What's up, guys? I wrote fic!! Shocking, I know. I was just storytelling with Christine, and this happened. Trish/Pete, hell yeah. It's spent a couple weeks brewing around in my brain, but here's what came out of it. (Sorry there's no porn... hahaha.)

Title: It's Just A Stupid Crush
Author: therentmatrix
Pairing: girl!Patrick/Pete
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2600~


Okay, so, the thing is, Pete Wentz is a jackass. Trish knows this from the moment he walks into her house and insults her sweater, and she's ready to defend herself if necessary- she’s got a killer left hook- but Joe steps in and apologizes for him, laughing and calming her down easily. It's maybe the only reason Trish joins the band, to be honest. She's kind of intrigued by how such a stubborn asshole can have so many friends and fans.


She learns, and quickly.


---

He's not just a jerk, Trish notices after a few weeks of practicing in Pete's basement. The truth of it is, he's an incredibly charming jerk. The kind who steals your soda, then kisses you on the cheek, smiles, and offers to get you a new one.


So Trish is not surprised, really, when she develops a teensy little crush.

It’s really not a problem, the crush. She just blushes a lot around Pete and finds (more) excuses to hug him. It’s not interfering, and she lives with it.

---

They get big in the local scene after a few months of house-party and local-bar shows. It's not until after Trish graduates, though, that they really start touring and working seriously on an album. It's during that summer, the summer Trish is finally 18, that she moves into a tiny apartment with Pete and Joe.

---

To come back to the whole "Pete Wentz is a jackass" thing, Trish discovers that dealing with his shenanigans on weekends and afternoons is a whole different world from dealing with it every day, morning, evening, and three in the morning. They’re in close quarters all the time, and Trish gets awkward every time Pete wanders around the apartment in his underwear (which happens on an almost daily basis; Pete has nudist tendencies).


So of course she does the most logical thing and decides to stop having a crush on him.


(Basically, this means Trish doesn't tolerate Pete's kisses and hair-ruffles, his teasing and prodding. It means she fights back and treats him like every other boy she’s had to deal with, and Pete is baffled.)

---

Trish is watching TV one evening, munching on some leftover noodles they had for dinner a few days ago, when Pete comes in and sits next to her on the couch. He puts his sock-clad feet in her lap and settles down into the couch, hoodie zipped up all the way, phone in his hands and fingers tapping away at the keys, and Trish glares just a little. She shoves his feet off and goes back to her noodles, but Pete just puts his feet back up.


Trish gives him a Look. It clearly says "Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz, you are just asking for an ass-kicking and I would be more than happy to provide it.' Pete’s responding look seems to say, 'Who, me?'

"Pete. Get your gross feet off me. I'm trying to eat." Trish gestures towards the noodles with her fork, and Pete grins innocently.


"What did I do?" he asks coyly, tilting one foot and poking Trish in the stomach. "I think they're fine where they are."


Trish feels her face heat up, blush probably spreading across her cheeks. Pete just smiles wider.

"Stop being a jackass," she snaps, shoving his feet again.


Pete moves them back, and all hell breaks loose.

Trish drops the bowl of noodles and shoves Pete off the couch, hard. His wrist smacks into the corner of the coffee table as he hits the floor with an audible crack, and Trish stands up when he cradles it to his chest, eyes clenched shut.


"Pete, are you- ohgeez, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"


She stops, because Pete is a fast bastard- he grabs her around the knees and sends her tumbling to the floor, half on top of him. "Oh, you fucking bastard," she whines, scrambling to regain control of the situation. "You suck."


Trish's head recovers from the sudden movement and she sees Pete sitting on the floor, laughing silently. She launches herself forward, knocking him backwards. Pete's eyes widen when Trish's fist connects with his jaw, jerking his head to one side.


It's a messy scramble after that- Trish tries to knee Pete in the balls, fails, and he ends up biting her arm in the struggle to get out from under her.

When they finally stop, they're both panting and they've got bruises on their bodies as well as their egos. Trish's heart is going a million miles an hour, and Pete's is doing the same as he sits across from her, staring directly into her eyes. Trish’s tits feel sore- she thinks Pete may have elbowed her in the chest a couple times.


"Wha- what?" she says, voice breathy and light from lack of oxygen. "I'll kick your ass some more, if you keep that up."


