Unlovable [FOB, Pete, R]
Title: Unlovable
Author/Artist: traumatic_bunny
Rating: R
Warnings: some angst and swearing. Actually, a lot of angst.
Word count: 2471
Summary: “I love you,” Patrick said with hushed tone and something tugged at Pete's heart, something squeezed his throat, making it hard to breath for few seconds. Could it all really be so simple?
A/N: I wanted to force this story to be something lighter, funny even, and kinky, oh, how nice it would be if there was some kinky sex in it! But the story refused to be written in any other way than it is now, so...
Big thankyou's to shakedown_9th for being my amazing beta.
“Oh, please, Pete. Like I didn't know how it is.”
Her voice was muffled by the thousand miles that were separating them and the phone was making it seem almost anonymous, but he could still see her face, her lips, the corners bending down just a little, creating that disdainful pout he hated so much.
“So you know how it is, huh? Better than me, I guess,” he couldn't keep the venom from his own voice, already pissed off - and they've only just started. “Then tell me, please, I'm listening. Tell me how it is and how I am, because it seems I know shit about it!”
“You really need me to remind you?” her voice was almost soft now, but it cut through him like a fucking knife and there was only so much as he could do to stop himself from smashing the phone against the wall. He probably would do that, he would smash whatever was in his hand, right next to her stupid head, pretending he really wanted to hit her with that object, but she wasn't here right now, he was alone, with just that stupid phone to his ear, with her artificial voice that still could make him feel like the lowest thing ever existing.
“I'm sure you'd love it. You love bragging about your life as a slut, don't you?” he spat to the receiver, already feeling even lower for saying that, but it happened, again, and the only thing he could do now was to hang up. He had enough for one evening, he had enough for a lifetime yet he knew he'd call her again. Because that was all he had. She was all he had.
“What is it this time?”
Pete snapped his head up, looking at Patrick standing in the door. He didn't even hear him coming in; when he wanted, Patrick could be as stealthy as a cat.
“And what do you think it is?” Pete huffed in fake exasperation, falling down on the bed and resting his head on his crossed arms. He refused to look at his friend as he approached his own bed. “She's accusing me of sleeping around just because she knows how it is to be in a band.”
“Well, she has a point,” Patrick's voice was soft and indifferent as he sat down on his own bed, old mattress cracking under his weight.
Pete huffed again, still choosing to look at the ceiling, studying old, yellowish stains spreading over the not-quite white surface like some monster from Andy's old comic books.
“Yeah, she has a point, but it doesn't mean I'm doing the same things now only because I can, you know?” he finally shot Patrick a quick look, aware that his explanations sounded like he really had to defend himself, not only to her but to his friend as well.
And it seemed that he had to, indeed, because Patrick looked back at him in that Patrick-like way, the one that he always gave Pete whenever Pete did something particularly dangerous or stupid, or both.
“You don't believe me,” it wasn't even a question, it was a statement and suddenly the words felt heavy and bitter on his tongue. Patrick only shrugged, not looking apologetic at all.
“I know you,” he said simply and Pete looked at him for a moment longer before he finally turned around, facing away from his friend.
'Have I ever lied to you?' he wanted to ask. 'You know only what I want you to know,' he wanted to say, but instead he stayed silent, because both of those statements would put their friendship in an awkward position. And that was the only thing in Pete's life that he didn't manage to fuck up. Yet. This, and the band. The rest was irrelevant, Pete was telling himself, listening to Patrick moving about, getting ready for sleep. The band and the friendship, nothing else. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying not to think about her spiteful words, about the look on Patrick's face. He closed his eyes and tried to wait patiently for the morning to come.
***
“I miss you too, baby. Two more weeks and we'll have a few days, just for us, you know?”
Pete was listening to Patrick's deep, slightly rough voice, coming through the buzzing noise of all the people running back and forth in the small backstage area. Pete liked Patrick's voice after the show; there was some new quality to it, something that made him think happy thoughts, regardless of what mood he was in. Patrick was on the phone, talking to Anna and his face was all lit up, just like he wasn't running on four hours of sleep, tired with the endless ride and intense show in a club without air conditioning. He was smiling, just with the corner of his lips, his eyes, even his fingers fidgeting with the cord of a pay phone were full of happiness. It was so good seeing him like this, so different, so... innocent.
Pete was leaning against the wall, not far away, temporarily forgotten by everyone, sipping his water and watching his friend, and thinking about how easy it was for some people.
“I love you,” Patrick said with hushed tone and something tugged at Pete's heart, something squeezed his throat, making it hard to breath for few seconds.
