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——————
Pete Wentz has always known he was different.
This isn’t a revelation to him, nor to anyone he’s ever met. He wears girls jeans and eyeliner and isn’t afraid to get up close and personal with his bandmates. He’s been called a fag more times than he cares to count. His brain is fractured into diatribes and Hemingway and 80s movie references and he can’t ever seem to catch his mood in a stable place. He’s got a big mouth and even bigger ideas and heavy eyes that won’t ever close at night. He knows he’s a little funny looking. He’s all rough edges, gruff and brutish and boyish in a way that upsets him.
The girl stuff- it can make himself easier to look at in the mirror. It can make him feel less like an incomplete puzzle no one ever has a chance of solving, least of all him.
Sometimes it works. Most times it doesn't.
It’s that thought that gets him here, standing in his shared bedroom and staring at Ashlee’s drawer a little longer than he means to.
He’s not trying to pry, really. Or rummage through it. Surprisingly- he’s secure in his relationship with her. He loves her. He’s pretty sure she loves him. Pete’s put his past of jealous, ugly lover behind him. This is different. She’s different.
It’s the ugly prickle of jealousy that courses underneath their interactions that unnerves him entirely. He doesn’t know why- just that it prickles up sometimes, when he holds Ashlee’s waist. If he sees her galavanting through the house, in pretty bras and delicate makeup and that light, tinny lift in her voice.
He tries not to think about it too hard. Still, he fails resisting the drawer’s siren call.
He stalks up to it, carefully opening the first rack. He swallows, surveying the vast assortment of undergarments and bras. Various colors and styles, designs of lace and flowers galore. Girlish.
He feels sort of perverted with the smile creeping on his face. He doesn’t do much to tame it. It’s not like this isn’t his M.O.- he loves girls' undergarments. He’s not above sniffing them. Sue him.
This is different.
He thinks of grabbing one of the lacey things, holding it up to his body. He imagines the way the pattern would look over the caramel skin of his hips. Would the lace sit high? Would the way it's cut even cover his ass? Or his- his-
Jesus.
Red hot shame flows through him. He slams the drawer shut.
——————
It’s the evening before Valentine’s Day.
As most boyfriends do for their girlfriends, he goes shopping. He manages to duck into a Victoria’s Secret without being caught or followed, having to call the night before to ensure no crazy fans or paparazzi could sabotage his quest. It’s getting exhausting, this fame thing. Being Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy all the time is exhausting. Sometimes he just wants to be Pete- but then again, he’s not quite sure who that is anyway.
He lazily peruses the isles, taking stock of the many underwear and bras and lingerie. He thinks about what would look good on Ashlee- anything would, honestly. Fine.
What would he want if he was a chick?
Pete feels a tingle down his spine at the notion, slowly blinking at a set of teal panties and bra. He swallows thickly, gingerly picking it up. He hums. It’s nice. Ash is maybe too pale for the color, but he wonders how it’d go-
Pete freezes. Blinks at the bra. His eyes flit up, to a mirror where his body happens to perfectly line up to where he’s holding it. He stares, imagining the fabric against his chest- round, soft mounds fitting into the cups. Pete blinks hard, again.
He feels nauseous.
He buys the pair. Ashlee loves it, tries it on for him immediately after he reveals it to her the next day. She sits in his lap and puts his hands around her hips, a hard pang of something he can’t place shooting through his head and lingering as his fingers curl against her waist. He does his best to suppress it- Ashlee doesn’t deserve whatever fucked up thing is going on in his head. She looks gorgeous.
Pete wants to be gorgeous too.
——————
He stares at himself in the mirror for longer these days. Stares until he thinks of taking a sharpie and carving out where he’d cut his body- fat and muscle taken off the side until he had delicate curves, until his hips and his wide torso and his long jaw were stuffed into the box that he so desperately wanted to fit in.
There’s a purple lace garter-panty-bra set of Ashlee’s that he can’t stop thinking about. Every time he goes into the closet to retrieve something for her, he stops and stares. It’s sexy, and it looked amazing on Ash. He tells himself it’s totally normal to be obsessed with the patterns in the lace, to imagine it over skin and atop breasts and between the gentle curve of a hip. Any guy would be jumping at the chance to see it on their girl.
It’s just that the body he’s imagining is his own.
He can’t help it, one night. Chalk it up to his madness or the pills or his shit impulse control- or the carnal desire of knowledge brewing within him. He carefully puts it on, noting how soft it is, how the lilac contrasts against his skin. He watches the fabric slide over his chest, the triangles of each cup securing him. He tucks himself in the small waistband of the panties, taking care to push his dick back and out of the way. He doesn’t really like looking at it.
A puzzle piece presents itself in his brain.
As he looks in his bedroom mirror, the piece slots right into place.
An energy fervently possesses him.
He digs into Ashlee’s makeup and throws it on, using his limited knowledge to doll himself up. He tussles his hair, he shaves his face, he curls his lashes. When he’s done- he’s breathless, and looking at someone he doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t like Her square jaw, short hair, or dark eye lines. It’s not what he’d like in a girl. Still, the eyeshadow and glitter make him feel a little less like an imposter in his own skin. He watches his head tilt in the mirror.
He likes the way She smiles back, whoever She is.
It’s bewildering how much he wants to hold on to Her, even as he hears the door creak and hastily takes off everything in an anxiety fueled paranoia.
He gets the brief thought to grow his hair long. Maybe that would help.
——————
Ashlee gets pregnant, and then Pete has to be a husband. He cuts off any hair progress he’s made.
Pete has to be a man.
——————
The band falls apart.
It’s not too much of a surprise to Pete. They couldn’t be expected to continue on- not like this. Not when Andy is burnt out from all the fighting, the nonstop traveling. Not when Joe and Patrick barely had a chance to grow up.
