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fakebrainHe’s an Arms Dealer: Part Two
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sharon_hate
Rated: R (for language)
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.
Warning: 20 year age difference between Patrick and Peter.
Patrick Stump is jaded, bitter and contemptuous 37 year old divorcé. He was once an acclaimed poet and short story writer and is the owner of the publishing house The Light at the End of the (Carpal) Tunnel. Now, he’s lecherous, an alcoholic and is being blackmailed by Peter Wentz. (Patrick/Pete)
The Light at the End of the (Carpal) Tunnel
“So!” The strange young man has an accomplished grin stretched across his face and his index finger is extended to symbolize his first demand. “I’m going to need, well, first off, a place to stay,” he proclaims and his voice has an almost charismatic quality to it.
And it’s no surprise that Patrick is having a hard time locating his patience for the teen’s smug attitude. Insulted at his petty attempt to seem endearing, Patrick mentally curses, glowering furiously at the boy. His face is growing hotter and redder by the second, the cause likely a combination of the (many) drinks from earlier and the ever-growing rage inside him.
But the boy ignores Patrick almost entirely, paying little attention to his drunken self-destruction, and continues along with his speech, “And secondly, I’ll need you to publish my essays!” He grins, but suddenly pouts as he reconsiders his choice of words. “Well, diatribes, I guess. Maybe.”
The situation is hilarious for a number of reasons, so Patrick doesn’t hold back and laughs loudly and without any restraint. The strength in which it echoes leaves him slightly nauseous and his head feeling much lighter than before. He notices the younger man’s irate expression at his outright laughter and, in a random attempt at civility, tries to contain it with poor results.
Patrick shakes his head clear, a stifled smirk still playing on his lips, and corrals the young man out from in front of the heavy door and into the opposite direction. He pats the front of his jacket down, feeling for his plastic, rectangle cardkey and quickly locates it in his chest pocket.
“Look…” he tries, caught between trying to form meaningful sentences and correctly combining the intricate ‘insert, remove, twist’ motion. The laughter and light headedness from earlier begin to catch up with him and it’s giving him a headache and maybe even sobering him up a little. Not enough to actually succeed, of course. “I can get you a room, if that’s what you need. But you’re -- you’re on your own with that… propaganda of yours.”
The words hit the minor harder than he intends, or so it seems by pink glow on his face -- like he just ran a marathon, or drank half his weight in vodka, something Patrick would be more familiar with.
He growls and rips the card away from Patrick’s sloppy hands, shoves it into the slot angrily and turns the knob with the ease of a young and clear mind. Watching the entire process helplessly does not help to validate Patrick’s masculinity.
Bitter, bitter, resentful.
“It’s not fucking propaganda.” He’s adamant, but Patrick ignores the kid’s frustration and strolls -- well, not strolls. Stumbles, totters, into the room and heads straight into the crème colored bathroom. “These goddamn papers are going to change the world, I’ll have you know.”
Patrick offhandedly mocks him with a silly imitation but stops as he catches his own reflection in the mirror; he sighs distantly. His focus doesn’t last long, as after only a few seconds, he immediately begins to flail his way out of the suit jacket in an entirely spastic gesture, maneuver. The fabric of his dress shirt tightens around his shoulder blades uncomfortably.
“Wait --” the younger man waves his hands, signaling for a cease of all actions and movement. Patrick halts, jacket hanging on by a sleeve, and looks at him apprehensively.
He stands just outside the bathroom door, tattered years worn shoes inches from the cold bathroom tile. “What the hell do you mean? Of course you can get it printed! You’re the head. You started that company. You own it.” The way he slowly states every word and emphasizes key points grates on Patrick’s nerves and it seems practically acceptable, deserved, to act on his naturally vindictive temperament, at this point.
“I haven’t done anything for that company in years,” pronounces Patrick, calmly, as he removes the final sleeve and leans against the cool sink in a disinterested manner. The so far nameless boy pales and it becomes clear this conversation isn’t going in the direction he had planned. “I show up two days out of the week, shave in the restroom and act like I know what the fuck I’m talking about. Babs handles everything.”
“B-Babs?” he asks.
“Barbara – my secretary. Beautiful woman. Skirt up to here,” Patrick motions to his mid-thigh, sounding pensive. The kid looks mortified and frustrated beyond belief. He marches his way into the bathroom and grabs Patrick by his dress shirt collar, while he desperately tries to distance himself by leaning as far back from the boy as possible.
“But-! People need to see them!” He chokes, eyebrows furrowed in concern. His face becomes practically solemn and Patrick might’ve taken him seriously, had he not added, “I’m trying to like, change the world.”
He grip goes limp from Patrick’s neckline and he turns his back to him, burying his face in his own hands. It looks like he’s sobbing or muttering to himself or something equally pathetic. The thought alone makes Patrick feel self-satisfied, a feeling usually to be found before a craving for nicotine. He pats down his pants, but finds nothing.