Could it all really be so simple?
***
Pete didn't like being left alone with a girl. He couldn't help that it was happening - girls were clever, they apparently knew some magic that would make him blind, deaf and brainless until it was too late and he was already separated from his friends, in some dark corner and Pete hated it. He really preferred guys.
It's always easier with guys, because of all that 'gay above the waist' shit. They didn't expect anything and Pete didn't feel bad when the only thing he gave them was a night of more or less intelligent conversation with some make-out intervals.
Girls, on the other hand, seemed to be unable to understand the concept of spending the night with a guy from a band talking. There were always questions and often some self-reproaching. They blamed it on themselves, on their lack of one or another quality, focusing mostly on physical ones and sometimes Pete just wanted to yell in their faces that they're fucking okay, it's him who's lacking, it's him who's too fucked up to even enjoy the situation he himself had created. This whole sex symbol cliché, this fame of womaniser and make out king, he hated it just as much as he loved it.
He wanted to shout it out loud, he wanted to scream in their painted faces and make them cry and run away, but he never did. He just came up with some lame excuses and usually they worked. He rarely got a slap or a snide remark. More often he got pity dressed as compassion and he really wasn't sure he wouldn't rather prefer one of the former reactions instead.
***
“You're back.”
It wasn't a question, it was a statement, just like she knew he would knock on her door, sooner or later. There was no smugness in her voice nor the look of triumph on her face, none of the things that were supposed to be there. She seemed different this time, almost bored with the fact that, once again, her assumptions were correct.
He hesitated, torn between the subconscious need to say 'I'm sorry', even if he wasn't, and the urge to turn around and leave, leave the place, leave her, like he probably should, a long time ago. But before he could make any decision her arms were around him, her lips on his and he was genuinely surprised of how much he missed that. His body didn't have any doubts, his body knew what to do and Pete hated himself for that weakness, he hated the fact that she could do that to him regardless of the state his mind was in.
“Face it, Peter, you can't live without me,” her breath was hot, scalding his skin and he groaned, feeling the emotions building inside of him. They were violent, just like his movements as he fucked her hard, trying to forget, to stop thinking, stop feeling entirely, even if just for a while. To stop hoping for something that would never come.
But it would never stop and he would always come back to her, he knew that. He really couldn't live without her and without this thing she could give him, this strong emotion, too complicated to be simply called love or hate, or even passion - only she could give that to him and he needed it, he needed to be set free like that, even if it hurt like bitch. He would suffer though, because afterwards, he could just close his eyes, resting there next to her hot, sweaty body, and pretend he's happy.
***
“Do you love her?”
Pete looked up to meet Patrick's eyes and he forced a weak smile. Love. He spent hours and days writing about love yet he still couldn't really grasp it, couldn't just close the very meaning of it in one or two simple words. There was no 'yes' or 'no' when it came to love and him. There were too many colours and shapes and he was sure he hadn't seen everything yet.
“It's not that simple, Trick,” he said, not surprised as his voice came out as a tired, harsh half whisper. He looked down at his hands and felt the mattress dipping under Patrick's weight as his friend sat down on the bed next to him.
“Nothing is simple with you, isn't it?” he asked quietly and Pete leaned towards that voice that seemed to caress him like a gentle hand.
“Yeah, I'm one complicated bastard and that's why you are all lusting after me.”
That was supposed to be a joke but it came out too weak even for Pete to smile again. Patrick didn't, either. He just sighed softly and inched closer, his side almost touching Pete's.
“You won't find the answer like this,” he said and Pete could feel his breath on the side of his neck. “The way you do it... there is no love in that.”
Pete knew what Patrick was talking about - not only about her and the fucked up relationship they had, but also about all those groupies and fanboys Pete was supposedly having fun with. Supposedly. Pete just nodded, his eyes still fixed on his own slightly trembling hands. He wasn't going to say how badly Patrick was mistaken. He wasn't going to tell the truth.
And the truth was that he knew about it already, he knew that sex wouldn't give him anything except for physical satisfaction--if he was lucky, that is. Pete discovered it pretty early in his life and that probably saved him from catching some STD or knocking some random girl up. But this realisation didn't make his life better. He didn't stop looking for a bit of false affection in places he would never be able to find it.
He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and he leaned his head towards it, resting his cheek on warm skin, nuzzling it in, what he hoped was a friendly and casual manner, the gesture that was supposed to say 'I'm alright, I'm fine, no need to worry about me and my wicked ways.' And he closed his eyes, trying to ignore that hollow feeling in his chest.