He corners Patrick, one night. He’s always the last to leave the studio- rookie mistake with a desperate Pete. It’s the last time he’ll see Patrick in a while- this he knows. He feels it deep in his bones, the state of finality that settled when the last note of From Now On We Are Enemies bellowed out of Patrick’s mouth. He grabs onto his wrist a little more forcibly than he means.
“You'll call, right?”
We’re still friends, right?
Patrick hums softly, taking in Pete’s expression. For all the fights they had, the screaming, throwing pencils, complete meltdowns while making Folie, he still gave love to Pete. Gave Pete his compliments, his praise, relentlessly shielding him from the onslaught of bad press that seemed to follow Pete everywhere he went. Pete doesn’t deserve it. He knows he doesn’t. Patrick is tired. He has ambitions beyond Pete's wildest dreams and all he's doing is chaining a rock to his best friend's ankle. He still clings on anyway. His head buzzes. Patrick. Always Patrick.
“Of course, Petey.” Patrick gives finally, a weak smile on his face. Patrick is the worst liar he knows. Pete can always tell.
——————
Pete tries not to freak out. He fails miserably.
No one calls. He doesn’t have interviews to schedule. He doesn’t have a press conference to ruin. He’s no longer the “guy from Fall Out Boy” because there is no Fall Out Boy. No screaming crowds, no worried managers, no outlet for his words or his frantic brain. There’s just Pete. He’s more lonely than he’s been in years. He’s less sober than ever too.
It takes two years, but Ashlee realizes she can’t handle it. She only knew so much about his head, what it meant, what it does to him. Pete refuses to let her even try, ashamed of his ugly parts, even though he’s bleeding and bruised and hurting. She has a toddler to take care of. Love isn’t enough. Pete isn’t enough. He’s entirely too much. He is everything Ashlee needs him not to be.
Sometime during a bender of four- no, maybe five- days, divorce papers appear on his desk. Ashlee leaves.
Patrick comes back. Of course he does. (Thank god he does).
He brings burritos and Garage Band and his notes app, and they make stupid, horrible songs. Reggae with Pete’s bad Jamaican accent he never seemed to pick up from his grandparents. Ska with an all too enthusiastic Patrick on trumpet. They listen to endless R&B, Rock, and Rap records. They critique and laugh and quote 80s movie scenes in near entirety after watching the movie for the 100th time together. Pete forces Patrick to listen to Soul Punk when he puts it on the turntable, just to dance around and embarrass himself while Patrick cackles. They don’t have to be half of Fall Out Boy, rock’s odd couple, media darling and tabloid bait. They can just be them, as simple as that. It’s a fact of the universe.
The grass is green, the sky is blue, and Pete will always have Patrick.
——————
Pete can’t resist the bag of clothes Ashlee left in her frustrated wake. She screamed something akin to donate it to charity, for all I fucking care, Pete! Before she slammed the door. She had taken Bronx too, which had been the worst part. Pete misses his son like nothing else. He understands. Truly, he gets it. He’s unstable. He’s a mess.
He’s staring at his soon to be ex-wife’s yellow bag like a forbidden fruit.
Pete stands in front of his bedroom’s full length mirror, breathing slowly. He peels off his shirt- winces, when he sees his body, chiseled and lean. The disappointment of his appearance cements the frown on his face. He hates his rugged tattoos, the scars he got from soccer and throwing himself around on stage. He hates his unibrow slowly growing in again, he hates his stubble, he hates his hairy arms and his square jaw. He hates, hates, hates.
He shoves an arm into the bag, impulsively grasping at the first thing he sees. It’s a pink bra, bows decorating the top. No cups with a stretchy elastic band and a gentle v where the breasts would be. His fingers curl around the fabric. He shoves the pink item over his chest, looping his arms in, fitting it over himself.
He breathes. Looks up.
Another puzzle piece settles into place. He watches his chest, the way the lace fits over the skin. He can almost pretend, if he squints, that it sits like Ashlee’s. Perky and round. Pretty.
Pete feels, just for a moment, that he could be pretty.
A soft gasp comes from the doorway.
Pete jumps, his heart dropping through his stomach, his eyes frantically shifting to Patrick’s in the mirror before grabbing his hoodie. He holds it tight to his chest as he moves- he’s not sure where- his bedroom, however expansive, does not have many places to hide. He’d forgotten Patrick was coming over tonight.
He doesn’t get too far, however, when a strong hand wraps around his bicep, grabbing him, grounding him.
“Pete.”
Pete can’t look. He can’t bear to see the disappointment in Patrick’s face, the disgust that’s surely there. His friend is… is… is a what? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know why he feels this way, why he wants to put on women’s clothes- why it makes him want to crawl out of his own skin just a little less.
“Pete. Please. Look at me.”
Pete relents. Waits for the shoe to drop. Patrick’s eyes meet his. There’s a small smile there- a relief when Pete turns. It’s all so gentle.
“There you are. Hey. It’s okay.”
Pete opens his mouth. He tries. He really does. He looks back down at his chest- pink lace still decorating it underneath the bunched up sweatshirt- and knows if he speaks he’ll despise the sound that comes out. Too rough, too deep.
“Shhh, it’s okay. Don’t have to talk. We can do that later. Hey. I’m not upset, see?”
Another puzzle piece slots into place. Patrick settles a part of him. Always has. Pete doesn’t know what that amounts to. It didn’t really matter. They were the ending and the beginning. The same souls, unfairly cleaved by the universe. The thought that they had even tried separation was laughable. It was never going to last. They have a cosmic need for each other. Or perhaps just a humane want.
