love songs for the genuinely cunning.

frown out your one face.

2008-11-18T12:34:10Z

Oh Patrick, you say you don't know how to work the internet, but then this shows up. I have to wonder!

Also, in case of LJpocalypse, I can be reached via Gmail at stop.killer.acronyms. My AIM is "the coin tossed".

just relax and turn around.

2008-11-18T02:57:29Z

Started writing my fic for sosodirty. Will probably finish within a few days? Idk, it's pretty simple. Angst, hand, ass, cuddling.

(Is it sacrificing subtlety entirely to use lyrics from "Stinkfist" as a title? Yes? Oh well. Perhaps if I use what became of subtlety? it'll be--Morrisette irony? Or something.)

And then I have to wait to post it until February! Cripes. At least I'll have finished leatherdaddy!Patrick by then, so there will be context for the challenge fic.

Anyway. I'm going to go watch Dexter now. Yay, blood!

(Whatever TV critic decided to call this show "gruesome" was using the bad thesaurus. It is not anything like gruesome. CSI is more gruesome than Michael C. Hall gets on his redheadedest days. That made no sense at all, sorry.)

the way i'd like to be.

2008-11-17T04:12:42Z

(Warning: This post contains absolutely nothing that doesn't involve men-born-men + "girly" things. Reader discretion is advised.)

1. Okay okay, so, somebody claimed a Patrick pairing and corsets for sosodirty (sign up or heyginger will send you scorpions in the mail and I might not try very hard to stop her!), and seriously. Wow. Oh my god. That is so something I didn't even realize I needed in my life. But I DO. A LOT. Even more than I need caramel soy macchiatos. And I really don't even care which end of the laces he's on. Just YES. PLEASE. IN MY FIREFOX NOW.

2. Thank you, yourealwaysmine!

Bee skit @ (Nov 15 2008)
Uploaded by thebeyoncenetwork

3. Tuesday is Transgender Day of Remembrance. The Vancouver event I am most likely attending is this free Cinema Politica double bill at UBC. Remembrance is free too, so regardless of what you happen to be doing on Tuesday, please take a moment to remember us, and remember that gender rights are human rights. We're not just talking about my right to choose my own pronoun, we're talking about a cisgender man's right to wear a purse if he goddamn well wants to (or carry his girlfriend's purse, as the case may be).

you can bow and pretend.

2008-11-14T00:01:30Z

Guess who didn't finish the fic they said they were going to finish the other day? You only get one guess, so make it count.

age is just a number, don't you stop having fun:

A few days after Pete's birthday, they have an actual night off, and everybody gets in a bunch of rented vans and they head for a club the local promoter recommended.

"This is going to be amazing," Joe says excitedly. "They have karaoke. They have new country karaoke, and super hits of the nineties."

"If you talk about karaoke all the way there, you're sitting in the van for the rest of the night," Pete tells him.

Josh and Patrick and Nate are sitting next to each other on the first bench seat. Pete and Ashlee and Joe are right behind them; Ashlee's hand is thin and warm in Pete's. Ashlee is texting with one friend or another and Pete is reading over her shoulder and also making sure Josh doesn't do anything creepy. Josh is looking out the window at the passing city, lit half by streetlights and half by an iridescent pink and violet sunset. Patrick is arguing with Joe and Nate about the broader implications of a new Indiana Jones movie and a new Rocky movie and the Terminator TV series.

"The commodification of my childhood, like I'm gonna fucking fall for that, like I'm a fucking baby boomer or some shit," Patrick is saying, and Joe is waving his hand and shaking his head.

"The special effects are going to be so much cooler," he says. "Indiana Jones with real motion CGI, fuck."

The van takes a corner a little too fast and Ashlee leans into Pete's side just as Patrick is bumped over into Josh. Pete automatically puts his arm around Ashlee's shoulder and Josh does the same to Patrick. Patrick elbows Josh off of him, laughing, saying something about where was Josh when the van crashed and Josh rolls his eyes and smiles and he has fucking dimples, how did Pete never notice that before?

"Oh my god," Ashlee says quietly, in Pete's ear. "He's totally Maggie Gyllenhaal."

"Shut up, he is not," Pete says. "It's my fucking birthday, could I have a little support here?"

"I wonder if they have the New Kids on the Block happy birthday song," Joe muses on Ashlee's other side.

"I'll sing it with you if they do," Ashlee says.

"Patrick, Patrick, hey," Pete says kicking the back of the seat, right where Patrick's tailbone should be. Patrick looks over his shoulder with an irritated expression, and Josh frowns a little at Pete.

"Fucking--what?" Patrick asks.

"Will you sing 'Happy Birthday' at the karaoke bar?" Joe asks.

"I already sang him 'Happy Birthday,'" Patrick says. "In front of like ten thousand teenage girls, so--"

"That was a shitty present; you totally got it at the last minute and it wasn't even wrapped," Pete says. Ashlee laughs and agrees and so do Nate and Joe.

"He has a point," Josh says, and Patrick punches him in the arm, not hard.

"What about if they have the New Kids one?" Joe says.

"We'll help," Ashlee says, leaning her head on Joe's shoulder for a moment.

Patrick rolls his eyes. Pete kicks the back of his seat a few more times, everybody else laughing and Josh smiling down at Patrick's increasingly furrowed brow.

"Okay, okay, I'll do it," Patrick says finally. "But I'm only doing the New Kids one, and I'm only doing it once. Stop fucking kicking my seat, this a fucking rental."

Pete, Joe, Ashlee, and Nate throw their arms in the air, Vs for victory, Nate's left arm knocking Patrick's hat slightly askew, and Patrick adds, "No Tom Jones this time, either."

"Aw, come on," Joe whines. "That's not a fair trade--"

Pete watches as Josh tugs Patrick's hat down in the back and Patrick briefly, probably not even realizing he's doing it, leans his head back into Josh's hand, trusting.

*

Anyway. I realized that I kind of screwed up in the disclaimer for "Can't Get Out," saying that Pete's probably never had gender dysphoria. I mean, I think that's true, but it has led to the assumption that the story is about gender dysphoria, when it's really more largely about body dysphoria, which I didn't mention in the disclaimer because Pete has totally admitted to having had body dysphoria. So.

That was totally unimportant. I was just jonesing for some pedancy, and lo, I had Post an Entry open in a tab. Whatever.

This (click the text link to "part one" first; also, his little backpack!) and these are making my day, incidentally. The Pete & Patrick Shew exists!

(Patrick apparently sounds fresh on "Tiffany Blues." I'm pretty excited for this album, not gonna lie.)

you cannot live on hope alone.

