i'm everywhere that you go.
Mah Tilleh, she so funny.
azurejay: I think Patrick has to tell Pete The Tragic Tale Of His First Dick (A Story Of Lime Jello And Pantyhose).
estrellada: "And then it burst."
"No."
"Yes."
---
Anyway. The actual way Pete didn't find out Patrick is trans. Rejected for dead-ending, excessive angst/anger, and bad dialogue. Please note: I don't know what driver's licenses look like in Illinois (I am a bad writer).
undocumented ii:
That night, they're in Columbus and have a hotel after the show. While everyone else is rowdying it up in the Denny's downstairs, Patrick tosses his stuff on his bed and digs his kit out. He shuts himself in the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet, his swabs and syringes and testosterone spread on the counter beside the sink.
The door opens right after Patrick's dropped the needle into his thigh, and Patrick stares up at Pete for a long time.
"What the fuck," Pete says loudly. He turns and walks away, the door slowly closing behind him.
Patrick finishes the injection mechanically, snaps off the plunger of the syringe so it can't be used again, blots the tiny needle mark with a cotton ball, re-packs his kit. He's not really looking at his hands or what he's doing; he's been doing this every two weeks for four years. It's automatic. He's not even trying to think of what he's going to say to Pete. A panicked voice in his head says, "Pete will do the talking, just follow along."
And that is, of course, how it goes.
"What the fuck was that?" Pete asks, low and dangerous.
"Medication," Patrick says.
"That better not be a fucking euphemism, because if you're taking something I will fucking kill you," and he draws a fist back over his shoulder like he's not even aware of doing it, like he might just kill Patrick anyway.
"I'm not doing drugs," Patrick says, and stops himself from laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion.
"Okay," Pete says. "Then what? Are you a fucking diabetic now? Why does that need to be a big goddamn secret?"
"No, I'm not diabetic," Patrick says. He watches Pete wait for a real answer, trying to think of one. "I--" His voice stops. He feels like he's shaking apart from the inside. He gropes behind himself, finds the edge of a bed, and sits down hard. Pete stands in front of him, and all Patrick can see without moving his head is Pete's flexing fist and stupid Care Bears belt.
Pete crouches and holds his hand a couple of inches from Patrick's shoulder. Patrick knows that distance; he's kept it between his own hand and Pete's shoulder. It's two inches of fear and respect. It's not a bad thing, because Patrick feels like he could break someone's arm right now.
Patrick shrugs and shakes his head and says, "I don't know how to say this." He's never had to, not even with Anna.
"Start--not at the beginning, but," Pete says, "start with now."
Years, all these years of hiding and lying and sneaking and going backwards when it was safer. When you start, you can't stop--every person who believes you when you tell them you're a boy will think nothing of you but that you're a liar if you elaborate on how you're a boy. And the people he's told the lie the most are his band, his best friends. Pete. He shakes his head again.
"It's not important," he says, his voice scratchy and thick but firm. "It's not important. I'm okay. I'm sorry you saw."
"You have fucking got to be kidding me," Pete says.
"It's not important," Patrick says desperately. "It doesn't matter."
Pete's hand clamps on his shoulder and Patrick grabs at Pete's arm, his heart racing, half-hoping for an attack. Pete says, "Whatever bad shit you think might happen if you tell me, I swear to god it's not as bad as the motherfucking load of shit that most assured-fucking-ly will happen if you don't."
Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. He lets go of Pete with one hand and shifts his weight onto one hip, digging into his back pocket for his wallet.
When Patrick was fifteen, he gave Joe fifty dollars and one of his wallet-sized school photos and a week later received his first fake ID. It said Patrick was twenty-one, and that his name was legally Patrick Martin Stumph, and that he was legally an M. "For male," he said to Kevin when he showed him the little plastic card.
"I don't know; when I got mine, the lady at the DMV said it was for 'moron'," Kevin said, and laughed when Patrick smacked him.
"I'm going to have a real license like this when I'm actually twenty-one," Patrick said.