Patrick leads him to the bed, sitting him down gently. His hand is a firm pressure against Pete’s back, warm expansive skin under his touch. Patrick speaks in hushed tones, like Pete’s a spooked animal. Any other time, he’d hate it. But he’s feeling particularly vulnerable- and he’s almost grateful that he is. That he gets to be this way with Patrick.
“Hon- can I call you that? Is that okay?”
Patrick had already been calling him that- in spaces when it's just the two of them, when Pete needs grounding with a firm hand on his nape and soft words whispered in the shell of his ear. Honey, the special term of endearment Patrick reserves just for him. He's not quite sure when Patrick started calling him that, and he’s not quite sure why Patrick’s asking now. Like he thought Pete’s opinion on the title might change. Like maybe Pete wants to change the way he’s referred to.
Pete shoves the thought out immediately. In any rate, the nickname is beyond okay with Pete. That will never change. Pete nods, and Patrick smiles.
“You know I’ll love you no matter what, right?”
Pete hesitates. Patrick pulls him closer, arranges Pete’s head under his chin. He makes sure Pete’s nose is pressed warm against the base of Patrick’s throat. Tried and true, a heavy hand against his nape settles him, his bones loosening and mind going pleasantly fuzzy. He closes his eyes, and manages to nod again.
“Good. You’ve got to believe me, Honey. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
Somehow, Pete believes him.
——————
They write more music. Really good songs. Ones that end with Patrick on a three hour phone call with Joe and sending a quick text to Andy.
In the meantime, Pete tries on more bras. Just those- it’s all he can handle right now. He hasn’t worn a lingerie set since the purple lace one when he was still with Ashlee. Something about doing the full thing- the hair, the makeup, tucking his junk- is entirely overwhelming. He doesn’t have any answers, just pieces of himself he was trying to puzzle together into the full picture. Besides, he has music to focus on, and therapy, and Black Cards and Clandestine.
So bras are his only indulgence, at the moment. The taught band of the elastic facets something into place, settles him after a long day of being someone he’s not entirely sure he still is anymore. He finds comfort watching his chest rise and fall in the mirror, the color on his chest changing, but the weight of it all the same.
Sometimes, he’ll let Patrick watch him put it on. He likes the way Patrick’s eyes settle on his chest, approving and pleased with the way Pete’s movements have been lighter recently, the smile coming more easily to his face. Sometimes Patrick will help, clasping the back for Pete and letting his warm hands center him.
“You look pretty.”
Patrick tells him one night, after Pete’d asked him to stay. Patrick tries not to sleep over so often anymore- he did recently get married after all. Elisa’s a wonderful woman, Pete’s more than ecstatic for their marriage and Patrick’s happiness- though the selfish part of him wishes he still had Patrick to himself. Even so, Patrick made time for him. He’s important enough to Patrick that the man carves out his calendar, enough that Elisa understands whatever Pete is to Patrick is equally as important to him as their marriage. It helps that Elisa likes him, too, and trusts Patrick to be an honest man, the man that Pete knows he is- and Pete can’t help but feel cherished.
Patrick runs his hands down Pete’s side, a calming gesture. Pete had thought once, maybe, that he had a romantic thing for Patrick. He could’ve, at least. But he preferred it like this. Its own undefined cluster of feelings, tucked behind gentle touches and forehead kisses. Something entirely theirs, so thoroughly engraved that even they can’t define it. It just is.
Pete ducks his head, settling his forehead on Patrick’s shoulder.
“You really think so?”
Patrick hums softly. His fingers find the baby hairs at Pete’s neck. They’re curling where his flat iron couldn’t reach. “I do. You’re very pretty, Petey.”
Pete yawns as he laughs- the stupid moniker still gets him even now. Patrick smiles, careful eyes watching Pete’s expression. Likely noticing how tired Pete is, his fingers rise to the clasp of the bra. Pete twists in Patrick’s arms.
“I don’t wanna take it off.”
“I know. But you won’t like it digging in your back. It’s gonna be uncomfortable.”
Pete would rather be uncomfortable a thousand times over than lose this feeling, then have the puzzle piece be ripped from him again. Patrick kisses his hair.
“I’ll help you. Okay, Honey?”
Pete lets Patrick take off his bra. The elastic band loosens around his chest, and a part of him is lost, tossed out into the ether again. Patrick keeps his hands on his back, placing them again as soon as he drops the bra on the floor.
“Still pretty. Even without it.”
That settles the restlessness in his bones, even if it was just for the night.
——————
They craft an album. Joe and Andy are more involved than ever. It fills Pete with such great hope- but a terrible anxiety as well. They’d been away for so long… he didn’t know if anyone would want to listen anymore. If anyone would want to hear the things he has to say.
Still, the first single is coming out tomorrow. There’s nothing he can do about it now. It doesn’t stop him from pacing in Joe’s living room, dread ripping through him while the rest of his bandmates watch with varying levels of concern. He’s sure anxiety is brewing in them as well- Pete’s just a nervous wreck. He wrote a whole song about it.
In a desperate attempt to stop him, Andy pokes his side. Pete yelps accordingly.
“You still squeal like a girl, dude.”
Andy’s eyes are teasing, clearly not thinking anything of it. Any other time, Pete wouldn’t even blanch. He’s told Andy the same thing so many times it shouldn’t faze him.
He freezes up anyway.
Pete can feel Patrick’s head whipping towards them, eyes wild as he pins down Andy with a fierce glare. Pete almost laughs, if he didn’t catch Patrick's concerned glance to him right after.