2008-11-13T01:15:43Z

Via elfiepike:

Got Hope? Harvey Milk.

(Incidentally--way to make a dead man [a martyr] into a liar, California! *thumbs up!*)

i don't need your hollow war.

2008-11-12T05:43:16Z

seimaisin and elfiepike both posted about P.Money's latest collaboration today, and really. Really. It's pretty awesome.

Let it be said: I'm not a huge fan of Kate Bush, and I don't know enough about Amanda Palmer/Dresden Dolls to make a judgment. For me, this song is like the fistbaby of Tori Amos and Melissa Auf Der Maur. And I love it, regardless of the fact that Patrick's on it.

It doesn't hurt that Kristeen Young is obviously a big, huge Patrick fangirl, either:

From the moment I first heard "Sugar, We're Going Down" I was a goner. [...] The voice (that leapt out of the speakers and wrapped itself around my entire circulatory system) not only possessed the obligatory radio-ring, but had depth, flexibility, and made all the melody choices that break your heart while simultaneously making you feel like you can conquer all.

From Popnography's post. I couldn't have said it better myself, Ms. Young.

DL here if you want to give it a shot (WORTH IT). Anyway, I need to go to bed, so I'll see y'all later.

(It's Remembrance Day. I'm a giant tool, 'cause for the last week I could not find a poppy to save my life, and also, I didn't enjoy Passchendaele that much. I remember, though, and I'm learning more all the time, more things to remember, more names and dates. That's what it takes.)

if you want to kiss the sky.

2008-11-10T23:50:06Z

So I think I'm going to sit down and finish leatherdaddy!Patrick when I get home. It's pretty close, and everything that's not written is in my head, which is always helpful. The only way this is a bad thing is that it would mean I don't have anything already started for sosodirty (the bandom kink challenge, which doesn't actually exist yet, so be quiet about it). Sigh, sigh.

Tangentially, and irrelevantly, I think two things have been holding me back with this story.

One is my own discomfort with aspects of the Pete characterization and backstory. Or, not my discomfort, but the discomfort I can see a lot of readers having with the content, and the way I write Pete around it (content=self-injury, if you're curious). The thing is, I feel pretty strongly that the way I've written it is supported by canon, and the tone of Pete's internal stuff about it is informed by the way he's spoken about his self-harmful behaviour in the past. I'm also conflicted about how much I should warn for it. That's a decision I'll definitely be making at the last minute, based on how important the content ends up being.

The other thing is that I let myself get bogged down by the weight of expectation for this story--not just the expectations of others, but mine too. Which is a terribly pretentious way of saying y'all got excited, and I got excited, and all the ideas coming at and from my brain were kind of overwhelming, not to mention that the three people I've spoken to the most about it all seem to want different things, and I want to please them all (who says I'm not a twoo sub?). Anyway. It's supposed to be a fairly drama-free, somewhat long story in which there are both serious and silly things--my personal preference is that there be more silly things, but we'll see how it turns out--and then, after some hot sadomasochistic sexytiems with requisite misunderstandings and band shenanigans, there is a happy ending. Hopefully everybody can get behind that (previously-mentioned issue notwithstanding, of course).

Hey, wow, this entry is so freaking long. Okay. I'm gonna quit whining now. It's almost time for writing.

remembering all of what she said.

2008-11-09T18:10:08Z

I am the dumbest LJer to ever LJ. Obviously, you weren't supposed to see that yet, if ever (if you don't know what I'm talking about, I'm cool with that).

This is why you should never try to proof posts at seven AM after staying up way past your bedtime the night before. Meh.

please don't take him even though you can.

2008-11-08T05:24:09Z

Today, in fake ascii character codes:

The librarian who took my fine payment today was stuttery and nerdy and bespectacled and plaid-wearing and in his forties and had "memento mori" tattooed on his forearm, just past his elbow. &librarians;

I bought Space: Above and Beyond on DVD today and spent about twenty minutes explaining to my partner how it kind of made my life when I was sixteen (in re-runs, obviously), and how I thought there were way more than twenty-three episodes. I can't wait to watch it again, even though it's probably crappy now. &sciencefiction;

I also got Justin Timberlake's live DVD because--he dances. And sings, and plays piano. And can has a Timbaland. &justin;

There was no Matthew Good live DVD at Best Buy. &epicfuckingfailure,bestbuy;

Basically I spent way too much money, though not as much as I would have if the MG DVD had existed where I wanted it to (I really am trying to save up for Germany, honest. It's just--there keep being things I need to buy!). I also broke one of my Sims, oops. And did some tinkering with some stories. &documentisoutofcontrolblargh;

(So where's the fic where Patrick is an abstract expressionist? I would read that story to death. &sanitywhatsanity;)

i don't want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore.

2008-11-07T03:09:54Z

This song has been stuck in my head for four days. I turn on the radio one morning and bam, I'm in eighth grade again. I can't believe I still know all the words, wtf.

Anyway, America is the land of opportunity. estrellada and I are going to buy some (stimulating the...economy!) and go to the January Rascal's as Banamas in Ojamas. Or I am, at least (I like saying "banama." It's how I usually pronounce "banana," to be quite honest).

Andy Hurley wins the political preciousness award for this week, even though Patrick said Prop 8 passing bummed him out 'cause it's a hindrance to property and visitation rights. Ugh, adorable.

And Joe said "man up." It's a terrible phrase, but seriously. Cute.

(All Pete did was get his photo taken with my favourite Sesame Street character. Well. One of my favourites. My favourite today.)

(There's an AU where bandom work on a children's TV show, right? Or did I just have a dream about it. Hm.)

So, yeah. Laters.

eta: I also wanted to complain about how I haven't gotten any non-spam e-mails in like two days. Consider yourself complained-at.

i am still living with your ghost; lonely and dreaming of the west coast.

2008-11-05T22:07:53Z

Apparently I'm writing a fucking epic poem in response to the US election and the various anti-choice/equal marriage propositions which passed or failed last night. Awesome. Look for it at the other journal, or don't.

So the post-catastrophic climate change reunion tour fic, okay. I'm not writing it yet, because I have other things to write and it is fortunately the kind of story I can let sit (let us take a moment to appreciate these rare gems), and also because I'm still not ready to kill off Kelly Clarkson. Anyway, I bring it up because my brain decided to cough up some names for Patrick's kids, and I wanted to record them for posterity: James Taylor Stump, Zachariah Clark Stump, and Natalie Patricia Stump.

Lastly, I was wondering if anybody noticed if the On Air w/Seacrest interview got ripped? I didn't see it at TFL, and I don't have the other place on my flist, so.

