fic: Like Butterflies With Wings And Other Perfect Things and random IRL stuff
I wonder about the history of contractions. You're, I'm, We're, Who's, Won't. Were they vulgar? Low? Quaint?
My son is sick. It really sucks, you guys. And not because I have to sit in tepid baths three times a day, but because he's so miserable. Like, when he was building his fever, I took him in the bath and pulled him out, just to wash him, and his little lips turned blue and he shook and shook and I felt terrible. He was cooler last night/this morning though, so hopefully, fingers crossed, the fever will get better.
This also explains why I've only been half on the internet for the past couple of days, SORRY.
I seriously love this fandom. Seriously, seriously. I think I'm going to maybe go through and organize the Fun Facts by boy and then, like, post a list. JUST IN CASE SOMEONE WANTS TO MAKE STUFF OF THEM. (*COUGHCAFEPRESSCOUGH*)
Anyway. I also wrote this tiny little ficlet/drabble/snapshot thing. Here. Have it!
Title Like Butterflies With Wings And Other Perfect Things
Author adellyna
Pairing Pete/Patrick
Rating PG
Word Count 488
Summary This is just a snapshot. Too short for a summary.
Author's Notes Shameless, pointless fluff.
Actually, it's a little stupid. Not, like, not that it happens, but how it happens. Or just when it happens, maybe. How mundane the moment is, when Patrick looks at Pete and thinks, for the very first time, the word love.
He's had surges before, of course; there was Pete, sick and shivering, wearing his blanket like a cape, Pete on the phone, talking a mile a minute, so fast it was all Patrick could do just to keep up, Pete with his hands on Patrick's neck, his shoulders, thumbs on his jaw. But those were just the feeling, like great sweeps of affection, pressing strong against him, full-bodied, and then ebbing away. Just. Not quite the words.
This isn't like that. This isn't- they're not even doing anything. Just jabbing their forks at the same plate, silently eyeing the same bits of pie. Patrick's in pajamas, for fuck's sake. He's cross-legged on Pete's old couch, in front of Pete's old coffee table, chasing bits of crust with only the weak orange light from Pete's TV to guide him. This isn't exactly the moment he expected to fall in love with Pete, is all. He'd thought, maybe, like, a sunset. A flurry of birds, even, or a particularly challenging Soul Calibur match. Something. Something to remember it by, other than Patrick looking up with his mouth full of melty apple bits and realizing, okay, his toes are warm, he still feels loose and easy from Pete's hands on him, Pete's mouth, he's three bites of pie from too full, and oh, hey, he's in love with Pete.
Oh, hey, he's in love with Pete.
He kind of can't help the staring. Pete's features are familiar, and they don't suddenly look different, more radiant or anything. They're just. Pete.
Patrick feels a little dazzled anyway.
"Huh?" Pete says. He shifts his hand a little, just the suggestion of waving his fork in front of Patrick's face.
Patrick smiles, so hard he feels it down to his solar plexus, thin roots of it stretching down to his stomach, his toes where they're curled into the upholstery. "Nothing. Hey."
"Hey?"
"Hey." He loops his hand around the back of Pete's neck, scrapes his thumb lightly against the nape, and kisses him with all sorts of words he's not really ready to say yet. It's a soft thing, with slow, even breath slipping easily in and around it; Patrick settles his eyes shut and leans in, breathes Pete's air and tastes every bite he lost to Pete's fork.
It's not like he's never kissed Pete before and thought mine, because of course he has. He's put his hands on Pete's ribs, splayed his fingers out, licked his way down Pete's stomach and thought, this belongs to me. It's just. This is the first time he's ever leaned into Pete's warmth, the Pete-taste and Pete-smell of him and thought, I belong to this.
My son is sick. It really sucks, you guys. And not because I have to sit in tepid baths three times a day, but because he's so miserable. Like, when he was building his fever, I took him in the bath and pulled him out, just to wash him, and his little lips turned blue and he shook and shook and I felt terrible. He was cooler last night/this morning though, so hopefully, fingers crossed, the fever will get better.
This also explains why I've only been half on the internet for the past couple of days, SORRY.
I seriously love this fandom. Seriously, seriously. I think I'm going to maybe go through and organize the Fun Facts by boy and then, like, post a list. JUST IN CASE SOMEONE WANTS TO MAKE STUFF OF THEM. (*COUGHCAFEPRESSCOUGH*)
Anyway. I also wrote this tiny little ficlet/drabble/snapshot thing. Here. Have it!
Title Like Butterflies With Wings And Other Perfect Things
Author adellyna
Pairing Pete/Patrick
Rating PG
Word Count 488
Summary This is just a snapshot. Too short for a summary.
Author's Notes Shameless, pointless fluff.
Actually, it's a little stupid. Not, like, not that it happens, but how it happens. Or just when it happens, maybe. How mundane the moment is, when Patrick looks at Pete and thinks, for the very first time, the word love.
He's had surges before, of course; there was Pete, sick and shivering, wearing his blanket like a cape, Pete on the phone, talking a mile a minute, so fast it was all Patrick could do just to keep up, Pete with his hands on Patrick's neck, his shoulders, thumbs on his jaw. But those were just the feeling, like great sweeps of affection, pressing strong against him, full-bodied, and then ebbing away. Just. Not quite the words.
This isn't like that. This isn't- they're not even doing anything. Just jabbing their forks at the same plate, silently eyeing the same bits of pie. Patrick's in pajamas, for fuck's sake. He's cross-legged on Pete's old couch, in front of Pete's old coffee table, chasing bits of crust with only the weak orange light from Pete's TV to guide him. This isn't exactly the moment he expected to fall in love with Pete, is all. He'd thought, maybe, like, a sunset. A flurry of birds, even, or a particularly challenging Soul Calibur match. Something. Something to remember it by, other than Patrick looking up with his mouth full of melty apple bits and realizing, okay, his toes are warm, he still feels loose and easy from Pete's hands on him, Pete's mouth, he's three bites of pie from too full, and oh, hey, he's in love with Pete.
Oh, hey, he's in love with Pete.
He kind of can't help the staring. Pete's features are familiar, and they don't suddenly look different, more radiant or anything. They're just. Pete.
Patrick feels a little dazzled anyway.
"Huh?" Pete says. He shifts his hand a little, just the suggestion of waving his fork in front of Patrick's face.
Patrick smiles, so hard he feels it down to his solar plexus, thin roots of it stretching down to his stomach, his toes where they're curled into the upholstery. "Nothing. Hey."
"Hey?"
"Hey." He loops his hand around the back of Pete's neck, scrapes his thumb lightly against the nape, and kisses him with all sorts of words he's not really ready to say yet. It's a soft thing, with slow, even breath slipping easily in and around it; Patrick settles his eyes shut and leans in, breathes Pete's air and tastes every bite he lost to Pete's fork.
It's not like he's never kissed Pete before and thought mine, because of course he has. He's put his hands on Pete's ribs, splayed his fingers out, licked his way down Pete's stomach and thought, this belongs to me. It's just. This is the first time he's ever leaned into Pete's warmth, the Pete-taste and Pete-smell of him and thought, I belong to this.