Pete is… not sure how to feel. Being compared to a girl is- it’s not as bad as he once thought. If this was back in van days, or god forbid Arma Angelus, Pete would’ve tried to strangle Andy for even mentioning that. Would’ve ignored how it made a warmth bloom in his chest and gone straight for the recklessness of proving his masculinity. Now…
“Well that’s not very nice, Andy. My mom’s a feminist, and she says-“
“You pulling that card does not make you a feminist by extension.” Joe butts in, returning Patrick’s indignant middle finger by sticking his tongue out at him.
Patrick’s valiant attempt at a distraction somehow works. The conversation moves on. Pete still lingers in the static. He thinks of the Girl he saw in the mirror when he put on that purple lingerie. He misses Her, he thinks.
Joe points a finger at him in a pointless jab and Pete’s thrown out of his head, right back into the present of the room. A smile instantly pulls at his mouth, and now he’s grabbing Joe’s shoulders and shaking them, a cacophony of four laughs that quiets any anxiety he might have left. He knows now, for sure, that this is the right thing.
It’s not lost on him how lucky he is. That they loved him and this band and what they created together enough to do it again. To do it differently this time and be better for it.
It’s like they never missed a beat.
——————
He meets Ashlee for coffee, one of their established drop-off spots for Bronx. Pete dubbed it a family outing when Ashlee called him to discuss switching custody once every two weeks to fit their busy schedules. He’s forever grateful that she had decided to split custody. He isn't sure he deserved it back then, when he lost his mind and was borderline alcoholic enough that Ashlee had to move Bronx and herself out. However, Ashlee also knows he’s going to therapy and being serious about it this time. Pete has his outlet back, and a newfound drive, especially with the unbelievably positive way people reacted to My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark.
Ashlee knew he had Patrick.
She sips her mocha latte, her lithe fingers curled around the to-go cup. Pete smiles at her over his porcelain mug, a cappuccino tilted to his lips. Baby Bronx is oblivious, sleeping soundly in his stroller.
“How’s the movie shoot going?”
Ashlee grins. She puts her cup down. “Just fine. They’re making my life hectic, but… y’know. That’s showbiz.”
Pete nods. He knows, more or less. It’s what he had liked about her- she understood. He knows how famous she is, the trappings she went through, the hurdles they had to scale over just to even be together. All for Pete to ruin it in the end.
“For what it’s worth, I'm sorry.”
Ashlee’s grin dies down, her face becoming more melancholic and introspective. She swallows gently. “I know, Peter. When it was good, it was really good. We burned bright.”
“Too bright. Got caught up in the flames off it all.” Pete tacks on, rueful. He fidgets with his knuckles, the absence of a wedding ring he had just gotten used to a visible reminder of his failure. “Do you regret it?”
Ashlee takes his hand. Laces their fingers.
“You gave me Bronx. I could never regret that. I did love you Pete. I really did.”
Pete smiles softly, nodding. “I loved you too.”
Ashlee softly chuckles, taking her hand back after a small squeeze. She sips more of her latte. “Glad we can be mature adults about it. Hey, did you ever donate that bag of my clothes to Goodwill?”
Pete blinks hard, like he’d been caught red handed. He sips his cappuccino.
“Uh… no. It’s still at the house. Do you um- want it back?”
There’s something in Ashlee’s face that’s knowing, and it calms Pete how peaceful she looks, how happy and unburdened she is now. He’s glad. A year ago, he might’ve taken that personally. As his therapist said, they were just two attractive birds that happened to sit on the same wire and thought it was strong enough to hold. They had only understood each other’s situation on a level like nobody else and thought that was enough to carry a relationship. Wrong person, wrong time. Still, there’s something beautiful in that. He’s really, really glad.
“No, you can keep it.” Ashlee gets up, kissing Bronx on the forehead. She brushes his curly blonde hair, causing the child to stir just for a moment before going back to his dreams. She shrugs on her jacket, coming to stand beside Pete. She lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, looking down.
“Besides, I thought the purple set looked better on you, anyway.”
Pete’s jaw drops, embarrassment blooming violently in his chest. Ashlee’s gone before he can ask about it, about what she’s seen, about what she knows. But there’s not a trace of malice in her tone. Just a kindness that’s beyond anything Pete thinks he deserves. He turns in his chair, watching her walk out with her two bodyguards.
Pete settles back, letting out a small huff. He looks down, watching Bronx’s lashes flutter on his cheek. He smiles, brushing a gentle finger under his son’s chin. He finishes the rest of the cappuccino.
——————
“I’ve been thinking of growing out my hair.”
Pete blurts one day as the tour bus barrels down the road. He feels like his heart is about to race out of his chest- which is ridiculous. It’s just his hair, it’s just his bandmates. This isn’t even the most damning thing he’s ever said. Still, it feels like they’ll strip him raw. Like they’ll figure him out before he himself ever does.
Yet, here he is, giving them another clue.
They had released another album by now, after the success of Save Rock And Roll and the subsequent return into the loving arms of their most loyal fans. It was even more exciting seeing all the new ones they’ve garnered, the ones who loved them just as they are. The continued success of American Beauty/American Psycho proved that.
Pete’s done a lot to his appearance in that time, too. He keeps his hair short, and tries to be clean shaven when possible. He dyed it blonde. He flirts with ambiguity while wearing tanks and leather pants. He wore a skirt for the Victoria's Secret fashion show- a bold move he felt he could get away with because of the nature of it all. He still wears them on the tour bus when it’s just him and Patrick. He also keeps a bra on during the day now- nothing anyone would notice under a t-shirt, thin and stretchy- like a training bra. It’s comfortable. It feels right.
Deep breaths. He rubs his knees, curling his fingers around the caps. Think of the present moment. You’re here. You’re real. They love you and won’t abandon you the first chance they get. His chest feels a bit better. Huh. Maybe therapy is working.
“Like a chick?” Joe asks. Patrick smacks him on the head with a pillow.