***
One time, just one time he found someone who seemed to understand it all. She was an ordinary girl, nothing special, really. But she knew. She knew what he was looking for and she just wrapped her arms around him, crying a little bit in her intoxicated state and telling him over and over again that they can just close their eyes and pretend they are in love with each other, that there's so much love between them that they actually don't need to fuck to show it. That it's enough they cuddle because yes, this way they can be closer than ever during sex. Because that's what love is about. Because sometimes it really is that simple.
Pete was crying, too, but she probably didn't even notice, too lost in her own dream world.
Sometimes, during yet another sleepless night, he wished he could at least remember her face.
***
Patrick's hand was still on his shoulder and Pete forced himself to look up and into his friend's eyes.
“I'm not like that,” he said, his voice still rough and unpleasant in his own ears. “I don't really fuck around. I don't really have anything to offer, besides, they wouldn't want it anyway. I'm just... unlovable.”
He kept looking into Patrick's bright eyes despite the fact he felt like a complete moron right now, saying all this cheesy 'emo' stuff, just like he was hoping his friend would deny and start convincing him that it's not true, that Pete is absolutely lovable and all that jazz. But Patrick stayed silent, just looking back at him for a long moment before he slowly wrapped his arms around Pete, pulling him closer.
Patrick never minded when Pete wanted to hug him or cuddle with him or get physical in any way. He would just smiling that small smile of his and let Pete have his way, whether it was in public or in private, just as a part of a joke or a quick gesture of reassurance. But he almost never did it first. So now Pete tensed for a second or two, unsure what to do and what to think of it before he slowly relaxed, melting under the touch, finally realising how much he really needed it.
“Maybe you don't have much to give, but it's enough for me,” Patrick murmured into his hair, his strong hands resting firmly on Pete's back, guitar calloused fingers drawing small circles, rubbing the muscles underneath the thin fabric of Pete's shirt.
And suddenly Pete was choking on his own breath, clinging to his friend harder than he thought it was even possible. He squeezed his eyes tightly, wishing that something happened now, a plane crashed into this building, a fire started or an earthquake, anything that would strike them and kill them on the spot, freezing them in the moment forever.
No, he still wouldn't believe everything could be so simple, but he knew for Patrick it was and Pete wasn't about to deny what his friend was giving him. He wasn't about to deny this sweet time when he could feel how it would be if someone loved him for real.
Author/Artist: traumatic_bunny
Rating: R
Warnings: some angst and swearing. Actually, a lot of angst.
Word count: 2471
Summary: “I love you,” Patrick said with hushed tone and something tugged at Pete's heart, something squeezed his throat, making it hard to breath for few seconds. Could it all really be so simple?
A/N: I wanted to force this story to be something lighter, funny even, and kinky, oh, how nice it would be if there was some kinky sex in it! But the story refused to be written in any other way than it is now, so...
Big thankyou's to shakedown_9th for being my amazing beta.
“Oh, please, Pete. Like I didn't know how it is.”
Her voice was muffled by the thousand miles that were separating them and the phone was making it seem almost anonymous, but he could still see her face, her lips, the corners bending down just a little, creating that disdainful pout he hated so much.
“So you know how it is, huh? Better than me, I guess,” he couldn't keep the venom from his own voice, already pissed off - and they've only just started. “Then tell me, please, I'm listening. Tell me how it is and how I am, because it seems I know shit about it!”
“You really need me to remind you?” her voice was almost soft now, but it cut through him like a fucking knife and there was only so much as he could do to stop himself from smashing the phone against the wall. He probably would do that, he would smash whatever was in his hand, right next to her stupid head, pretending he really wanted to hit her with that object, but she wasn't here right now, he was alone, with just that stupid phone to his ear, with her artificial voice that still could make him feel like the lowest thing ever existing.
“I'm sure you'd love it. You love bragging about your life as a slut, don't you?” he spat to the receiver, already feeling even lower for saying that, but it happened, again, and the only thing he could do now was to hang up. He had enough for one evening, he had enough for a lifetime yet he knew he'd call her again. Because that was all he had. She was all he had.
“What is it this time?”
Pete snapped his head up, looking at Patrick standing in the door. He didn't even hear him coming in; when he wanted, Patrick could be as stealthy as a cat.
“And what do you think it is?” Pete huffed in fake exasperation, falling down on the bed and resting his head on his crossed arms. He refused to look at his friend as he approached his own bed. “She's accusing me of sleeping around just because she knows how it is to be in a band.”
“Well, she has a point,” Patrick's voice was soft and indifferent as he sat down on his own bed, old mattress cracking under his weight.