Pete makes a vague noise, somewhere between a grunt and almost... a hum of approval, Trish thinks. The spot on his jaw where she hit him is starting to darken, bruise forming, and she almost feels bad about losing her temper.

"I'm sorry," Pete says, eyes downcast. "I didn't mean to piss you off, I just. You've been avoiding me, and I thought. Well, I guess I didn't think. Sorry, I'm an asshole."


Trish gapes for a minute, confused.


"Wait, what? I have not been avoiding you," she counters, shoulders straightening and defensive tone creeping into her voice. "I've just been trying to deal with your bullshit for the past month, jesus."


Pete looks up at her and considers her for a moment before looking down again. He reaches up, slowly, and presses his fingertips into the bruise Trish made, one of many, and winces.


"Stop that," Trish says sharply, worried. She scoots closer to Pete and grabs his wrist. "Doesn't that hurt?"

Pete shrugs. "Yeah, it does."


Trish rolls her eyes. "I do not have time for your masochistic tendencies, Pete Wentz."


"But you're so good at indulging them," Pete says, grin returning. "Maybe I should piss you off more often."

Trish hugs Pete, then, pulling him close and squeezing him tight (not too tight- he's got bruises all over). Pete sits there for a minute before lifting his own arms and hugging her back.

---

The bruises fade, after a while, but Trish can't help watching the way Pete keeps touching them, pressing his fingers against them, as the dark splotches fade to a sickly yellow and then disappear completely.


She can't help wondering if Pete would be so fascinated if anyone else had made those marks, if it could maybe be...


Trish decides she maybe still has a crush, just a little.

---

They're on tour, the next time one of them goes a little too far. Pete's tired, wiped out, completely drained from days of travel and shows and nights with no sleep. Trish is just homesick and edgy and sick of dealing with all the dumb boys she calls her friends.


So of course when they have to drive through the night to make the next gig, Trish and Pete are elected the designated drivers, because "Joe and I did it last time."


It's almost two in the morning when they pull into a small gas station in the middle of nowhere, Andy and Joe asleep in the back of the van and nothing but static and comfortable silence to keep them company. Pete hops out and walks towards the back to fill up the tank, and Trish opens the door to stretch her legs. Joe rolls over and snores. Andy kicks Joe in the ribs. Trish rolls her eyes and closes the door.


She's leaning against the side of the van, breathing in the cool night air, when someone leaps onto her, knocking her onto the pavement. She shrieks and starts clawing at her assailant, until she realizes it's just Pete, laughing his stupid fucking donkey laugh, and she really hates him sometimes.

But the worst is that he just climbs off of her and offers her a hand, smiling his stupid smile after he just tackled her, and that is totally not okay, she’s not a boy, he can’t do that. She takes his hand anyway, pulling herself up against his weight.


The second she's settled on her feet, though, she yanks his hand towards her, pulling him off-kilter enough to knock him down with a well-placed elbow in the stomach.

Pete's eyes go wide again, just like that night in the tiny living room, but Trish isn't quite aware enough to stop him from pulling her down with him- Pete's ankles got tangled with hers, somehow, and she goes down right on top of him, landing with a grunt.


"You are such an ass," she hisses, squirming. Pete's arms had wrapped around her the second she landed, clamping her arms down and holding her in place so she couldn't get in any more blows. His face is just inches from hers, she's struggling to get free and Pete's just holding onto her, taking deep breaths like he's holding himself back, too.


"Trish," Pete says. "Patricia." She stills, panting, and looks down at him. There's a look in his eyes that she's seen before, but not often. She can't place it.

But then she does, she realizes it's the same she'd seen when Pete was in the kitchen making coffee, absently rubbing at the bruise on his jaw. The same look as when he tightened one hand around his wrist during practice, almost unconsciously, while Joe tried to explain a riff.


Trish stops moving completely, then, and just looks at Pete. She can feel his fingers pressing into her back, on either side of her spine, and her stomach feels too warm pressed against his. "Pete?" she says, quietly, not wanting to break the silence, but too scared not to. "Pete..."


He relaxes his grip, a little, and she rolls off to one side, ending up still half on top of him and pressed against his side.


"The stars are so bright out here," Pete whispers, nodding upwards, towards the sky. Trish looks up and nods.


"Yeah." Then, "Pete, I miss home."


Pete turns towards her and pulls her close again. "Me too."