Pete holds his breath for a second, finding the courage to look each of them in the eye. No judgement. Just pure curiosity and willingness to accept whatever Pete spews out his mouth. Air rushes into his lungs.
Pete rolls his eyes at Joe. “Like a chick.”
Andy grins. “Like I had back in the day. Ooh- or like Axl Rose.”
Count on Andy. Patrick might be his soulmate, but Andy’s got him down to a science, one he’s perfected since he took a sharpie and drew a rudimentary snake on Pete’s neck to mirror his own at 16. Pete beams.
“Exactly like Axl Rose!” He glances at Joe, his eyes taking on a suspicious glare. “Hey, didn’t you also have long hair?”
“Yeah, dude. I was told I’d totally make a hot chick. Hey- don’t look at me like that, jealousy is ugly on you, Pete.”
“Oh, shut up."
“I’m just saying, I know that shade of green anywhere. For what it’s worth you’d make a hot chick too!”
Joe bats his eyelashes, clearly enjoying this verbal torment, but Pete’s frozen in time. His heartbeat is in his ears. The sentence, just the littlest thing, is taking him apart and putting him back together again. Destruction and rebirth. The construction crew in his head is working again. This time they get the gear turning.
Pete manages to come back enough to hear Patrick repeatedly hit Joe with a pillow, and then kick both Joe and Andy out the back room of the bus. He comes up to Pete cautiously.
“I’m fine, Patrick.”
“They’re such assholes.”
Pete smiles wide. “That’s why I love them.”
Patrick laughs, shaking his head. He doesn’t move from his spot two inches from Pete’s face though- blue searching hazel. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I can handle being called a chick, dude. That’s basically what my entire career is built on.”
“I-I mean I know that,” Patrick sputters, his nose twitching in slight embarrassment. “I just thought- I don’t know. Because of your thing.”
Pete blinks. His thing. He doesn’t know what to call it. Hasn’t looked into it, and hasn’t really wanted to. His desire to explore is a part of himself he keeps intentionally locked away, deep down under years and years of dirty laundry he’s still sorting out with his therapist. So what if he likes to wear bras and be called pretty? Plenty of guys do. Whatever.
He thinks back to what Joe said. He’d make a hot chick. He wonders what that would be like, what that would entail. If he’d be slimmer, maybe, with more delicate angles to his body. Maybe he’d have less hair in places other than his head, and a softer jaw. He could get manicures and pedicures and do fun little patterns on his nail instead of the boring black he’d always peel off-
He thinks of the Girl in the mirror.
It’s too much. Thinking about all that is just too much. For once, Pete wants to exist exactly where he’s at. The rest will come if it is meant to. Wise words from his therapist.
“It’s not a thing. Just… I just want to grow my hair out.”
“Okay. I think it’d look good.” Patrick confirms, flicking affectionately at Pete's forehead.
“You’d say that for anything I do.”
“Because I think it’s true, Honey.”
Pete rolls his eyes. Another piece of the puzzle presents itself. Though it’s turned wrong and doesn’t quite fit where Pete’s at right now- he’ll take it. It’ll be useful later, he assumes.
——————
Pete grows his hair out.
It gets long. He keeps it straight, the habit of burning his hair into submission never leaving him. Through their next album MANIA it sits awkwardly at his shoulders. He tries different things, shaving the sides and putting it into a bun when it’s long enough. It isn’t quite satisfying yet, but the fans seem to like it well enough, and so did his bandmates.
So he lets it grow all through the promotion cycle and straight into the Pandemic.
Covid is awful. For someone who likes to spend time alone- even this is a bit too much for him. Bronx keeps him company, and Pete really enjoys that, but when his son goes to Ashlee’s he just has an empty house. Nothing else but his brain and his stupid hobbies that he’d get randomly obsessed with before kicking them to the curb. Luckily, he had made a great number friends over the years, ones who don’t hesitate to give him calls or answer their phones. Still, it’s kinda lonely.
The upside to loneliness is that it gives you a lot of time to think- and to try things when nobody’s watching.
He orders more clothes to his house than he knows what to do with- the dopamine hit of having something new to try overtaking his brain. Bras, skirts, blouses, jewelry, lipsticks, blushes, mascara- little indulgences he can partake in alone, piece after piece merging in his brain every time he gives in to his desire to dress up.
He sees the Girl more often.
Sometimes he’ll have Her stay a while, wake up and do a routine, throw on a blouse and a skirt and do Her makeup. She’d spin in front of the mirror, taking Herself in. Pete is happy to keep Her around.
He’s lounging around the house, taking a much needed wine break from the Sunday cleaning he was doing, when Patrick Facetimed him.
“Hey, buddy, so I was thinking about those lyrics you sent me, they’re just so bleak and I think they’re awesome, how about a-”
Pete’s expression morphs from a pleasantly amused to confused one, when he sees the open curiosity on Patrick’s face.
“Pete, you uh. Woah.”
Pete finally remembers how to use technology and squints at himself in the little box at the bottom. He gasps a bit. Shit. he forgot to take off his makeup.
“Uh… yeah.” Pete smiles shyly. He feels like he could've been more ashamed- but this is Patrick- and his best friend has not one lick of disgust on his face. Just awed fascination.
“You look so good, Honey. Wow. Who did you up?”
“Myself,” Pete rolls his eyes at Patrick’s use of 1950s language. Patrick’s been ready to be middle aged since he was 17. Glad he finally got there. “It was a bitch to do, though. Took me way too long.”
“Elisa! Come look,” Patrick shouts, and suddenly the camera is full of Elisa’s smiling face, eyes light with excitement.