Pete huffed again, still choosing to look at the ceiling, studying old, yellowish stains spreading over the not-quite white surface like some monster from Andy's old comic books.
“Yeah, she has a point, but it doesn't mean I'm doing the same things now only because I can, you know?” he finally shot Patrick a quick look, aware that his explanations sounded like he really had to defend himself, not only to her but to his friend as well.
And it seemed that he had to, indeed, because Patrick looked back at him in that Patrick-like way, the one that he always gave Pete whenever Pete did something particularly dangerous or stupid, or both.
“You don't believe me,” it wasn't even a question, it was a statement and suddenly the words felt heavy and bitter on his tongue. Patrick only shrugged, not looking apologetic at all.
“I know you,” he said simply and Pete looked at him for a moment longer before he finally turned around, facing away from his friend.
'Have I ever lied to you?' he wanted to ask. 'You know only what I want you to know,' he wanted to say, but instead he stayed silent, because both of those statements would put their friendship in an awkward position. And that was the only thing in Pete's life that he didn't manage to fuck up. Yet. This, and the band. The rest was irrelevant, Pete was telling himself, listening to Patrick moving about, getting ready for sleep. The band and the friendship, nothing else. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying not to think about her spiteful words, about the look on Patrick's face. He closed his eyes and tried to wait patiently for the morning to come.
***
“I miss you too, baby. Two more weeks and we'll have a few days, just for us, you know?”
Pete was listening to Patrick's deep, slightly rough voice, coming through the buzzing noise of all the people running back and forth in the small backstage area. Pete liked Patrick's voice after the show; there was some new quality to it, something that made him think happy thoughts, regardless of what mood he was in. Patrick was on the phone, talking to Anna and his face was all lit up, just like he wasn't running on four hours of sleep, tired with the endless ride and intense show in a club without air conditioning. He was smiling, just with the corner of his lips, his eyes, even his fingers fidgeting with the cord of a pay phone were full of happiness. It was so good seeing him like this, so different, so... innocent.
Pete was leaning against the wall, not far away, temporarily forgotten by everyone, sipping his water and watching his friend, and thinking about how easy it was for some people.
“I love you,” Patrick said with hushed tone and something tugged at Pete's heart, something squeezed his throat, making it hard to breath for few seconds.
Could it all really be so simple?
***
Pete didn't like being left alone with a girl. He couldn't help that it was happening - girls were clever, they apparently knew some magic that would make him blind, deaf and brainless until it was too late and he was already separated from his friends, in some dark corner and Pete hated it. He really preferred guys.
It's always easier with guys, because of all that 'gay above the waist' shit. They didn't expect anything and Pete didn't feel bad when the only thing he gave them was a night of more or less intelligent conversation with some make-out intervals.
Girls, on the other hand, seemed to be unable to understand the concept of spending the night with a guy from a band talking. There were always questions and often some self-reproaching. They blamed it on themselves, on their lack of one or another quality, focusing mostly on physical ones and sometimes Pete just wanted to yell in their faces that they're fucking okay, it's him who's lacking, it's him who's too fucked up to even enjoy the situation he himself had created. This whole sex symbol cliché, this fame of womaniser and make out king, he hated it just as much as he loved it.
He wanted to shout it out loud, he wanted to scream in their painted faces and make them cry and run away, but he never did. He just came up with some lame excuses and usually they worked. He rarely got a slap or a snide remark. More often he got pity dressed as compassion and he really wasn't sure he wouldn't rather prefer one of the former reactions instead.
***
“You're back.”
It wasn't a question, it was a statement, just like she knew he would knock on her door, sooner or later. There was no smugness in her voice nor the look of triumph on her face, none of the things that were supposed to be there. She seemed different this time, almost bored with the fact that, once again, her assumptions were correct.
He hesitated, torn between the subconscious need to say 'I'm sorry', even if he wasn't, and the urge to turn around and leave, leave the place, leave her, like he probably should, a long time ago. But before he could make any decision her arms were around him, her lips on his and he was genuinely surprised of how much he missed that. His body didn't have any doubts, his body knew what to do and Pete hated himself for that weakness, he hated the fact that she could do that to him regardless of the state his mind was in.
“Face it, Peter, you can't live without me,” her breath was hot, scalding his skin and he groaned, feeling the emotions building inside of him. They were violent, just like his movements as he fucked her hard, trying to forget, to stop thinking, stop feeling entirely, even if just for a while. To stop hoping for something that would never come.