It's so completely fucking Friday for me, hell yeah.

i just want to be your fall guy.

2008-11-04T05:43:22Z

Re: The Hour. GEORGE WAS WEARING ARGYLE. Oh wow. Obviously he thinks my tattoo is a great idea. Guh.

I think I had something else to say. Probably it was about the CBC tacitly and very Canadianly endorsing Obama by not even entertaining the notion that McCain might win anywhere, let alone his home state (Hispanic voters make up this percent of the voting population in Arizona! This percent of Hispanic voters support Obama! Therefore Obama will win AZ FOREVAZ!). N'aww, Ceeb.

(Need a George icon. Need a Canadian icon. Need to go to bed before I fall asleep where I sit [see: icon]. Good night, sweet internets.)

postcards from my former selves.

2008-11-03T17:29:32Z

Honestly, it's pretty awesome how, within a week, Andy and MattMixon have become (FOB) bandom's universal married couple. Behold, the power of Twitter.

If I could, I would post a picture of This Week In My Datebook (I Have A Datebook?). You would see The Hour and Dexter on today. Tomorrow is a bunch of angry/disheartened scribbling over the words "NEW FOB!!!" (priority: "~~FOLIE À DEUX~~", with an annoyed sadface), a silly doodly happy face with glasses beside "Matthew Good Live At Massey Hall physical release :DDD", and. Haha. "PRESIDENT OBAMA!!!" surrounded by hearts and fireworks. And some art stuff later in the week and possible danceytiems on Saturday, whatever.

I am so fucking serious, America. Do not let me down again. You need this. We need this. The world needs this. This is your moment to eat the lotus. Renew yourself. Be reborn. Wake up. Realize you're not dreaming into a void. You need this. I love Andy Hurley to pieces, but I've never wanted someone to be wrong more than I want him to be wrong about the future of civilization. We are better than this, America. But we can't prove it without you.

So person the fuck up and believe in the fucking change (you can be in the world) and vote your goddamn ass off tomorrow.

Uh. The end.

they just love the hotel suites now.

2008-11-03T04:57:03Z

1. I scratched the roof of my mouth with my toasted bagel. Son of a bitch.

2. The best thing to come out of typing up all those pages was "I am in debt to the tune of a platinum record," and I don't even have anywhere to put it.

3. On the other hand, I remembered that I'd Tivoed the Leno appearance, and omfg Patrick. Stop with the hankies. I think it was black and white checks of some sort, which is safe sex. Adorable, especially since I'm 99% certain he has no clue what he's doing.

(Black, white, and [light] blue checks is safe oral, btw. An important distinction!)

4. And now I am reminded of how estrellada, moizissimo, and I started talking about flagging at the Cobras show, while we were sitting in the foyer during Hit The Lights' set. Some girl had about a hundred band names embroidered on her jeans, and TAI was on her left back pocket, etc. So I brought up the whole thing about Gerard having a red hankie or whatever tucked in the left side of his belt (guh), and estrellada lit up like a Christmas tree. And then we started talking about anal fisting (in general, not specific to anyone in bandom), which was just. Seriously. The most appropriate all-ages show conversational topic EVER, I'm sure. Good times, good times.

5. I really have to go to bed now, blah. I can't wait for the new year, which means new schedule, which means, hopefully, no more getting up at four in the morning three days in a row. *scrunchy face*

you see what you had there.

2008-11-03T00:27:02Z

Tonight I will:

+write;
+write some more;
+have turkey, lettuce, tomato, and cheese on everything bagels. With mayonnaise;
+catch up on last week's The Hour and South Park;
+write yet more--I have like twenty notebook pages to type up, blargh. I shouldn't have let it go this long;
+figure out how we're getting to Seattle in December.

I think that's all. Happy day after all the dead people have been dealt with.

gotta gotta be down.

2008-11-02T02:40:40Z

Today I:

+drove a bus;
+didn't kill anyone;
+bought second row centre balcony tickets for FOB in Seattle, whoo presale is for chumps;
+wrote a bunch of crap;
+wrote some not-crap about Patrick dating a girl Pete should've been dating, and how Pete is in love with her, and it's all pretty ridiculous; she smokes a lot and wears stupid pants and has bad tattoos and is named either Jayme or Jaymy;
+betaed a fic (I like betaing, but only when the fic is good and also short enough to do in one sitting, which is admittedly problematic);
+loled at Cobras;
+Googled argyle tattoos just to see if I'm alone; only a little bit;
+did not, in any way, get anything done on "Document." We're starting wastethesewords off very well, oh yes indeed.

Now I have to get ready to go DM at the Sin City Halloween party, ugh. The things I do for my community. Ungrateful fuckers.

I think I will be a cowboy. And maybe pack. Just 'cause estrellada went out of town this weekend. I am spiteful, don't let the shy exterior fool you.

hey moon don't you go down.

2008-11-01T01:23:44Z

So let's not get into my stuff about Panic(!), but I've now watched the "Northern Downpour" video, and wow. Nothing but love, 'cause it's awesome and what a great song (I've never heard it, leave me alone), and dude. Dude. Guerilla art is so one of my favourite things. Anyway.

I think "Indestructible" comes up after the video's over? Don't click on it. Seriously. Both song and video are pretty bad--and I'm not just saying that as a hypercritical jerk. Matt says so himself. If you want some more MGB video awesome, go for "Load Me Up" or "Carmelina" (eta: the DVD commentary for the latter is on Youtube too! Yay!). Fucking fantastic.

Yeah, okay. Right. The point of this post was that I will be buying Pretty. Odd., and you should watch the "Northern Downpour" video if you haven't already. The end.

from the razor to the rosary.

2008-10-31T20:14:59Z

Happy Halloween! I am going as someone who works in an office. Awesome.

So I was thinking I'd like to get an argyle tattoo, because I'm a dork (hardcore!), and I decided that I would justify it by getting three diamonds as a Statement in Mockery of all bad straight edge tattoos. It will go on my ankle, I think. Also as a Statement of some sort, I'm sure. Nothing to do with having permanent argyle sox.

(This design, fo sho.)

Anyway. Some combination of my partner and estrellada and I will be testing out my various tattoo hypotheses with Crayola markers.

That's all for now!

with all the things that i forgot to say.

2008-10-31T05:16:55Z

Unused material from "Stranger Things." Interview transcripts, Selma Avenue lyrics, mission statement, unfinished explication of Pete's disappearance.

Uh. There might be unironic Something Corporate quoteage. Possibly even more than once.

*

mission statement:

There's a principle. It's an important one, and everybody else seems to have forgotten about it, but Patrick won't. He won't let himself.