“Oh, Pete, you look wonderful!” She gives a thoughtful appraisal. “That blush isn’t quite your color though. Did you get shade matched?”
Pete bristles. He swallows- he feels like he should’ve known about that, somewhere in his research. “Not really.”
Elisa’s grin never wavers. “No problem. The moment it’s safe I’m coming over and I’m giving you all my best tips. Maybe we could even go to Ulta together!”
Patrick gives a hearty laugh at that, and Pete finds himself laughing too. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”
Elisa wanders away, and Pete giggles hearing her snap at their two boys in the back. Patrick goes back to discussing Pete’s lyrics and the ideas he has for an upcoming album. Pete listens, he swears he does, but he also can’t stop himself from admiring the Girl in the display screen every once in a while.
——————
Patrick had finally convinced him that an album was worth it- a tour away from Bronx and his steady homelife was worth it. He knew he’d have to quit his routine of wearing makeup- it's a part of him he isn’t quite ready for the world to see yet. For all the times he flayed himself open for his fans before the hiatus- he knows how to keep things to himself now. At least until they're ready.
Fall Out Boy comes back, and they are better than ever.
Joe is not.
Pete feels horrible. After MANIA, Joe had felt so disparaged, and it took a lot out of him to agree to another album. He knows Patrick felt horrible too, which is why he made so much room for Joe to shine on this record, a great many of his ideas making it onto So Much (For) Stardust. Joe is proud of the album and proud of them. Pete is so very proud of Joe.
It’s why it broke Pete’s heart when he learned he couldn’t tour with them. Too many surgeries going on at once, and Joe is in a constant state of recovery and chronic pain. Patrick had offered a delay in touring, at least until the verdict was out with his surgeries, but Joe had insisted they go on without him. Especially since it’s more than physical recovery- his mental needs the break too. He needs to get healthy up there before anything else can- a truth Pete knows intimately.
Still, Joe wants to be involved where he can, which is how Pete ends up sitting on a pillow on the floor in front of the greenroom couch. The set for Love From The Other Side is just about ready for filming, a greenscreen amalgamation not unlike the America’s Suitehearts music video. Pete tells Joe this, and he snorts, his hands playing gently in Pete’s hair.
“You sure you want me to do this?”
Pete laughs, shrugging. It can’t be worse than what he does to himself. He doesn’t know much about long hairstyles- not like Joe does now, with two daughters and lots and lots of practice.
“Alright man, no promises. I kinda figured out this one style- the kiddos are calling it a viking braid, I think? Yeesh, that’s gotta be some kind of problematic. Let's see how this goes.”
Pete stills underneath Joe’s hand, feeling the gentle tug of his hair in between Joe’s fingers. He dyed it blonde himself, and did kind of a botched job- he knows his hair is fried. He’s glad nobody had said anything about it.
“Jesus, Pete, did you put your head in a microwave?”
Aaaaaand there Joe goes. Pete rolls his eyes, doing his best to punch Joe in the shin.
“What can I say, I still have the DIY punk spirit.”
“That excuse only works if it turns out well. This… dude, you may need to shave it.”
Just the thought of that seizes Pete’s heart, the smirk dropping right off his face. To start over again- to go back to short hair and his full face and feel like he’d lost every inch of progress he’d made- he can’t fathom it. Worse, he feels like he’d lose the Girl- that’s something he can’t afford, not when he just started to like Her.
“Hey, hey, relax. Sorry.” Joe soothes, a hand rubbing at Pete’s shoulder. It loosens him immediately.
“Sorry, Joe. It’s- It’s just hair.”
Joe shakes his head, placing his fingers back and continuing to arrange Pete’s strands. “I get it. My girls take that shit super seriously. It’s like a part of who they are.”
Exactly.
“I’m a guy.” Pete says later, a delayed response to something that was never spoken. A knee jerk reaction, defensive when he never needed to be.
“I never said you weren’t.” Joe responds, as gentle as his fingers.
Pete blinks. He opens his mouth again. “Okay. What if I wasn’t?”
Joe shrugs, his blase nature somehow helping Pete stay calm, even with his hands fidgeting, his heart thrumming in anticipation to Joe’s answer. Joe didn’t know the extent of his thing, neither did Andy, not like Patrick did. But Pete knows they're not stupid. He knows they’ve seen his bra peeking on his shoulder and his smile when he twirls in his skirt. He’s worn mascara to a band meeting once. They’ve probably put it together, and they’re still around. They still seem to love him. Pete shouldn’t be as nervous as he is.
“Then I’d still do your hair. I’d still call you on your shit. We’d still be assholes to each other, because you’d still be Pete.”
“And nothing would change?”
Joe smiles, soft, something fond and reverent on his face. Joe, the kid he helped bring out of his shell, who made this whole thing possible. Joe, who he took on tour with him at the ripe age of 15 in the hopes that it would make him stronger, make him feel less alone like Pete did at that age. In some ways, it worked. In others, Pete regrets it so much he’ll find Joe in the middle of the night to apologize. In Joe, Pete had saw that same suicidal restlessness. At the time, taking him out on tour and roughing him up seemed like the logical thing to do to help him survive in such a relentless scene. He just wishes he protected him more, told him to quit using sooner, paid more attention to him when he was spiraling.
Pete’s not so sure how Joe's so good natured about it. Or how he forgives him. He’s just so grateful that he did.
“Nothing would change. Unless you’d like me to call you something different?”
Pete shakes his head fast at that. He’s always been Pete. Peter. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz iii. An insane title, sure, but one that's so irrevocably his. He can’t imagine anything else he would be.
Joe finishes up his hair, taking a handheld mirror from the coffee table and putting it in front of Pete. “Whatdya think?”
