.
“Sure,” Pete shrugs.
“We’re all going to die,” Andy predicts. He looks considerably cheered by the prospect.
“Cool,” Joe agrees.
So Pete shakes it. And shakes it and shakes it and shakes it and why is he still shaking it wow it looks like it’s snowing like the white walls are becoming snow flakes and it’s snowing all around them which is really pretty and Pete tilts his head back just enjoying the snow but his hand is still shaking the snow globe until—
It stops.
* * *
“This isn’t Kansas anymore, Toto,” Andy says dismally.
Pete wants to hit him for three reasons: 1. For stating the obvious. 2. For using a horrible literary allusion to state the obvious. 3. For being in a snow globe while using a horrible literary allusion to state the obvious!!
Joe giggles. “Toto.”
“We were never in Kansas,” Patrick says insightfully.
Wow, Pete’s high is wearing off really fucking fast.
“Why the hell are we in a snow globe, guys? That might be the question to focus on first,” he says patiently. Well, semi-patiently. He isn’t yelling yet, all right? Even though he’s got a baby and a wife waiting for him and also the snow is soaking through his Supra sneakers.
Andy gives him a look. “You were the one who shook it.”
“What,” Pete sputters, “Are we pointing fingers now? This is exactly what they want us to do! Fight amongst ourselves until we’re divided and weak!”
“Well, Andy’s right,” Patrick says reasonably. “Also—what the hell? ‘They?’”
Pete reflects that maybe his high hasn’t worn off. Maybe it’s just manifesting in a different manner. Like paranoia. Although then again, when you’re in a snow globe, Pete doesn’t really think you can be paranoid enough.
Joe has started marching through the snow, hands out zombie-style.
“Dude, where are you going?” Pete asks. “We can’t see fucking anything.”
It’s true. They’re knee-deep in snow, and more flakes are gusting around them. Complete white-out. It’d be almost cool, if they weren’t in a fucking snow globe.
“Maybe this is like a videogame, and we have to find the door to the next level,” Joe says knowledgably.
“The next level,” Patrick repeats. His hands are clenching in and out of fists by his sides.
“Well, we better follow him before we lose him, right?” Pete grabs a hold of Joe’s afro and starts walking.
“Losing this idiot might not be such a bad thing,” Patrick mutters, but he’s just mad that the wind’s blown off his hat.
They all trudge through the snow for what seems like at least two hours, with a small interlude in which Pete tried to get Patrick to sing to pass the time, and Patrick accidentally started trying to bury Pete in the snow. But Pete’s good. He’s fine. He’s only got snow down his fucking underwear, and his hair is poofing out after becoming wet by the snow. Fucking awesome.
“I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world—“
“Oh, hey, it’s Ryan!” Pete digs out his sidekick happily.
“We get reception here?” Andy asks incredulously.
“Well, tell him to get us some help!” Patrick waves his hands around.
“What’s he going to do; break into your house and crack the snow globe open?” Pete asks dubiously, but he texts, stuk in snowglb send help plz.
A few minutes later, Ryan texts back, Spence wants wutever ur smoking.
“Uh, I know this might come as a surprise, but he doesn’t exactly believe us, guys,” Pete says.
“What do you mean he doesn’t believe us? You’re his fucking boss!” Patrick’s arm-waving has gotten considerably more violent. Joe ducks.
Andy rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure getting us out of snow globes wasn’t in the employment contract. Also, this is most logically just a pot-induced hallucination shared by all of us.”
Pete stares at him.
“Ooh, like folie a quatre?” Joe says.
“Exactly,” says Andy, and they high-five.
“Text. Someone. Else,” Patrick grits out. “I’m not fucking waiting around on the off-chance that our high will wear off, or whatever the fuck.”
“Sure, Pattycakes, don’t get all riled up. You know you have to mind your blood pressure,” Pete says absentmindedly.
Patrick starts muttering under his breath.
Well, here goes.
“So?” Patrick asks five minutes later.
“Mikey says he’s too busy feeding Pinky and being on the other side of the country to help us, sorry. But he sent us an awesome picture of Piglet with her kibble. Wanna see?”
Patrick glares. “Just text someone who’s actually in LA, dipshit!”
Pete shrugs. “Ashlee’s not answering, but…”
Gabanti we need sum help.
Que es el problema skywalker?
Stuk in snow glbe.
Where did u get it?
Fangrl
Oh.
Five seconds later, Ima have Nate call you.
His phone starts belting out the Macarena, and Pete quickly answers it. Joe starts trying to get everyone to do the Macarena. Patrick starts trying to strangle Joe with his afro.
“Hey, Nate.”
“So, stuck in a snow globe, huh?” Nate asks, his voice slightly scratchy on the other end.
“Yeah.”
“If this is anything like that time Ryland and Alex got trapped in an ink pen, you’re just going to have to wait it out.”
“Wait it out?” Pete repeats. “And—what pen?”
“Hannah Montana,” Nate says cheerfully. “You’ve probably seen it; Ryland’s takes that thing everywhere with him.”