Even when Pete puts Patrick's album at the top of his CDs of the year list for Chris. Even when Pete does non-profit work without cameras around; even when Pete goes out of his way to avoid publicity. Even when Pete writes a book about getting over yourself, for real. Even when Pete saves lives and doesn't want anything in return anymore.

It's an important principle, because--because Patrick lost everything, and if he doesn't give Pete the lion's share of the blame, he'll have no one to blame except himself.

*

Something From Kerrang!, Post-Reunion:

PW: You get to this point, you know, where you have to choose who you're going to be--that guy, with the paparazzi following you everywhere and the hot girlfriend and the business [airquotes]empire[/airquotes] and all that shit, never really contributing anything meaningful because you're too fucking scared--of losing what you've got, know what I'm saying? You're scared of losing your business and your hot girlfriend and all the stuff, you know. You're so scared, you never take fucking chances anymore. You never stick your neck out for what's right anymore. You're scared of failure; you're scared of failing and losing everything and finding out that whatever you failed at wasn't worth it. You're a sell out, right, you've sold out, and you're committed to what you're selling, what you get by selling; you're committed to yourself and yourself only. I'm not being judgmental when I use the term, I mean. I'm a sell out. It's just a thing that you are. You've sold your credibility to get all these things, and you're kind of stuck in a place of--nobody takes you seriously, so you can't really do anything risky--against you being completely fucking terrified of fucking up and losing everything.

Or, you can be that guy, the guy who talks about self-harm and self-injury and, you know, drug abuse, and builds houses for the homeless and dispossessed and isn't too scared or too fucking precious to someone, even himself, to actually go to the fucking warzone--to cross the lines and drive the fucking truck evacuating a farmer--a farmer and his family away from the government death squad that's coming to kill them. I'm not saying I did that, just. You know. Some people would. It's the other extreme.

It's--you can be that guy, who's everywhere and everything to everyone and obsessed with selling, or you can be that guy who's a fucking recluse and tries to mostly be about giving. You know?

For a good long while, I was trying to be both guys at the same time, and it pretty much drove me nuts and ended up costing me my relationship anyway. So. I realized I could be that guy or that guy. And the choice was scary in itself. Having that choice, knowing what the choices were, was elating and terrifying. And I was totally bonkers at the time, and it seemed to me that the best way to make the decision, to figure everything out, was to just go away. But once I was away, I realized I was still encumbered, you know, by my commitment to selling, to the band, to everything--yeah, seriously, I was fucking nuts, I'm not fucking kidding. So, you know, I made these decisions and all that shit, and I'm still living with them.

I don't regret any period of my life, because some amazing things have happened, and some necessary things have happened, at any given time in my life, but I do regret actions I've taken, decisions I've made. A lot of people got fucked over when I fucked off, you know. I fucked a lot of people over. People who didn't deserve it, who deserved better from me. Who'd earned a lot more from me. And I regret that. I'm trying to make it up to them, you know, even though I know I never can.

*

on covering "tower of song" for a leonard cohen tribute album:

PS: I didn't pick it, Pete did.
PW: When Cohen is saying "the gift of the golden voice," he's being ironic, right, he's a shitty singer, or he's talking about a different kind of voice--the writer's voice, you know. But when Patrick sings it, it's completely fucking literal, and it's--he is locked in a tower of song, you know, he walks around with music in his head all day, and he is stuck with this voice. People talk about the way he sings, but, like, he can play like fifty instruments, and he composes the most amazing shit that you will never hear. He's an extremely talented guy. But all people want to talk about is how he sings, if they want to talk about him at all.
INTERVIEWER: Sounds tough.
PS: He's exaggerating.
PW: No--
PS: I just think of it like another instrument. It used to bug me, I mean--I can do a lot of things better than I sing. Whatever. If that's what people like about the music, that's fine. I've just learned to think of my voice as an instrument. I play it to best of my ability, like anything else.
PW: It does not play you.
PS: No, it does not. I thought you wanted to do that one 'cause you thought you were Leonard Cohen.
PW: I have not in my entire life been laid as much as Leonard Cohen gets in a goddamn month. And I've never been to Greece.
PS: That's true.
PW: I picked it for you, Patrick.
PS: Hank Williams?
PW: I didn't write it, dude. You gonna argue with Leonard fucking Cohen about lyrics?

*

Selma Avenue:

"Songs About Chicago"

here's the story of a windy city
and the questionable company it keeps;
the kids in bad clothes with bad hair
and the sad, sad songs they sing

the world keeps on singing [all these] songs about Chicago,
and they don't even know what it means

you came to hear me tell old tales
the mystery of streets like tunnels
the history of smiles like tombs

"Your Time"

I'm not saying this so you'll say something back
I just want you to know
I just want you to know, I never wanted any of this
I only wanted you to have your time

we're like reflections on reflections in moving windows
looking in on each other looking back on ourselves

"West Vs. Mid-West"

step back step back step back
'cause you don't know what you're in for
kinda like caveat emptor
except instead of buying, you're selling yourself

when they've bought you--and they'll buy you--
keep your eyes open, 'cause they'll slip around behind you
and sell you right back

oh it's not a race it's a maze
Pavlov's dogs for a new age
and we have to keep on going
have to keep on going
or they'll think we've lost it

look back look back look back
you see what you had there
a good home and a life there
enough to get you hungry, leave you starving for wealth

they're gonna take what you've got, boy
they're gonna shill you like a cheap toy
there'll be riots at the mall come Christmas morning

"I Had All These Dreams (And Then I Learned To Play Guitar)"

I can't remember yesterday or tomorrow
half my life is a blank
I think you took it with you
when you left, wherever you went

I can't play guitar with one hand
I can't go on being half a man
the world is tired of the best of me

I'm missing half the puzzle
a lighthouse just off Montauk
I think you took the pieces
when you left, wherever you went

I can't play guitar with one hand
I can't go on being half a man
the world is tired of the best of me
where's the rest of me

where's the rest of me
where's the rest of me

hindsight can't be 20/20 if I'm missing an eye
there's no depth to what I'm doing right now
it's not living
but I'm not dead, whatever I am

I can't play guitar with one hand
I can't go on being half a man
the world is tired of the best of me
where's the rest of me

where's the rest of me
where's the rest of me

*

You Don't Want To Be Here (In The Future):
(Or, Pete Wentz Tries To Explain Himself To Himself. Unused because it didn't fit, I couldn't finish it, and, seriously, I wrote myself into a corner with the animals. You can't just tramp about the world with a dog and a cat, okay.)