Pete stares at himself. The unruly way that Joe left his head, just a little too much inexperience to be polished but love and care woven in anyways. His frayed blonde sticks out in places, and he giggles, following the style with a careful finger from the top of his head to where it pleats together into a neat rubber band, the bottom half of his hair straight and over his shoulder.
“It’s perfect.”
Joe grins that megawatt smile Pete will never tire of. He grabs his phone and snaps a pic of the back before instructing Pete to turn towards the camera. “Reference for later. Plus Rubs and Zay would totally want to see you like this. They’re obsessed with your hair.”
This particular puzzle piece slots comfortable and safe into its rightful place.
——————
It takes time for Pete to realize that he had always been like this.
Since he was a kid, he'd overcompensate. Every time he’d want to try on Hillary’s skirts or dresses, he’d push himself at soccer practice so hard he’d pass out. If he wanted to steal his mom’s lipstick, he’d go to hardcore shows and headbang and windmill and make sure he was so bruised up he couldn’t even recognize himself.
This is how he's supposed to be.
It’s the night of his birthday when his sister insists on a makeover with him as her target. She whined and poked at him for hours, and when Pete snapped and asked why she couldn’t do it to Andrew, she’d roll her eyes and claim that “the makeover is your present. You should be thanking me!”. Unfortunately, Pete’s fond of his sister and her ridiculous antics, so she wears him down. He lets her drag him into her room, sitting down at her vanity, grimacing all the while. She decorates him with her fake jewels and pearls, and gives him clip-on earrings. She smears on eyeshadow and lipstick. Layers on mascara far too clumsily for Pete’s liking and giggles as he complains about her painting his nails hot pink.
Eventually, she spins Pete around in the mirror to admire her work.
It’s a rudimentary job at best, the colors are harsh and off and Pete could tell his mom bought dollar store makeup so that Hillary would stop stealing her expensive stuff. He looks ridiculous.
He can’t look away.
There’s something deep and raw in Pete that cracks open, letting sunlight through. His tired eyes smooth over, hazel growing soft. He blinks at himself. And blinks. His nose burns from emotion. He manages to keep it together in front of his sister just enough.
“This is unfair,” Hillary quips innocently. “You should’ve been a girl!”
His entire inner world collapses. Pete Wentz is 15 years old and staring into a mirror when an unbearable longing enters his heart for the Girl staring back at him, the Girl that he will never be.
He acts disgusted and storms out of Hillary’s room. He takes a shower and scrubs so thoroughly he’s red and raw, like he could claw and dig his way to what that he saw, to the one that lay underneath this undesirable skin suit he had.
Pete finally understands now. People are born complete. Whole. Live their entire life happy with who they are. Pete was born broken. Missing screws. He never fit in his body or his mind, and he damn sure can’t fit into this world.
He makes up his mind then and there. He’s not going to stay for very long.
He lays on his floor and cries for hours until he passes out from exhaustion.
——————
It’s Pete’s birthday. He’s 45 years old.
It’s not his favorite thing- getting older, seeing the lines on his face grow more distinct, the skin on his cheeks drooping just a tad more. It makes the march of time all the more real, his ruminations on death and the meaning of life a little more tangible. It freaks him out whenever he sees gray strands poking through his brown and blonde. It’s just one more thing he can’t control.
Even so, it serves as a reminder of something he once thought he never could have- happiness, the privilege of growing old, of wanting to stay- not just surviving until the other shoe drops. He gets to watch Bronx grow up. He gets to guide him in life. He gets the courage to tell him what’s going on in his brain, why if he goes into his dad’s closet he’ll see skirts and corset tops and heels. In return, he’s reassured that no matter what he figures himself out to be, he’ll always be Bronx's parent. Bronx will always love him.
The party is nice, and everything goes smoothly, which is saying something for any party involving Pete. Maybe because Patrick had planned it, with the help of Elisa and Ashlee and their bandmates. Elisa even does his makeup, a smokey winged look that has Andy whistling and Joe whooping when he walks down the stairs. Joe wrestles his hair into surprisingly neat space buns. Patrick balances a tiara between them. Pete wears his favorite teal blouse with a black leather skirt to match. It’s just a get-together in Pete’s backyard, various friends and family populating the shindig, but it has karaoke and cheesy party favors and everything Pete could've ever wanted out of a birthday bash.
He wants this feeling forever- the true happiness he’d been after his whole life. He even wishes as such when he blows out his candles.
People start filtering out one by one, saying their goodbyes. Pete manages to keep his band and their families for one more game of Taboo until someone reminds him it’s a school night with a horribly disguised yawn. As all good things, this party has officially come to its end. Andy tells him to be responsible with his and Meredith’s gift of wine. Pete can’t make any promises. Joe plants a wet kiss on his cheek and says a Yiddish phrase Pete can’t decipher while Marie laughs, herding him and the girls to the car. Ashlee hugs him tightly, and so does Bronx. In a weird way, Pete did get the family he always wanted- just not in the way he imagined. Even so, he wouldn’t want it any other way.
Elisa gives him a kiss on the cheek Joe didn’t slobber on, the boys hugging Auncle Petey (lovingly dubbed by Declan) before following Ashlee and Bronx out- Ash was their ride home tonight.
Patrick stays. He knows Pete gets weird about birthdays.
What a marvelous thing it is, to be loved and to be known.
Patrick helps Pete clean up as much as possible, the discussion ranging from Star Wars to Top Gun to exciting new artists to setlist arrangements. Pete’s pretty sure if it was possible, Patrick could talk his jaw off.