"Totally," Kevin said, and gently tapped the back of his head. Patrick carefully put the card back in his wallet.
In the hotel room in Columbus, Patrick takes out his real, government-issued driver's license. He knows it's dangerous to walk around with it all the time, but he doesn't want to get hit by a bus or be in another accident on tour and stuck with ID for a person who doesn't legally exist.
The card says what his passport says, and what his birth certificate says: that Patrick's name is Shannon Patricia Stumph, F, born April 27, 1984. He hands it to Pete. Pete understands the importance of mundane things; he doesn't ask why Patrick is showing him his driver's license. Patrick watches Pete's eyes move as he reads the card.
Pete looks up at him. "Seriously?"
Patrick just nods, his mouth twisted shut with fear and all the things like it. He's really kind of shit for synonyms.
"So you've--what was that, a hormone injection?" Pete asks hesitantly, and something in Patrick laughs, because of course Pete randomly knows things about--about who Patrick is. Of course Pete can make the leap between the life he's watched Patrick live, the life he's been part of, for the last five years, and the facts printed uncaringly on Patrick's driver's license.
Patrick nods. Pete hands back his license and Patrick puts it away.
Pete exhales loudly and sits back on his heels. His hand drops from Patrick's shoulder to Patrick's thigh. "I was worried you had, like, cancer or something. Jesus Christ, Patrick." He leans his forehead on Patrick's knee.
After a moment, Patrick pats his head, and puts his hand on the back of Pete's neck. He smiles, a little hysterically, and says, "Um. Actually?"
"Fuck you," Pete groans, and pokes Patrick in the leg. "Shut up."
"Okay," Patrick says. "Sorry. I don't have cancer."
*
One day the incessant posting of snippets will end (and Gabe will throw the party. And Pete will wear an overcoat). I think I'm about halfway done now. Really, it's only thirty-five pages and 13K. Barely a drabble! Kill me now.
PS: Have not yet purchased my Cobra tickets. It's going to have to wait until Saturday. OH WELL I don't think they'll sell out.
azurejay: I think Patrick has to tell Pete The Tragic Tale Of His First Dick (A Story Of Lime Jello And Pantyhose).
estrellada: "And then it burst."
"No."
"Yes."
---
Anyway. The actual way Pete didn't find out Patrick is trans. Rejected for dead-ending, excessive angst/anger, and bad dialogue. Please note: I don't know what driver's licenses look like in Illinois (I am a bad writer).
undocumented ii:
That night, they're in Columbus and have a hotel after the show. While everyone else is rowdying it up in the Denny's downstairs, Patrick tosses his stuff on his bed and digs his kit out. He shuts himself in the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet, his swabs and syringes and testosterone spread on the counter beside the sink.
The door opens right after Patrick's dropped the needle into his thigh, and Patrick stares up at Pete for a long time.
"What the fuck," Pete says loudly. He turns and walks away, the door slowly closing behind him.
Patrick finishes the injection mechanically, snaps off the plunger of the syringe so it can't be used again, blots the tiny needle mark with a cotton ball, re-packs his kit. He's not really looking at his hands or what he's doing; he's been doing this every two weeks for four years. It's automatic. He's not even trying to think of what he's going to say to Pete. A panicked voice in his head says, "Pete will do the talking, just follow along."
And that is, of course, how it goes.
"What the fuck was that?" Pete asks, low and dangerous.
"Medication," Patrick says.
"That better not be a fucking euphemism, because if you're taking something I will fucking kill you," and he draws a fist back over his shoulder like he's not even aware of doing it, like he might just kill Patrick anyway.
"I'm not doing drugs," Patrick says, and stops himself from laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion.
"Okay," Pete says. "Then what? Are you a fucking diabetic now? Why does that need to be a big goddamn secret?"
"No, I'm not diabetic," Patrick says. He watches Pete wait for a real answer, trying to think of one. "I--" His voice stops. He feels like he's shaking apart from the inside. He gropes behind himself, finds the edge of a bed, and sits down hard. Pete stands in front of him, and all Patrick can see without moving his head is Pete's flexing fist and stupid Care Bears belt.