Everything stays still that way for minutes, it seems. Normally Patrick would feel terrible for him; going through all the trouble of blackmailing someone just to have it fall through right before everything settles. Technically, though, he was the one being victimized, so the sympathy is rightfully limited.
His head is definitely starting to clear now. Patrick takes the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and out to the mini-fridge, as it sits perfectly between the legs of the oak entertainment set, right beneath the television.
Lowering himself to the worn carpet, Patrick opens the doors to the mini-fridge and pulls out a loaf of half-eaten bread. It’s cold and has no flavor, but he heard an older man at the bar today mention it to a friend. ‘500 Tips for Hangover Prevention’, Patrick’s next book.
Even as a joke, the thought makes his spirit fall.
When the kid finally realizes he’s been alone for most of his lament, he ambles out of the cold tile restroom and into the sitting area where Patrick is. The younger man stares down at him, sitting cross legged in front of the television and eating small pieces of wonder bread.
He stands there, bemused and appalled. His first response is, “What the fuck are you doing?” and is followed shortly after by, “Does that even work?"
Patrick scoffs and rips off another chunk of bread. The crumbs land on his pants, so he wipes them away onto the carpet without further thought. “We’ll see tomorrow, won’t we?”
“See what? That you’re a drunk or a pedophile?” It’s rude and snide, and not even remotely clever. He suspects that this is just how the boy operates and leaves it.
“We’ll stick with the drunk-thing, for now,” Patrick works out through the bread.
The kid steps further into the defacto living room and walks over to the burgundy-pink couch and flings himself on top of it, bouncing slightly upon impact. Patrick at his hairline and bites into another piece of bread, then pointedly turns towards the wall.
After Patrick sobers up a little more, he turns back to the boy who’s lounging listlessly on the micro-flower print sofa and finds him looking back right back with extreme disdain. Looking over to the face of the clock on the wall, he notes its 3:57 am.
Angling himself towards the kid, he asks, “What’s your name?” He asks only knowing there’s an opportunity to escape immediately after. And while there’s no answer immediately, it does come after an acceptable silence.
“Peter.”
Patrick nods. “Oh.” They both lapse into stillness and Peter returns to his glaring from the couch. Patrick prods helplessly at his red eyes; he’s been awake for far too long and has had far too much to drink. “Listen up, Susan. I’m going to go to sleep. You stay here and try not to steal anything.”
Peter raises an eyebrow, but, otherwise, makes no other movement.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s a good boy,” Patrick mutters, making his way off the floor and grabbing the entertainment center for leverage. “We’ll work this whole thing out in the morning…”
Perhaps it will sink in more with a good night’s sleep and a short detox.
Author:
sharon_hateRated: R (for language)
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.
Warning: 20 year age difference between Patrick and Peter.
Patrick Stump is jaded, bitter and contemptuous 37 year old divorcé. He was once an acclaimed poet and short story writer and is the owner of the publishing house The Light at the End of the (Carpal) Tunnel. Now, he’s lecherous, an alcoholic and is being blackmailed by Peter Wentz. (Patrick/Pete)
“So!” The strange young man has an accomplished grin stretched across his face and his index finger is extended to symbolize his first demand. “I’m going to need, well, first off, a place to stay,” he proclaims and his voice has an almost charismatic quality to it.
And it’s no surprise that Patrick is having a hard time locating his patience for the teen’s smug attitude. Insulted at his petty attempt to seem endearing, Patrick mentally curses, glowering furiously at the boy. His face is growing hotter and redder by the second, the cause likely a combination of the (many) drinks from earlier and the ever-growing rage inside him.
But the boy ignores Patrick almost entirely, paying little attention to his drunken self-destruction, and continues along with his speech, “And secondly, I’ll need you to publish my essays!” He grins, but suddenly pouts as he reconsiders his choice of words. “Well, diatribes, I guess. Maybe.”
The situation is hilarious for a number of reasons, so Patrick doesn’t hold back and laughs loudly and without any restraint. The strength in which it echoes leaves him slightly nauseous and his head feeling much lighter than before. He notices the younger man’s irate expression at his outright laughter and, in a random attempt at civility, tries to contain it with poor results.
Patrick shakes his head clear, a stifled smirk still playing on his lips, and corrals the young man out from in front of the heavy door and into the opposite direction. He pats the front of his jacket down, feeling for his plastic, rectangle cardkey and quickly locates it in his chest pocket.
“Look…” he tries, caught between trying to form meaningful sentences and correctly combining the intricate ‘insert, remove, twist’ motion. The laughter and light headedness from earlier begin to catch up with him and it’s giving him a headache and maybe even sobering him up a little. Not enough to actually succeed, of course. “I can get you a room, if that’s what you need. But you’re -- you’re on your own with that… propaganda of yours.”
The words hit the minor harder than he intends, or so it seems by pink glow on his face -- like he just ran a marathon, or drank half his weight in vodka, something Patrick would be more familiar with.
He growls and rips the card away from Patrick’s sloppy hands, shoves it into the slot angrily and turns the knob with the ease of a young and clear mind. Watching the entire process helplessly does not help to validate Patrick’s masculinity.