They give up somewhere in the middle of picking up the (biodegradable, Andy insisted!) confetti, realizing a bit too late that because of its eco-friendly nature the clean up is unnecessary. Pete laughs at Patrick’s whining about time wasted, indulging his irritation as he follows Pete up to the bedroom. It’s a habit that they never quite kicked, sleeping next to each other. It started in the van, a bump over the road or an uncomfortable position rolling them into each other's warmth, arms snaked against each other's waist and faces pressed into the crooks of necks. For a long time, they didn’t talk about it. It just became a routine, whenever they could, and necessary whenever the other needed grounding.
Then they grew up. Pete got married and so did Patrick. He thought that meant it had to stop. Patrick disagreed. So did Elisa, thank god. If he ended up staying married to Ashlee, he thinks she would’ve been good with it, too.
They need each other. It’s just a fact of the universe.
Patrick outstretches a box he somehow managed to grab from the presents table without Pete noticing. Pete blinks at it, observing its slim, long frame. Patrick looks sheepish about it. Pete takes it gently. He rips open the purple wrapping, inhaling slowly when he sees the Calvin Klein on the box. He takes off the top.
It’s a dress.
It’s a frilly, black thing. It has a fold in the front and a V that goes down to mid chest, but it still gives a lot of coverage. It has purple peonies on it. Nothing too fancy or complicated. Pete holds it up.
Pete’s never really allowed himself dresses. For all the things he buys and experiments with- a dress has never been one of them. It felt too… real. Like it’s something he isn’t worthy of yet.
“Do you like it? I didn’t know what size, so I guessed, I figured I know you well enough. And I didn’t know if you’d like the color, I figured it was a safe bet, I’ll stop wearing black when they make a darker color and all- oh and the flowers were purple and it reminded me of MANIA-”
“Patrick.”
Patrick shuts the hell up. Pete lowers the dress but struggles to meet his eyes. Patrick must catch the look on his face, because he goes pale, his hands frantic.
“Oh- oh, god, Pete, don’t cry, you hate it-”
Pete shakes his head so fast he’s surprised he doesn't get whiplash, taking a hasty step forward. “It’s not that, Patrick, I swear it’s not.”
Patrick blinks at him, question at his lip, but he doesn’t ask. He waits patiently.
“It’s just… dresses… that’s like, definitively what a woman wears, you know? And… I don’t know if that- if that works for me.”
Patrick’s eyes fill with understanding. He smiles, gentle and proud and full of such fondness Pete doesn’t know what to do with it. He averts his eyes.
“Honey.”
Pete huffs.
“You’re thinking about it too hard. Do you like the dress? Do you want to wear it?”
Pete swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”
Patrick nods, putting his hand where Pete's clutching the fabric and pushing it closer to Pete’s chest.
“Then try it on. Just see if you like it. That’s all you have to worry about right now.”
Pete finally meets Patrick’s eyes, and feels an amazing sense of calm. Right. What is meant to be will be. He can’t shove his body into Patrick fast enough, arms wrapping around him tight. He breathes in Patrick’s scent. Safe and warm and home.
Patrick shoos him off after squeezing him back so tight Pete’s dramatically gasping for air. Pete grins, scurrying to his closet. It’s not that he hasn’t changed in front of Patrick before- that’s never been an issue. They’ve seen every part of each other, including all the physical ones. It’s just that Pete wants to be the first one to see. He finally feels comfortable allowing himself this, somehow more sure than ever another puzzle piece is in the black fabric he holds in his hand.
He takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes, taking care to move the fabric over his head and hair. Pete straightens it out, letting his fingers run over the material and enjoy the texture. The folds of the dress fit his waist snuggly, and he smiles playing with the loose fabric strip in the front- a design choice. He can feel the way the dress flirts against his thighs and the back of his calves. He fixes the v line to be at the center of his chest, his fingers coming up and situating the wide shoulder straps until it connects to the back of his nape. The dress itself is light and breathable, not too form fitting, but still feels feminine enough for Pete to enjoy.
Pete finally gets the courage to open his eyes.
He takes in the space buns on his head, the tiara still embedded there. His eyes trace the v-line of the dress, the way his moonstone necklace fits nicely in the cradle of skin the dress leaves for it. He sways his hips if only to watch the way the fabric crinkles against his legs, flowing and free. His gaze drifts to his face.
The Girl is staring back.
Her smile is bright and full. She has crows feet around Her eyes the foundation couldn’t hide, nor the stretch of lines around Her glossy maroon lips. Sue Her, She’s old! She’s ecstatic. She’s beautiful.
Pete loves Her.
“Oh, you’re gorgeous, Honey. You look amazing!”
Pete doesn’t remember when Patrick walked in. He doesn’t care. He just turns to him, watching the way Patrick’s eyes sparkle with delight. He's not quite sure how he’s going to beat this when Patrick’s birthday comes around.
The Girl spins, laughing. Pete can’t stop laughing with Her.
Pete was right. The puzzle piece clicks into place. He feels more whole than he ever has.
——————
He has an idea about what it all means, a few Reddit searches and website links from Patrick later.
He wishes he did it sooner. He wishes he knew as a kid that there are more people like him, back when he was 15 and spiraling about having the wrong insides. There’s a lot of information on the internet and a lot of opinions on what this should look like. Even then, he doesn’t quite align with everything and still doesn’t understand some things about it.
He knows he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t need to put a name to it. He can just do what he likes, wear girls clothes and put on makeup. He can wear skirts on tour, he can try heels, he can have Joe do his hair in increasingly ridiculous updos. He’s not ashamed about Her anymore, the Girl he envied, the Girl he always kept close to his heart. He sees Her more often than ever, when his eyeliner looks just right, when a dress hugs him in the most perfect way. He can feel Her. He knows, when She’s ready to come out, the people around Her will cherish Her regardless.
When all the pieces come together and the puzzle is complete-
She will finally be Pete Wentz.
——————