When you come back to yourself, six months or a year from now, the worst part--the part that will keep you from even trying to sleep and make you wish you hadn't fired both your therapists--is that it was premeditated. From the moment the green room door slammed behind Patrick, you were planning your escape, life imitating art, fulfilling your own utterly fucking clueless prophecy. You wish it weren't true, that you really did just lose it, have a complete break and run away with your dog and cat because of it. Lost your memory, lost your mind.

You smiled at him and let him tell you it would be okay and let him think you would be back from Chicago in a week; you told him you'd call him when you knew what you were doing. You lied and he didn't notice; he's never, ever noticed, not when you really meant it, really wanted it. You're a shitty actor, but you're a great liar; so good you feel bad about it most of the time and don't try as hard as you could.

You let him walk away in the airport and you got on a plane and flew away knowing it was the last time he'd see you. A week in Chicago; a week you used like furlough, like a postponement of sentence, like a final meal: eating as much of the city as you could, putting your apartment up for sale and making vague vacation allusions around your offices. You dragged Joe from show to show and up to the karaoke monitor at AK for song after song. Joe and Marie moved in and out of frame bemusedly while you played with Juliette for hours, like you were soaking up her bright newness, the dazzle of her; like you were preserving for posterity the way she liked to grab onto your nose and pull, just out of curiosity. Tying up loose ends without giving the appearance of doing so.

Back at the airport, back in LA, Joe said something about showing you the new house in a few days and you waved it off. You told him to go home and enjoy some time off with his family. You told him you'd call when you knew what you were doing.

And the thing, the thing--the thing is, the thing was, as you sat with your cat and your dog in the back of your Escalade with your Argentinian ex-military bodyguard/driver/silent door-opener and bag-carrier in the front seat--the thing was, as you dropped him off at his apartment and took the wheel and drove, drove, drove. The thing was, you weren't lying to Joe.

You lied to Patrick. You left him, let him go, cut him away and off and out because--you hadn't decided why yet--because he wanted better than you; because he was too good to do it first; because he didn't understand anymore, or he'd never understood and you were just delusional as usual for ten years. You knew you'd never call him. You knew he wouldn't want you to, not--as soon as you told the truth, he wouldn't want to talk to you anymore. You were glad, a little, to be free of him too, and to feel like you were doing both of you some good in all this ridiculous shit.

A year or six months later, a succession of train stations and hotels and monasteries and museums and forests and boats later--a blind travelling lifetime later, you find yourself blinking down at your feet in your shoes in yet another airport. You have no idea where you came from, and no idea where you are, and no idea where you're going, but you feel--you feel, finally, that you have crossed a river, a bridge, that you have left the wilderness of something. A voice calls irritatedly and you look up and a dark-haired man is waving you forward.

One look at your passport stamps and your open-ended ticket and your shaggy hair, defensive stubble, big white teeth, ignoring the tags on your keys (which say: I Heart My Cat; My Dog Hearts Me; and Fall Out Boy's World Of Hurt Tour 2009): the security guys at the Tel Aviv airport pull you over for questioning.

Four hours and a succession of small, white rooms later, waiting for a plane back to Tehran, you decide it might be time to return to the home of the brave. The land of the free.

You come back, six months or a year or a year and six months after walking away from the world into the world, standing on the sidewalk outside your parents' house, your phone to your ear.

"Hello?" a woman's voice is saying. "Hello?"

"Mom," you say, and she gasps and says, "Where are you?"

"I'm here." You're pushing the gate open and walking up the path as she opens the door. She drops the phone and the sound of plastic hitting concrete jars your ear; your phone hits the grass.

"Oh, baby," she says, hugging you before you're even all the way up the stairs. You wrap your arms around her waist and press your ear against her stomach, hang on, hold on like she's the only solid thing in a void of rushing vacuum.

"Tell me you're all right," she says in your ear, when she's pulled you up and into the house, petting your hair determinedly.

"I'm all right," you say, your voice breaking hard and the tears making you a liar, the truth making you a liar.

*

it's like a man's best party only happens when he dies.

2008-10-31T03:37:02Z

The behind the scenes video for Pete and Patrick's appearance on Ryan Seacrest's radio show is incredibly precious (for reasons including Patrick looking sleepy and shaving, and having to look up at Pete during the requisite banter. I don't know. I have an unrealized-until-recently thing for height differences. Who knew).

Pete: I'd vote for Patrick Stump, and then--
Patrick: You look like the Unabomber right now; I don't know if you guys remember that [addressing the viewer].
Pete: --that's not a very nice thing to say. I was about to say that I'd run for President, and have you as my Vice President--
Patrick: Oh I'd do that in a second.
Pete: Yes, and obviously I'd be assassinated and you'd end up being President.
Patrick: I'd do that in a second, but I'm sure that when we're campaigning before, like in the primaries, I'd say all this mean shit and then have to be like, "Uhhh...he's a great man."

I'm sure it goes without saying that I'd read it. So hard. Yeah. Just go watch the video, and then listen to the interview if you have fifteen minutes you don't want to spend replaying "that's not a very nice thing to say." Because! It's cute!

In other news, I'm doing some fall cleaning of my FOB folder, and I've found some unused stuff from "Stranger Things," which I will post later on tonight (lyrics! Interview snippets! Pete's POV crap!). Or soon, actually, since Supernatural is on in half an hour.

gonna be around if you got no place to go.

2008-10-30T06:03:06Z

(By the fantastic yourealwaysmine.)

estrellada, maybe we need to try the nun thing. Just saying. Nuns with guns!

And while we're sighing over the "I Don't Care" video again, can I just say: I'd like an icon of Pete in his ridiculous shoulder holster and belt-bandolier-thing with--I don't even know what caption. He's sheriff of someplace. Pete Wentz for Sheriff? Something.

I don't know quite what to think of Live in the Lot. Mostly, I would like to have heard the conversations about the fingerless gloves, the thermal turtleneck (he looked like he was about to jump in a bobsled, okay--or speedskate the short track), and the bit where Patrick was like, "Hey, you need me to talk more on stage?" and Pete was like, "Yeah, that'd be cool. I seem to be entering Incoherenceville a lot lately, especially when I'm not allowed to swear," and Patrick was like, "Okay. I can handle that."

Lastly, the mothereffing break's over. Seriously, Pete.

(Oh my god, I think I just finished the final scene of "Praise You." It's not complete, there are about nine million scenes left to write, but seriously. I have an ending. And it's just as untidy as "Lord Knows," but hopefully people don't complain as much, because at least there's a decision made and a conclusion reached: Patrick is insane. Wow. Really. DONE. KIND OF.)

someone come someone come and save my life.