Bitter, bitter, resentful.
“It’s not fucking propaganda.” He’s adamant, but Patrick ignores the kid’s frustration and strolls -- well, not strolls. Stumbles, totters, into the room and heads straight into the crème colored bathroom. “These goddamn papers are going to change the world, I’ll have you know.”
Patrick offhandedly mocks him with a silly imitation but stops as he catches his own reflection in the mirror; he sighs distantly. His focus doesn’t last long, as after only a few seconds, he immediately begins to flail his way out of the suit jacket in an entirely spastic gesture, maneuver. The fabric of his dress shirt tightens around his shoulder blades uncomfortably.
“Wait --” the younger man waves his hands, signaling for a cease of all actions and movement. Patrick halts, jacket hanging on by a sleeve, and looks at him apprehensively.
He stands just outside the bathroom door, tattered years worn shoes inches from the cold bathroom tile. “What the hell do you mean? Of course you can get it printed! You’re the head. You started that company. You own it.” The way he slowly states every word and emphasizes key points grates on Patrick’s nerves and it seems practically acceptable, deserved, to act on his naturally vindictive temperament, at this point.
“I haven’t done anything for that company in years,” pronounces Patrick, calmly, as he removes the final sleeve and leans against the cool sink in a disinterested manner. The so far nameless boy pales and it becomes clear this conversation isn’t going in the direction he had planned. “I show up two days out of the week, shave in the restroom and act like I know what the fuck I’m talking about. Babs handles everything.”
“B-Babs?” he asks.
“Barbara – my secretary. Beautiful woman. Skirt up to here,” Patrick motions to his mid-thigh, sounding pensive. The kid looks mortified and frustrated beyond belief. He marches his way into the bathroom and grabs Patrick by his dress shirt collar, while he desperately tries to distance himself by leaning as far back from the boy as possible.
“But-! People need to see them!” He chokes, eyebrows furrowed in concern. His face becomes practically solemn and Patrick might’ve taken him seriously, had he not added, “I’m trying to like, change the world.”
He grip goes limp from Patrick’s neckline and he turns his back to him, burying his face in his own hands. It looks like he’s sobbing or muttering to himself or something equally pathetic. The thought alone makes Patrick feel self-satisfied, a feeling usually to be found before a craving for nicotine. He pats down his pants, but finds nothing.
Everything stays still that way for minutes, it seems. Normally Patrick would feel terrible for him; going through all the trouble of blackmailing someone just to have it fall through right before everything settles. Technically, though, he was the one being victimized, so the sympathy is rightfully limited.
His head is definitely starting to clear now. Patrick takes the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and out to the mini-fridge, as it sits perfectly between the legs of the oak entertainment set, right beneath the television.
Lowering himself to the worn carpet, Patrick opens the doors to the mini-fridge and pulls out a loaf of half-eaten bread. It’s cold and has no flavor, but he heard an older man at the bar today mention it to a friend. ‘500 Tips for Hangover Prevention’, Patrick’s next book.
Even as a joke, the thought makes his spirit fall.
When the kid finally realizes he’s been alone for most of his lament, he ambles out of the cold tile restroom and into the sitting area where Patrick is. The younger man stares down at him, sitting cross legged in front of the television and eating small pieces of wonder bread.
He stands there, bemused and appalled. His first response is, “What the fuck are you doing?” and is followed shortly after by, “Does that even work?"
Patrick scoffs and rips off another chunk of bread. The crumbs land on his pants, so he wipes them away onto the carpet without further thought. “We’ll see tomorrow, won’t we?”
“See what? That you’re a drunk or a pedophile?” It’s rude and snide, and not even remotely clever. He suspects that this is just how the boy operates and leaves it.
“We’ll stick with the drunk-thing, for now,” Patrick works out through the bread.
The kid steps further into the defacto living room and walks over to the burgundy-pink couch and flings himself on top of it, bouncing slightly upon impact. Patrick at his hairline and bites into another piece of bread, then pointedly turns towards the wall.
After Patrick sobers up a little more, he turns back to the boy who’s lounging listlessly on the micro-flower print sofa and finds him looking back right back with extreme disdain. Looking over to the face of the clock on the wall, he notes its 3:57 am.
Angling himself towards the kid, he asks, “What’s your name?” He asks only knowing there’s an opportunity to escape immediately after. And while there’s no answer immediately, it does come after an acceptable silence.
“Peter.”
Patrick nods. “Oh.” They both lapse into stillness and Peter returns to his glaring from the couch. Patrick prods helplessly at his red eyes; he’s been awake for far too long and has had far too much to drink. “Listen up, Susan. I’m going to go to sleep. You stay here and try not to steal anything.”
Peter raises an eyebrow, but, otherwise, makes no other movement.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s a good boy,” Patrick mutters, making his way off the floor and grabbing the entertainment center for leverage. “We’ll work this whole thing out in the morning…”
Perhaps it will sink in more with a good night’s sleep and a short detox.
