CATEGORY: Fluff
FEATURING: shy!Patrick and poetic!Pete
TRIGGER WARNINGS: None
PROMPT: With nothing else to do on a Friday night, Patrick goes to a poetry reading.
WORD COUNT: About 2,040

Music blared from the apartment on the second floor, accompanied by other typical sounds of a loud party--voices, laughter, feet stomping as people moved to the sound of the music. The apartment where the part was located seemed to be alive, full of color and sound and feeling.

Meanwhile, on the first floor, Patrick was trying to sleep.

It was only nine o'clock, but he'd had a long day of college classes, and he was tired. His friends in his literature class, Brendon and Dallon, had been talking eagerly about plans they had for the night, but Patrick hadn't joined in.

Truthfully, Patrick was kind of an introvert. He usually only left his apartment for classes, groceries, or maybe to see a friend. Other than that, though, he preferred to stay home. He'd only moved out of his parents' house a month ago, and the big, bad world was still intimidating to him.

Patrick put his pillow over his head with a sigh. The party on the floor above his had started to get loud and rowdy around eight, but he'd brushed his teeth and climbed into bed anyway. He'd been trying to sleep for almost an hour now, but with no luck. Even through the pillow, he could hear the booming music.

Clearly, he wasn't going to get any sleep if he stayed here.

The young man sat up and rubbed his eyes blearily, wishing he had neighbors that weren't so wild. He reached out onto his nightstand and fumbled around a moment until he found his glasses, putting them on his face and climbing out of bed.

He stumbled into his small kitchenette and poured water into the coffeepot, starting up the machine. Patrick figured if he was going to be up, he may as well be awake.

Briefly, he thought about calling or texting someone and asking if he could stay over at their place for the night. But who would he call, really? His parents were probably in bed by now. Brendon and Dallon weren't home.

Besides, maybe this was an opportunity to do something. On a typical Friday night, Patrick knew, most of the other kids in his college classes were not trying to sleep through a party.

He poured his coffee into a disposable cup and tightened the lid, taking a few sips to start with. He sat at his kitchen table for a moment, just drinking and listening to the sounds coming from the party above him.

Patrick imagined it was the kind of party where they'd always let you in, regardless of your age or social status. He imagined there'd be drinks, and cigarettes, maybe pot, too. He imagined drunken smiles on the faces of the patrons. He imagined a few people passed out on the couches. It sounded like the kind of party where people would pass out on the couch.

After the caffeine started to kick in, Patrick went into his room and dressed out of his pajamas. He didn't know what he should be dressing for, so he went casual--white shirt with blue flannel over it, jeans, and black converse, with his favorite black fedora atop his head. He liked hats.

Once he was dressed, he grabbed his coffee, phone, and wallet off the counter before leaving his apartment. The music was just as loud in the hallway, and he felt relieved as he finally escaped the building. It wasn't quiet out there, but certainly better.

He had his car keys in his pocket, but he didn't feel quite awake enough to drive yet. And so, he walked down the street, not knowing what or where he was heading towards.

It was dark out, of course, but the sidewalk was lit by the warm glow of the streetlamps above, and by the headlights of passing cars. It was actually kind of peaceful--no, serene--to be out at that time of night, where there were few other people about.

Patrick had no plans, no destination, no place to be. He let his feet lead the way, sometimes turning left, sometimes turning right, sometimes continuing straight forward. He walked past everything, from quiet, sleepy suburbs to bright, alive city streets.

His feet carried him for quiet a while before eventually stopping at a place called "Frank's". The sign was a dark blue, with curved, illuminated letters forming the name. Patrick didn't know what it was, whether it be a bar or a club or something else. but he was tired from all of his walking.

Patrick opened the door to the building and stepped in. On the inside, the building appeared to be a small restaurant. There were tables and booths, as well as a bar where you could order drinks. There was what appeared to be a small stage on the right, with a microphone set up. Maybe they did karaoke or something on the weekends.

The restaurant was about half full, which was pretty good considering the late time of day. Patrick took a seat at a table for two, and briefly, he wished he had someone to sit with him.

There was already a menu at the table, so he flipped through it. He was kind of hungry.

"Can I get you anything?" a voice asked. Patrick looked up to see the waiter, who had curly brown hair and a narrow build.

He glanced at the menu again. "Um, yeah. I'll have a coke and a side of fries, please."

The waiter, whose name tag read 'Ryan', took the menu as Patrick handed it to him. "You here for poetry night?"

Patrick blinked. "Didn't know there was one."