2008-10-30T00:57:17Z

AMERICA, you keep getting progressively more awesome at foreplay, I'm not even kidding. I'm really hot for you right now. I'm also crying a little, but whatever. Just--fucking follow through this time, jackass.

5 More Friends

eta: Nice watermark, Myspace. The URL is http://www.myspace.com/impact. Morons.

SHIA! Your poor little hand! Your adorable little face!

N'aww, Harrison Ford. *snuggles him*

In conclusion: Tom Cruise/Will Smith, yes? Yes. Definitely.

---

Why don't I have any Justin icons? This is fundamentally wrong.

I keep forgetting I have Live On The Lot Tivoed, oops. Let me go watch that now, haha.

this way you will always know.

2008-10-28T16:03:05Z

So where's the fic where Ashlee is a replacement for Patrick? No, no, not the crazy one with the menstruation and the gory Korean movies, Jesus fuck. I want the one that's like the Seinfeld where George is dating Female Jerry.

I mean, really, she's the same age as Patrick, they're both singers, they both have older siblings who are also ~~musicians~~ in the music industry...there's another thing too, but I can't remember it, damn.

So, yeah. I think the world would be a better place if this fic existed. The fic where Ashlee is a "perfected" version of Patrick; where she's the "acceptable" version. But funnier than that sentence implies. Get on it, fandom!

not long ago i gave up hope.

2008-10-28T03:35:05Z

Um? I can has FOB in Seattle, pls? And I can GO, because it is my day OFF, and the next day is also my day OFF, and I even know where it IS.

BOYS, BOYS, you keep me hanging for a whole fucking year, but then you do me right (with bonuf TAI, even). Oh crazy love. Who's with me?

(I'm just waiting for this to be completely, totally untrue, fyi. When I wake up on December 5 with a pounding headache and steering wheel imprints on my hands, I'll believe it.)

Anyway. Joe is getting married! I love this idea! We knew that already!

I was totally going to post this anyway, because it's funny, but it's also completely off-topic for the rest of the story, sigh. Originally placed after the "button Ashlee up" scene.

*

I'm stuck in this matrimonial body and can't get out:

Pete goes across the hall to visit Joe, who is sitting at the breakfast table in his suite with Patrick, both of them in shirtsleeves. Joe gets up nervously when Pete comes in.

"Hey there, Mr. Rosner," Pete says, smiling. Patrick raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, smirking a little, out of Joe's sightline.

"What the fuck?" Joe says, spreading his hands. "I'm getting married?"

Pete rolls his eyes at Patrick and Patrick shrugs. Pete supposes he's on his own; Patrick's probably been dealing with this since he arrived two days ago.

"No," Joe insists. "No, you guys, what the actual fuck? Whose idea was this? This is a terrible idea."

"It's a fantastic idea," Pete says. "Getting married is awesome." He gives Joe two thumbs up and a cheesy, insincere smile.

Patrick claps his hand over his face.

"You are not helping," Joe says loudly, which is how Pete knows Joe doesn't actually need or want to be rescued from getting married.

"Just sit down," Patrick says, slapping his hand down on the table, on top of a pad of paper. "Sit the fuck down and finish writing your fucking vows or I'll do it for you."

Pete grimaces at Joe. "You haven't written your vows yet?"

"I don't know," Joe says, pacing around the table. "I haven't slept since the bachelor party. Patrick keeps trying to make me write my vows. I mean, seriously, I mean. Isn't that what the internet is for?" He stops in front of Pete, beseeching with his eyes and waving arms.

Patrick gets up and steers Joe back into his seat. "You're not allowed to Google your wedding vows," he says firmly.

"There's still time to fire Patrick as best man," Pete says. "Patrick is terrible luck, not to mention a big jerk for not letting you Google your vows. I would totally let you Google that shit, Joe."

Joe looks at Patrick with a speculative expression. Patrick scowls. "How am I bad luck?" he demands.

"I've been happily married for three years," Pete says expansively, staring solemnly at Joe, holding up three fingers--one of which just happens to have his wedding ring on it. "Not to mention his poor brother."

"Shut up about my brother," Patrick says.

"Triplets," Pete says. Joe's mouth does a terrified squirm and he tugs at his hair.

"Jesus Christ, Pete," Patrick says. "Would you fuck off? We have to be downstairs in half an hour, okay--"

"Have you written your speech?" Joe asks Patrick. Patrick blinks at him. "Your speech for the--thing, the thing, have you written it?"

Patrick takes a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and taps it meaningfully against his black fedora.

Joe looks back at Pete, looking pained. "He's already--I can't fire him if he's written the speech."

"Also, if you fire me, you're fucking paying me back for that party," Patrick adds, and Joe winces.

"Okay," Pete says, shrugging. "I guess you just have to pick up your pen and write your fucking vows, then."

Joe slumps into his chair and picks up the pen dejectedly. Patrick bites his bottom lip hard, obviously fighting a smile and probably laughter.

"I hate you guys," Joe says, slowly writing something. "I hate you and I wish I'd never met you and you are terrible friends and I quit the band."

(Later, at the reception, we have The Pete & Patrick Shew. It's possible I have listened to the Peterick Podcast a few too many times. Also, for the record, I would totally let Pete emcee my wedding reception.)

PETE: I'd like to welcome to the microphone my good friend and yours, Patrick Stump. He's gonna talk about what a loser Joe is and how he doesn't deserve Marie. Patrick Stump. Always the best man and never the--wait. That doesn't work. What would the other thing be?

PATRICK: Groom, Pete.

PETE: Always the best man, never the groom.

PATRICK: Apparently.

PETE: Always the best man, never the groom? That sounds ridiculous.

PATRICK: I know, it really does--could we--

PETE: It needs the alliteration to sound good, Patrick. Bride, bridesmaid. Best man and groom don't have any alliteration.

PATRICK: No, they don't. I'm actually trying to give a--

PETE: Oh, hey, I got it. Patrick Stump, always the best man, but nobody likes him enough to actually marry him.

PATRICK: ...Ladies and gentlemen, my best friend Pete--

PETE: But I guess that doesn't have any alliteration either, does it?

PATRICK: --I am pleased to say that, for once, we're not here to talk about him. We're here to talk about my other best friend, Joe, and his beautiful--beautiful--wife, Marie. That second beautiful was not meant in any disrespectful or creepy kind of way. Uh.

*

*rolls eyes at self*

So yeah, Seattle!

i will never end up like him.