But it would never stop and he would always come back to her, he knew that. He really couldn't live without her and without this thing she could give him, this strong emotion, too complicated to be simply called love or hate, or even passion - only she could give that to him and he needed it, he needed to be set free like that, even if it hurt like bitch. He would suffer though, because afterwards, he could just close his eyes, resting there next to her hot, sweaty body, and pretend he's happy.
***
“Do you love her?”
Pete looked up to meet Patrick's eyes and he forced a weak smile. Love. He spent hours and days writing about love yet he still couldn't really grasp it, couldn't just close the very meaning of it in one or two simple words. There was no 'yes' or 'no' when it came to love and him. There were too many colours and shapes and he was sure he hadn't seen everything yet.
“It's not that simple, Trick,” he said, not surprised as his voice came out as a tired, harsh half whisper. He looked down at his hands and felt the mattress dipping under Patrick's weight as his friend sat down on the bed next to him.
“Nothing is simple with you, isn't it?” he asked quietly and Pete leaned towards that voice that seemed to caress him like a gentle hand.
“Yeah, I'm one complicated bastard and that's why you are all lusting after me.”
That was supposed to be a joke but it came out too weak even for Pete to smile again. Patrick didn't, either. He just sighed softly and inched closer, his side almost touching Pete's.
“You won't find the answer like this,” he said and Pete could feel his breath on the side of his neck. “The way you do it... there is no love in that.”
Pete knew what Patrick was talking about - not only about her and the fucked up relationship they had, but also about all those groupies and fanboys Pete was supposedly having fun with. Supposedly. Pete just nodded, his eyes still fixed on his own slightly trembling hands. He wasn't going to say how badly Patrick was mistaken. He wasn't going to tell the truth.
And the truth was that he knew about it already, he knew that sex wouldn't give him anything except for physical satisfaction--if he was lucky, that is. Pete discovered it pretty early in his life and that probably saved him from catching some STD or knocking some random girl up. But this realisation didn't make his life better. He didn't stop looking for a bit of false affection in places he would never be able to find it.
He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and he leaned his head towards it, resting his cheek on warm skin, nuzzling it in, what he hoped was a friendly and casual manner, the gesture that was supposed to say 'I'm alright, I'm fine, no need to worry about me and my wicked ways.' And he closed his eyes, trying to ignore that hollow feeling in his chest.
***
One time, just one time he found someone who seemed to understand it all. She was an ordinary girl, nothing special, really. But she knew. She knew what he was looking for and she just wrapped her arms around him, crying a little bit in her intoxicated state and telling him over and over again that they can just close their eyes and pretend they are in love with each other, that there's so much love between them that they actually don't need to fuck to show it. That it's enough they cuddle because yes, this way they can be closer than ever during sex. Because that's what love is about. Because sometimes it really is that simple.
Pete was crying, too, but she probably didn't even notice, too lost in her own dream world.
Sometimes, during yet another sleepless night, he wished he could at least remember her face.
***
Patrick's hand was still on his shoulder and Pete forced himself to look up and into his friend's eyes.
“I'm not like that,” he said, his voice still rough and unpleasant in his own ears. “I don't really fuck around. I don't really have anything to offer, besides, they wouldn't want it anyway. I'm just... unlovable.”
He kept looking into Patrick's bright eyes despite the fact he felt like a complete moron right now, saying all this cheesy 'emo' stuff, just like he was hoping his friend would deny and start convincing him that it's not true, that Pete is absolutely lovable and all that jazz. But Patrick stayed silent, just looking back at him for a long moment before he slowly wrapped his arms around Pete, pulling him closer.
Patrick never minded when Pete wanted to hug him or cuddle with him or get physical in any way. He would just smiling that small smile of his and let Pete have his way, whether it was in public or in private, just as a part of a joke or a quick gesture of reassurance. But he almost never did it first. So now Pete tensed for a second or two, unsure what to do and what to think of it before he slowly relaxed, melting under the touch, finally realising how much he really needed it.
“Maybe you don't have much to give, but it's enough for me,” Patrick murmured into his hair, his strong hands resting firmly on Pete's back, guitar calloused fingers drawing small circles, rubbing the muscles underneath the thin fabric of Pete's shirt.
And suddenly Pete was choking on his own breath, clinging to his friend harder than he thought it was even possible. He squeezed his eyes tightly, wishing that something happened now, a plane crashed into this building, a fire started or an earthquake, anything that would strike them and kill them on the spot, freezing them in the moment forever.
No, he still wouldn't believe everything could be so simple, but he knew for Patrick it was and Pete wasn't about to deny what his friend was giving him. He wasn't about to deny this sweet time when he could feel how it would be if someone loved him for real.