Pete crouches and holds his hand a couple of inches from Patrick's shoulder. Patrick knows that distance; he's kept it between his own hand and Pete's shoulder. It's two inches of fear and respect. It's not a bad thing, because Patrick feels like he could break someone's arm right now.
Patrick shrugs and shakes his head and says, "I don't know how to say this." He's never had to, not even with Anna.
"Start--not at the beginning, but," Pete says, "start with now."
Years, all these years of hiding and lying and sneaking and going backwards when it was safer. When you start, you can't stop--every person who believes you when you tell them you're a boy will think nothing of you but that you're a liar if you elaborate on how you're a boy. And the people he's told the lie the most are his band, his best friends. Pete. He shakes his head again.
"It's not important," he says, his voice scratchy and thick but firm. "It's not important. I'm okay. I'm sorry you saw."
"You have fucking got to be kidding me," Pete says.
"It's not important," Patrick says desperately. "It doesn't matter."
Pete's hand clamps on his shoulder and Patrick grabs at Pete's arm, his heart racing, half-hoping for an attack. Pete says, "Whatever bad shit you think might happen if you tell me, I swear to god it's not as bad as the motherfucking load of shit that most assured-fucking-ly will happen if you don't."
Patrick squeezes his eyes shut. He lets go of Pete with one hand and shifts his weight onto one hip, digging into his back pocket for his wallet.
When Patrick was fifteen, he gave Joe fifty dollars and one of his wallet-sized school photos and a week later received his first fake ID. It said Patrick was twenty-one, and that his name was legally Patrick Martin Stumph, and that he was legally an M. "For male," he said to Kevin when he showed him the little plastic card.
"I don't know; when I got mine, the lady at the DMV said it was for 'moron'," Kevin said, and laughed when Patrick smacked him.
"I'm going to have a real license like this when I'm actually twenty-one," Patrick said.
"Totally," Kevin said, and gently tapped the back of his head. Patrick carefully put the card back in his wallet.
In the hotel room in Columbus, Patrick takes out his real, government-issued driver's license. He knows it's dangerous to walk around with it all the time, but he doesn't want to get hit by a bus or be in another accident on tour and stuck with ID for a person who doesn't legally exist.
The card says what his passport says, and what his birth certificate says: that Patrick's name is Shannon Patricia Stumph, F, born April 27, 1984. He hands it to Pete. Pete understands the importance of mundane things; he doesn't ask why Patrick is showing him his driver's license. Patrick watches Pete's eyes move as he reads the card.
Pete looks up at him. "Seriously?"
Patrick just nods, his mouth twisted shut with fear and all the things like it. He's really kind of shit for synonyms.
"So you've--what was that, a hormone injection?" Pete asks hesitantly, and something in Patrick laughs, because of course Pete randomly knows things about--about who Patrick is. Of course Pete can make the leap between the life he's watched Patrick live, the life he's been part of, for the last five years, and the facts printed uncaringly on Patrick's driver's license.
Patrick nods. Pete hands back his license and Patrick puts it away.
Pete exhales loudly and sits back on his heels. His hand drops from Patrick's shoulder to Patrick's thigh. "I was worried you had, like, cancer or something. Jesus Christ, Patrick." He leans his forehead on Patrick's knee.
After a moment, Patrick pats his head, and puts his hand on the back of Pete's neck. He smiles, a little hysterically, and says, "Um. Actually?"
"Fuck you," Pete groans, and pokes Patrick in the leg. "Shut up."
"Okay," Patrick says. "Sorry. I don't have cancer."
*
One day the incessant posting of snippets will end (and Gabe will throw the party. And Pete will wear an overcoat). I think I'm about halfway done now. Really, it's only thirty-five pages and 13K. Barely a drabble! Kill me now.
PS: Have not yet purchased my Cobra tickets. It's going to have to wait until Saturday. OH WELL I don't think they'll sell out.