2008-10-26T05:46:39Z

I'm trapped in this body and can't get out
Pete, Pete/Ashlee et al. | 2659 words | R

Summary: "What if I am a lesbian?"
Disclaimer: As far as I know, Pete Wentz has never had gender dysphoria. Lucky him. Lies, damn lies, and a shitty psychiatrist.
Note(s): Title from "Bodysnatchers" by Radiohead. The first two "scenes" were originally posted here last summer, directly after I read this article in, you guessed it, Out. Also, the multiverse in which all of my fic takes place is completely free of any babies which may (or may not) exist in real life (except for the one where the baby is a changeling, but that was an AU and will never happen again).

*
Ashlee comes in to the kitchen in the morning and Pete is sitting at the island with a plate of Bagel Bites, a cup of coffee, and a magazine. He's staring, quiet, at the open page, a Bagel Bite clamped in his teeth.

"Hey," Ashlee says, taking the Mueslix out of the cupboard. "What's up?"

He starts and the Bagel Bite falls out of his mouth on to the counter. "Uh," he says. "The Out thing."

She grins as she pours her cereal. "It's so good," she says. "You did a great job, honey."

"Thanks," he says, absently. He chews some Bagel Bite, looking pensive.

"You didn't say anything awful about my dad she had to cut out, right?" she teases.

"No," he says. He doesn't laugh or say something new and awful about her dad. He props his chin on his hand and scrunches his mouth up, still staring at the article.

She sits at the island opposite him and eats her cereal. Halfway through the bowl, she puts down her spoon and says, "Seriously. What's wrong?"

He says, "What if I am a lesbian?" and she doesn't get it. Not at first.

She rolls her eyes, because he's got to be joking. "I'm sorry I'm not as hot as some of the dykes in this town, okay."

"No," he says, "no, that's not what I mean, Ash--" He spreads his hand open on the page where he's all facepalmy and topless. His hand covers all of his body and his hand in the photograph covers his face except for his eyes. "What if this isn't my body?" he says.

Her face goes blank; her mouth is open a little bit. He gets like this, they both know it; he has these borderline psychotic episodes that last a day, a few hours, it's not--it's the meds, and it's his brain, and it's not--

"If this is Punk'd, I hate you," she says hoarsely. "I'm serious. I will divorce you today."

He blinks and shakes his head; his eyebrows draw together and he pushes the magazine away. "I'm not punking you," he says. "I hate my dick."

"Okay," she says. She stares at the picture, at the body she knows like the path she used to take to school every day. She bites her lip. "You should talk to Dave about this," she says.

"No shit," he says. He eats another Bagel Bite, irritatedly.

"Can I have one?" she asks, reaching out, her palm up. He gives her a Bagel Bite without a lot of tomato sauce. She doesn't like the sauce that much.

They don't talk about it again that morning. Pete gets his security guy to drive him to therapy in the afternoon, and he talks about it with Dave, just like Ashlee suggested.

"It's like--I've never felt comfortable in my body," he says, sitting in an overstuffed chair with his hands on the arms, still wearing his jacket.

Dave nods from across the coffee table. He's sitting on the couch. He always sits on the couch. Pete always finds this terribly amusing and never says anything about it. Dave gestures for Pete to keep talking.

"I'm like, like--I used to cut, okay, we've talked about that," Pete says. Dave nods again. "I don't like my body. I just. I never really had a picture of what it was supposed to look like instead, you know. And then, that reporter, Shana--it's not even the first time someone's called me a lesbian, it's just--I never really read it before, you know. I never really--it didn't--it made sense." He finds himself twisting his hands together painfully in his lap, suddenly wide-eyed and not a little scared. "It made sense."

"Okay," Dave says. "I hear what you're saying."

Pete grimaces and shakes his head. "It's not like I ever--like, wore my mom's clothing or anything. Well. A few times. But I stopped when I was fucking seven. Everybody does that, right. It's just--I think. I think, this explains everything."

Dave cocks his head. "It might." He shrugs. "It might not."

"I really hate my dick," Pete says.

Dave smiles involuntarily, just a little bit; he doesn't show his teeth. "We're working on that, aren't we?"

"Yeah," Pete says.

Dave rubs his thumb over his mouth, erasing the smile. After a moment, he says, "I'm going to ask you to put this in a box for a while, okay. A box to think about, but not obsess over."

"A box?" Pete asks. "A fucking--put my gender in a fucking box. Put my life in a fucking box. This goddamn body in a goddamn box, right, yeah, just what we all fucking need. That's a perfect fucking solution." He puts his hand on his forehead and demands, "Are you insane?"

"You're a person," Dave says. Pete closes his eyes. Dave says again, "You're a person, Pete."

"I'm a person," Pete says, and he feels it, too, for the first time today.

"You're a human being," Dave says.

"I'm a human being," Pete says, and it's like his feet touch the ground--like he's just swung himself out of bed, out of a dream.

"You're a person who gets affected easily by things like this," Dave says. "You take ideas and run with them--it's a wonderful, creative quality, but it's also a tendency you need to be aware of."

"I know," Pete says. He knows, he knows; it's why he's fucking famous. He's well-fucking-aware of his fucking obsessive tendencies.

"So we're going to put this in a box for a while," Dave says.

"Yeah," Pete says. He looks away from Dave, away from the empy coffee table and his own white-knuckled hands. He looks at the window, the shade drawn over it; he puts it in a box, but he leaves the lid off.

The box scheme lasts for like a year. He lives in the box, carries the box, walks carefully to keep the box in his line of sight, to make sure it doesn't sneak up on him or make him do anything horrible and unexpected. It's just there, in his peripheral vision, in the way his shirts seem too baggy in the chest sometimes, or his hips too narrow. He starts thinking he's accidentally-deliberately buying his clothes too big; he starts thinking his subconscious is at work. His trainer says he's just lost five pounds he can't really spare--

Bigdoubt.com welcomes Pete Wentz (AKA Mr. Ashlee Simpson-Wentz) to the emaciation stage of addiction (see: Kate Moss, Mischa Barton, Keira Knightley). Enjoy your stay! May it be a long one, as it means more stories for us, and less time in Bloated Cokewhore Land for you! Then again, we could probably get just as many stories out of a bloated cokewhore. Carry on your merry way, Pete! The snowy hills are calling!

He determinedly eats an entire pepperoni pizza. He decidedly does not post "i am i who am i" or "what if i am a lesbian?" or "i'm only addicted to your addiction to me" or "conceal me what i am, and be my aid/for such disguise as haply shall become/the form of my intent" on the internet. He does not obsess. He doesn't even think about it; he doesn't have to, it's there anyway.