Ryan took a flier out of his waiter apron, and put it on the table in front of him. "Starts in about ten minutes, if you're interested in sticking around."

"Thanks." Patrick picked up the flier and looked it over. It was a bright pink color, so bright that it made him squint slightly. The flier read "Poetry Night at Frank's" in big blue letters, with "come for a night of poetry readings and get half off an order of fries" in smaller letters below.

Well. Patrick didn't really have anything else to do with his night. He definitely wasn't going back to his apartment for a while, so he may as well stay here. He could enjoy poetry sometimes, when it came up in his classes, and this was probably no different.

Ryan soon came back with his order, and Patrick dipped his fries in his ketchup as he watched a few people set up and check the microphone on the stage.

After about ten minutes, most of the lights in the restaurant faded, except for one bright one beaming down onto the small stage. The attention of the restaurant turned to the man standing in the spotlight, who had short black hair and a lip piercing. Even from here, Patrick could see that his hands and neck had tattoos on them, as well as his arms.

"Good evening everybody," the man said, a hand on the microphone stand. "I'm Frank, and this is poetry night. We're going to have a couple of different people come up to recite their poems, and some of them are good friends of mine, so be supportive, alright?" The audience chuckled a bit, and Frank smiled before getting off the stage.

Patrick sipped his coke and listened as the various poets took their turns at the stage. He'd been expecting a bunch of hipsters or something, but the poets were all kinds of people--punk, pastel, edgy, flamboyant, shy, creative. Most of the poems were pretty decent, and Patrick clapped along with the rest of the audience after a poet finished reading their work and stepped down from the stage.

It was interesting, but despite this, none of the poets themselves really stood out to Patrick--that is, except for one.

He had short blonde hair with brown roots, indicating that it was probably dyed. He had brown eyes with dark circles underneath, like he hadn't slept recently, and he wore a simple black t-shirt with jeans and sneakers.

Patrick wasn't entirely sure what about the poet intrigued him, but he found himself ignoring his drink and staring at the man as he approached the microphone.

"My name is Pete Wentz," the man introduced in a voice that made Patrick's heart skip a beat, "and this is my poem, 20 Dollar Nosebleed."

He cleared his throat, as Patrick began to read.

"It's not me, it's you.
Actually, it's the taxidermy of you and me.
Untie the balloons from around my neck and ground me.
I'm just a racehorse on the track,
Send me back to the glue factory.
Always thought I'd float away
And never come back,
But I've got enough miles on my card
To fly the boys home on my own.
But you know me: I like being all alone
And keeping you all alone.
And the charts are boring,
And the kids are snoring, 
And my ego's in a sling.
You say you're not listening.
And I said I'm wishing."

Pete's voice raised slightly with the last few words of the poem. "And I said. I said!"

Then he took a step back from the microphone, indicating that he was done. The audience clapped, and Patrick was so astounded that he didn't even think to clap along until it was too late.

He listened and watched a few other poets, but his mind seemed to be stuck on a specific one.

After the final poet had read their poem, Frank announced the end of the event, and invited the listeners to come back next month for another reading. The audience clapped a final time before the lights in the restaurant brightened again.

Patrick looked around, but didn't see the poet he was looking for. Disappointed, he stared down into his coke.

"Hey."

Patrick looked up again, and there he was.

He sat at the seat across from him, a clear soft drink in one hand, and the notebook he'd read his poem from in the other. He was looking at him.

Patrick decided to try and play it cool. "Hey."

"So." Pete grinned. "Come here often."

Patrick erupted into giggles; he couldn't help it. So much for playing it cool. "That's the cheesiest pickup line known to man."

"Very true." Pete leaned back in his chair. "But it made you smile."

There was a brief silence as Pete sipped his sprite, and as Patrick tried to stop blushing.

"So, um. I really liked your poetry."

Pete smiled gratefully. "Thank you. What about it did you like?"

Patrick leaned a bit closer, his elbows on the table. "It was creative, and really smart. I liked how you took these phrases and turned them around, it made me think. I loved the way you delivered it, too. You sounded so determined. You weren't just reading it, you were part of the performance."

The poet's smile grew wider, and Patrick could tell he liked what he'd said. "Thank you. I'm glad to hear that." He leaned in suddenly, not too close, but close enough that Patrick could feel his breaths on his face. He smelled like coffee.

Just when Patrick thought Pete might kiss him, he held out his hand, not breaking eye contact. "I'm Pete."

Patrick blushed, and took his hand. "Patrick."

"I think I like you, Patrick."

A smile crept across Patrick's face. "I think I like you, too."