time is ruuuuunniiiing ooooout also, a drabble thing
Sign ups for remixredux09 end tomorrow. or, um, today. Whatever, the point is, don't miss out! Sign up now! Make your friends sign up! It's remix and I fought hard for bandom so I want lots of stories out of it. I'm going to have to be very stern on this point.
If I do not have Chicago tickets by, like, 10:05 in the morning, I'm probably going to throw a temper tantrum to end all tantrums. My mom and I are totally gonna tag team livenation too, to hopefully lessen the odds that I have to punch someone in the face.
Here, have a little more than a drabble thingy.
High Gloss - bandom, Pete/Patrick, early days, 300 words
"Here's the thing," Patrick says, breathlessly, fingers wrapped around Pete's wrists, mouth swollen, eyes wide, color high on his cheeks. "Pete." He laughs, bright, and young and cheerful.
Pete swallows, laughs right along, and follows his eyes to the left, to the right, watches her wrap a curl between her fingers instead of watching Patrick watch. There are things that hurt and things that hurt, and Pete's never been the best at telling the difference, but he's got his moments, sometimes. "Well," he says, and laughs, again, like he's in on the joke.
Patrick's grinning wide, still, for the first time in a while, because it's too long into this tour, too many days spent in each other's company, nights spent shoved together with all their limbs and cooling sweat into a van they can't escape, and summer is coming to a close now, and everything is just closing in. They're half a step away from an explosion, anywhere they stand.
He can't take a stroll without walking through a minefield, armor not included.
Pete twists his wrists, turns the tables, and holds on tight, Patrick's pulse quick against his fingertips. He doesn't ask her name cause he doesn't want to learn it.
And the thing, Pete wants to say, wants to scream at the top of his lungs, is he scribbled pieces of another broken love song on a napkin with her lipstick just before the sun went down, watching Patrick sing Sinatra songs with his back against the wall, hoping to catch a breeze through the bricks.
He laughs, again, like he wrote the joke, wraps one hand around the back of Patrick's neck, presses their foreheads together and says, "Oh, man, you are so fucking golden," and hopes he gets it, this time. "You're just it, Trick."
---
If I do not have Chicago tickets by, like, 10:05 in the morning, I'm probably going to throw a temper tantrum to end all tantrums. My mom and I are totally gonna tag team livenation too, to hopefully lessen the odds that I have to punch someone in the face.
Here, have a little more than a drabble thingy.
High Gloss - bandom, Pete/Patrick, early days, 300 words
"Here's the thing," Patrick says, breathlessly, fingers wrapped around Pete's wrists, mouth swollen, eyes wide, color high on his cheeks. "Pete." He laughs, bright, and young and cheerful.
Pete swallows, laughs right along, and follows his eyes to the left, to the right, watches her wrap a curl between her fingers instead of watching Patrick watch. There are things that hurt and things that hurt, and Pete's never been the best at telling the difference, but he's got his moments, sometimes. "Well," he says, and laughs, again, like he's in on the joke.
Patrick's grinning wide, still, for the first time in a while, because it's too long into this tour, too many days spent in each other's company, nights spent shoved together with all their limbs and cooling sweat into a van they can't escape, and summer is coming to a close now, and everything is just closing in. They're half a step away from an explosion, anywhere they stand.
He can't take a stroll without walking through a minefield, armor not included.
Pete twists his wrists, turns the tables, and holds on tight, Patrick's pulse quick against his fingertips. He doesn't ask her name cause he doesn't want to learn it.
And the thing, Pete wants to say, wants to scream at the top of his lungs, is he scribbled pieces of another broken love song on a napkin with her lipstick just before the sun went down, watching Patrick sing Sinatra songs with his back against the wall, hoping to catch a breeze through the bricks.
He laughs, again, like he wrote the joke, wraps one hand around the back of Patrick's neck, presses their foreheads together and says, "Oh, man, you are so fucking golden," and hopes he gets it, this time. "You're just it, Trick."
---