His sex life has always been composed more of getting people off than being gotten off, but it's obviously getting kind of ridiculous when Ashlee drags his head up and kisses herself off his mouth and says, "Please, okay, fuck me, it's been a month, please--" and he does, keeping one hand between them, petting her and helping her stroke her clit when she gets there, basically pretending he's not fucking her; basically pretending he's wearing a strap-on that's getting him off too, and when he's done, he puts his face in her neck and holds her thighs up around his waist while she jerks herself off. He's listening intently to her panting and small noises and the sound of her hands at her cunt; listening and memorizing and feeling her orgasm move through her like a carousel and he shapes his mouth against her neck, against her throat, around her resonance.

It must be getting pretty ridiculous when he's buying shoes and keeps finding himself, his gaze, straying towards the women's section. His attention wanders from Stephen and Patrick arguing about matte versus patent and Joe's wedding's colour scheme across the store to wedge heels and red satin pumps and peekaboo toes and--he focuses on a pair of tall, black leather boots with a reasonable heel.

"These ones," Stephen announces, presenting Pete with a pair of matte black wingtips with oxblood accents. A few feet away, Patrick shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

"Okay," Pete says. "Charge it. Let's get the fuck out of here."

It's getting beyond ridiculous--it's getting out of hand when he finds himself staring at his suit the morning of Joe's wedding. He's standing in his suite at the hotel, half-dressed in shirt and underwear and socks. The suit was made by the same designer and altered by the same tailor as the tux he wore for his own wedding. The cut is similar; the jacket doesn't have any tails. He touches the crimson tie hanging inside the shell of the suit's jacket, imagining for a second that it's his heart, hanging inside the shell of his designed and tailored and polished life.

He gets dressed mechanically, anchoring his motions to the sounds of Ashlee in the bathroom, showering and touching up her new dye job and--humming something to herself, probably painting her nails.

The shoes Stephen picked out pinch like a son of a bitch. Pete silently nudges open the bathroom door and watches Ashlee turn to look at her butt in the mirror, frowning a little, wearing a strapless bra and panties and stockings. She catches sight of Pete, who is also frowning a little. "What?" she asks, brushing her long, straight, black hair over her shoulder, smiling.

"Uh--nothing. I just--do you need anything?" he mumbles, mutters, asks as she pulls the bathroom door open and pushes him back from the doorway gently, both hands on his chest.

"Actually," she says, opening a dress box on the chaise in the corner. "Button me up?"

She lifts a dress the colour of a cedar flame from the box and steps into it. She holds the bodice over her chest and presents her back to Pete. Of course the dress closes with a million little buttons.

While he's fastening them, Pete memorizes the texture of the satin against his hands. He closes the dress around and over Ashlee's smooth, pale skin and envies it--the dress, and her skin. He looks at the scoop neckline cutting across her shoulderblades and envies her narrow shoulders, her sweet, gentle hips, the fall of hair she's holding out of the way, and it's not the familiar jealousy of a lover, of someone who wants to be that close. It's the envy of another, it's wanting to have, to be; it's getting completely out of hand. What kind of crazy asshole envies his own wife?

Button after button after tiny fucking button. They seem to be getting smaller, or his fingers are getting bigger, clumsier, wrong. His fingers trip and stutter over half a dozen of them before he mutters, "Fuck," and fumbles another one.

"What is it?" she asks.

"Nothing. Just--why a million little buttons?" he asks peevishly.

She turns in his hands and smiles, eyes wry, chin tilted, one hand still holding the dress over her chest. "I thought it would be funny to watch you try to undo them later, when you're sleep-deprived and tipsy," she says, and her smile turns into the devilish little smirk he loves.

"Oh," he says, and turns her back around and gets back to the buttons.

It takes six more months for the whole thing to move past ridiculous and into awful. He's posing for Vanity Fair in skinny slacks and a buttondown and about four pounds of eyeliner and hair product and the photographer asks him to unbutton his shirt; he only feels the everyday hesitation before he shrugs and does it, his stomach curdling and his throat twisting in familiar knots.

Five minutes later, it's, “How about we lose the shirt, Pete,” and that's it, he's had enough of this--the woman's eyes and the faces of her assistants around her and the magazine people and his people on opposite sides of the room, and the enormous shining eye of the camera, all watching and knowing he'll do it, why wouldn't he, they've all seen, they all know what he's got, what he is under the thin protection of this three hundred dollar shirt; they know who he is; they think they know.

He remembers with sickening sudden clarity that the skeezy photographer in the “Arms Race” video was supposed to be just a joke, just a fucking joke, just laughing at his own paranoid imaginings, but this. This is just like that. Only worse.

Even worse than it being true, than having everything just completely exposed to the world when he'd thought--it doesn't matter what he thought, he can't even remember what he thought, except that it was strange how seeing row after row of thumbnail images of his dick on Google felt like having his skin peeled from his flesh.

This, right now, in these clothes that aren't his and this body and these eyes: worse than having his dick littered across the internet and on a million hard drives like the laughable amateur porn it was. Because that was him, he did that, he felt those things and took those pictures, and what people were seeing was real and true, but this--today. The pictures the photographer wants to take, the pictures the magazine wants to print, the body these people want to sell: it is not real.

It's not him: the words bubble up from his stomach into his throat and he closes his eyes and there is the most familiar bile burn. It isn't his.

He barely manages to get the shirt off and out of the way before he pukes on the stark white floor panel, arms crossing and clenching protectively across his chest. The godawful ugly pants stay clean, thank fuck.

It stops being awful and starts being everything else when he gets home from the truncated shoot and confronts himself in the bathroom mirror with a close shave and his hair straightener and one of Ashlee's thin, yellow plastic headbands. He tucks the headband behind his ears and combs his hair out in front of it, giving himself the ghost of an asymmetrical hipster fringe. He takes out his contacts and puts on his glasses--not any of the giant stupid vintage ones--his glasses, his I'm-at-home-with-my-wife-and-dogs glasses. Little black plastic ones, almost like something Patrick would wear. He puts them on and adjusts his hair again, and. There he is.

He smooths his hands over his smooth cheeks and bites his bottom lip and doesn't even think about getting out his make-up kit or stealing some of Ashlee's innocuous peach lipgloss. He presses his right wrist with its innocuous pink scars and concealing black ink to his suddenly warm forehead. He closes his eyes and when he opens them, he's dropped his hand and has no choice but to see himself again.

"There you are," he says to his reflection, like he's been waiting on a train platform for hours.

"There you are," the woman in the mirror mouths, voiceless, and they smile at each other in wonderment, in recognition, and they realize that Pete has been waiting.

End.

*

This is the first bit of the mtf!Pete fic. I just wanted to get it posted for transbandom. So, you know, be glad I didn't say, like, "The end...FOR NOW!" Or something. Because I could have!