“Right,” Pete says. Whenever he talks to anyone from Cobra, he feels like he’s getting a contact high.
“So, a spiritual guide should be coming around right about now,” Nate says casually.
“Ohmigod hiiii!” comes from behind them.
“I think she just arrived,” Pete says.
“Sweet. I need to go, Gabe wants someone to poof his pillows. Have fun, dude,” and Nate hangs up.
“Who the hell are you,” Patrick says in a dark voice, apparently trying to kill the girl with his eyes.
Instead of bursting into flames, she dimples. “You guys, like, met me at the Nokia Theater? Great show, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Joe smiles.
“Why did you put us in here?” Andy crosses his arm, giving her what Pete likes to think of as the Soulless Anarchist Glare.
“Well, you two weren’t supposed to be in here,” she says, as if it were their fault they got sucked in. “It was only supposed to get Pete and Patrick.”
“I’m sorry you haven’t worked out all the kinks in your little celebrity-capturing-device yet,” Andy says dryly. “Now get us the fuck out of here.”
She twists her hair around one finger. “You guys can’t get out until it’s, like, done. The process.”
The process. That sounds vaguely ominous.
“And why the fuck did you just want me and Pete?” Patrick glares harder. His glasses have slipped down his nose, and he looks like a red-faced, angry little gnome.
She gives him a shy gaze and giggles. Pete starts feeling a little irritated.
“More importantly, what process are you talking about?”
“Well, you know. Like, you’re going to see Christmases Past, Present, and Future. And then you and Patrick will—“ she dissolves into giggles again.
“We’ll what?” Patrick interrupts in a hard voice.
“You’ll understand you’re mfeo!” She winks.
“What the fuck?”
“Sorry, Patrick’s internet illiterate. She means we’re made for each other,” Pete translates.
They all exchange glances. This is definitely more serious than they thought.
“I know Pete’s like married, or whatever, but after tonight I know you’ll come to your senses!” She claps her hands together and gives a little squeal. “I’ll be right back, don’t go anywheeeeere!” Her voice seems to stretch out strangely as she slowly fades out of existence.
“This is bad, guys.” Pete puts his head into his hands.
Andy shakes his head. “I hadn’t realized we were dealing with that kind of fangirl. Man, they’re fucking vicious. And delusional. The forums on Fuck City…” He shudders.
Patrick looks ill. “Remember that period of time they kept giving us stories? About…” Patrick blanches.
“I’m confused,” Joe says plaintively.
“Dude, I’m sure I explained to you before,” Pete tells him. “You know? Peterick? Patrete? Wentzump? Stentz? Any and all other horrible name smushes? Man,” he says to Patrick, “it’s really too bad we don’t have names that smush well together. Like Brangelina. Now that is a good namesmush.”
“Yeah. Too bad.” Now Patrick’s just being sarcastic. Pete frowns at him.
Joe is blinking slowly. “Wait, Peterick? I thought…”
“What?”
“I thought you were just fantasizing, honestly. I was like, Pete, I don’t wanna know whatever kind of torch you’re holding for our lead singer, especially if it involves mpreg, but then you just kept emailing me stuff!” Joe looks haunted. “It took me hours of lolcats to erase the images!”
Pete glares. “No. I wasn’t just ‘fantasizing.’ And anyway, if I had written that stuff, I would have done it way better.”
“It wouldn’t have any punctuation, for starters,” Andy murmurs.
“That is so not the point. What are we going to do?”
“Wait it out?” Joe offers.
Andy shrugs. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ve got time.”
“Are you guys crazy? Giving in? We’re not even going to try to get out?” Patrick spits. His hands have balled into fists, and he looks ready to fight.
Then he squawks, and attempts to jump on top of Joe. Pete is kind of jealous.
Joe is laughing hysterically and also attempting to stuff more snow down Patrick’s shirt. “We have so much snow we might as well take advantage of it, right?” Instead of fighting like jackasses goes unsaid.
“By shoving snow down my pants?” Patrick bellows.
Pete grins and joins in on the attack. Andy’s already smashing snowballs onto Joe’s afro. Pete suspects that the afro is so thick Joe doesn’t even notice.
By the time the Batshit Insane Bitch, as Pete’s christened her inside his head (BIB for short; he’s kind of impressed with his acronym abilities) comes back, he’s straddling Patrick and screaming “Eat snow!” while Joe takes cheap shots from the side and Andy is focused on making the “perfect snow missile of doom.”
“Oh my gosh! Is this, like, foreplay?”
Everyone freezes. Pete momentarily stops rubbing snow over Patrick’s face.
“No,” they all say at the same time (except for Joe, who is mouthing foreplay and looking kind of confused). She looks disturbingly disappointed.
“Well, okay. Anyway, you all have to come with me. Because I am…” she twirls, “the Ghost Of Christmas Past!”
“Oh god,” Pete can hear from under him, muffled by the snow he piled over Patrick’s mouth.
“Charles Dickens is rolling in his grave,” Andy mutters.
Part 2