---

Two nights later they're in the middle of Arizona, playing in the hottest weather Trish has ever felt, ever. There's AC, but even with cool air blowing around the rafters it's far too hot onstage and in the pit. Trish has seen three kids get pulled out already, passing out from the heat or coming close to it.


It's the first night Pete comes up to her and presses his lips to her neck, mouthing their lyrics against her overheated skin.


The crowd loves it.


But what the crowd doesn't hear are the words Pete whispers just before he pulls back, before he lets a rush of cool air replace the heat of his body. What he says is, "I love you."

Trish almost forgets the next line, her heartbeat rocketing to a tempo even the adrenaline of a good show couldn't match. Pete backs away from her, staring down at his bass, and Trish clenches her fingers around the neck of her guitar, wishing for the end of the concert, the end of the night, the chance to just bask in cool, air conditioned goodness and not think about Pete Wentz and his stupid fucking bullshit.


Of course she doesn't get that wish. Karma, Trish decides, must hate her.

She tries to duck out quickly, packing her guitar away into its case and stowing it in the back of the van. But the moment she puts one foot in the door to climb in, a voice interrupts her.

"Trish? Can we talk?" She sighs heavily and turns towards Pete, placing her hands on her hips and mustering all her courage.


"Is it important?" she asks, feeling a little too tired and a little too bitchy to handle this.


Pete shuffles his feet a little and twists his fingers in the hem of his shirt. "Yeah."


Trish surprises herself when she says ‘okay’ and follows Pete around the back of the venue.

It's disgustingly hot outside, even this late at night. The air is stagnant and hot, dry. Trish licks her lips, but all she feels is more heat against her skin. She’s sweaty and gross, and it feels like everything is sticking to her skin and all she wants is a nice cool shower. Pete leans against the brick wall and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking sullen and nervous.


It's tense and silent, and Trish can almost feel static crackling between them. Finally, finally, Pete looks up at her, and she's blown away by how much she can see in that one look, in the way his eyes focus directly on hers.


"I realized something," he says. The words hang in the air between them, and after a minute Trish isn't even sure if he really said it, if maybe she'd imagined it. But he continues. "I realized that I'm kind of sick."


Trish blinks. Pete looks at her steadily. She blinks again. "What?"


"I'm. I don't know, it's weird. I don't want to make you feel weird, but I guess I probably already did that earlier." His brow furrows and Trish sees his hands clench into fists in his pockets.

"You can tell me anything, Pete. We're best friends." She leaves it at that, and hopes it's true.


Pete takes a deep breath.

"Ever since I met you... I knew you were special. At first it was like you were my sister, I wanted to protect you and keep you safe, teach you, have fun with you, be your friend. But then later it... it was different. I remember, that time you beat the shit out of me in the apartment, I couldn't stop thinking about your eyes, when you held me afterwards. I couldn't stop thinking about the bruises on my arms, the fact that.." He stops, shoulders shaking slightly, and Trish nods, encouraging. "You call me out on shit, and you're the toughest girl I know. And... it's hot. You're hot. I mean, you're gorgeous, I tell you that all the time, but-" Pete cuts himself off as Trish stiffens a little.


"Pete..." she says, taking a small step forward. He fixes his gaze on her again and swallows. He looks scared, terrified even, and it hurts Trish's heart a little to see him like that.

"What I'm trying to say is, you're my bestfriend, Trish. You're the girl I want to hold hands with and have picnics with and sit around looking at the stars with. But then you're also the girl I want to kiss, to take home and- and- fuck." He swallows again, eyes squeezing shut, and Trish can't stand it anymore. It's got to be even worse for Pete, trying to talk, jesus, so she just wraps her arms around him, presses herself against him, warmth from their shared body heat spreading across her skin like pinpricks and wildfires.

Pete shudders when she hugs him, automatically putting his arms around her, his hands resting on the small of her back, his forehead pressed against her shoulder. She can feel the tension slide out of him little by little as they stand there in the hot summer night air, the buzz of people just around the corner accentuating the slow, deep rhythm of their breathing.


Trish smiles when Pete shifts his head a little, pressing a small kiss to her neck. And when one of Pete's hands slips lower, spreads over the swell of her ass, she keeps smiling- because it's Pete, and maybe she's a little in love with him, too.



~Fin~