Sweet fic
I wrote this based on a song recced by extrafancyganza who always recs great songs (especially for songfics). It's Pete/Stitch, as one would expect from a Sweet fic, and told from Stitch's POV.
If you have not yet seen the short film Sweet, shame on you. It's an early Fielding/Barratt collaboration. Here's a link to it on Youtube.
Here they come, looking sugar oh so sweet, they talk so street
You can almost hear them saying underneath:
Talk right, stay real, look sweet yeah!
Pete always had a girl on his arm. Some pretty girl with pillowy lips and soft curves, muttering sweet nothings into his ear. I didn't like it. It's hard enough being in love with your best mate without having to look at him with his tongue down some tart's throat every two seconds.
I, understandably, was less than happy about him seeing Poppy. Poppy wasn't even real and she was better than me? As though that wasn't enough, along came Daisy. I'd had enough. I wanted Pete back to myself and maybe if he got his heart broken, he wouldn't want another girl for a while. I told Daisy about Poppy. I just saw her skip into the pub, (our boozer, why did he have to bring her there?), and the words came out of my mouth. I thought, that had to be the end of it. Goodbye Daisy, goodbye Poppy, hello broken hearted Pete. Tell your sweet understanding mate Stitch all about it, while I ply you with drink and let you sob onto my shoulder.
Of course it all backfired and he got to have his cake and eat it, the jammy bastard. It was sickening watching the three of them monkey walking around, sneaking kisses in turn. Pete grinning like a cat that's got the cream.
Baby baby, there's beauty in the way you grit your teeth
Think you're neat, but you're looking like a stiff to me
Talk right, stay real, look sweet yeah
The first thing I thought when I saw him first was that he was such a fucking walking wet dream. We've been best mates since school, when he was this bundle of barely repressed enthusiasm and hair, who hugged you too much and too often.
He hasn't changed much, really. Neither have I. I've been squeezing ones out to a polaroid of Pete smiling into the camera, since I was sixteen. I should get a new photo of him, masturbating to teenaged Pete is making me feel like a pedophile.
Am I the only one to no longer wish that every day was Saturday?
Am I the only one who goes round thinking:
It ain't me (stay real, look sweet) It ain't me
It ain't me (stay real, look sweet) It ain't me
The three of them go out of a Saturday as soon as he gets off work. Not that they're not having filthy threesomes every day of the week, but, on Saturday they always go and do something nice as a couple. Or a triple, or whatever the fuck you call them.
Daisy and Poppy will turn up together, holding hands, to collect him and he'll turn and look at me and grin. His eyes saying something like, 'Am I the luckiest bastard in the world, or what?' I'll smile back weakly and they'll all bound off together. I usually sit in the corner after I've closed up and give myself Chinese burns, thinking about them smiling and feeding each other fork-fulls of their food.
You and me shaking sugar under sheets we bought last week
You and me share a language that our souls can speak
Talk right, stay real, look sweet yeah
Me and Pete are closer than most couples. I don't know why he's never realised how I feel about him. The gay thing wouldn't bother him, I can't count (that's a lie, each time is burned into my memory) the number of times I've caught him necking with a bloke. He'll just smile and wink at me and give the guy a pinch on the bum. It's torture.
“Who was that?”
“Some bloke. Bought me a drink.”
“I buy you drinks all the time.”
“Yeah, you're a mate.”
“You queer now or something?”
“Naw, tits are wicked. I just fancied him a bit is all.”
And it was that bloody simple to him. He didn't care about who the person he fancied was, he just got stuck in there and didn't let trivial things like gender freak him out. Why doesn't he get it by now? I don't know how I can be any more obvious. No one puts this much effort in if all they cared about was having someone to go to the pub with, or even just someone to shag. I want him.
Am I the only one to no longer wish that every day was Saturday?
Am I the only one who goes round thinking:
It ain't me (stay real, look sweet) It ain't me
It ain't me (stay real, look sweet) It ain't me
(Ah, sweet)
Shuffling through the alley with your cufflinks all a-dangling
And your funny eyes attached to the sun
It's not fair. I did not put in this much work for Pete to go off with a pair of tarts. He was always the One. I've never wavered on that. It was always Pete, since the moment I met him. He came bounding up to me and started chatting like we'd known each other for years.
“Do you wanna be my friend?” he'd asked, smiling like an idiot and dancing around with his hands in his pockets.
Because it was that straightforward with Pete. He told you exactly what he was thinking and subtlety didn't even enter into his mind in the slightest. It was flattering, being shown that much unguarded affection. It's beaten out of most people by the age of about two or three, but it never even occurred to him to hold back. I loved him. With all my sixteen year old certainty, I loved him.
I'm not like him though. I can't just say, “do you wanna go out with me,” straight off the bat. I need time to... well I've not thought that far ahead really. Get him pissed and jump him after he's been chucked has always been a tentative plan, but he's never been chucked. So the logical progression of that thought is, set it up so that he does. That one didn't work out all that well.
Shuffling through the alley
Oh rocky dandy
People say you've got no handy
And your handkerchief is much too red
My poor, understand it
Oh you're so avant-garde
You're making me hard
Our stage
But you're looking like a stiff to me, yeah
I can't stand looking at him sometimes. He's all angles and sharp edges and he drives me crazy. He looks like a goblin or something, but that doesn't stop me getting half hard when I get assaulted by his gigawatt smile, unawares. His individual features are, by themselves, not all that attractive. Too big nose, pointy chin, sticky out cheekbones, but together they knock me sideways. He could wear a bin bag and make it look good.
He's coming through the door, furious about something. He looks good when he's angry, I should try and piss him off more often.
“OI!”
...
If you have not yet seen the short film Sweet, shame on you. It's an early Fielding/Barratt collaboration. Here's a link to it on Youtube.
Here they come, looking sugar oh so sweet, they talk so street
You can almost hear them saying underneath:
Talk right, stay real, look sweet yeah!
Pete always had a girl on his arm. Some pretty girl with pillowy lips and soft curves, muttering sweet nothings into his ear. I didn't like it. It's hard enough being in love with your best mate without having to look at him with his tongue down some tart's throat every two seconds.
I, understandably, was less than happy about him seeing Poppy. Poppy wasn't even real and she was better than me? As though that wasn't enough, along came Daisy. I'd had enough. I wanted Pete back to myself and maybe if he got his heart broken, he wouldn't want another girl for a while. I told Daisy about Poppy. I just saw her skip into the pub, (our boozer, why did he have to bring her there?), and the words came out of my mouth. I thought, that had to be the end of it. Goodbye Daisy, goodbye Poppy, hello broken hearted Pete. Tell your sweet understanding mate Stitch all about it, while I ply you with drink and let you sob onto my shoulder.
Of course it all backfired and he got to have his cake and eat it, the jammy bastard. It was sickening watching the three of them monkey walking around, sneaking kisses in turn. Pete grinning like a cat that's got the cream.
Baby baby, there's beauty in the way you grit your teeth
Think you're neat, but you're looking like a stiff to me
Talk right, stay real, look sweet yeah
The first thing I thought when I saw him first was that he was such a fucking walking wet dream. We've been best mates since school, when he was this bundle of barely repressed enthusiasm and hair, who hugged you too much and too often.
He hasn't changed much, really. Neither have I. I've been squeezing ones out to a polaroid of Pete smiling into the camera, since I was sixteen. I should get a new photo of him, masturbating to teenaged Pete is making me feel like a pedophile.
Am I the only one to no longer wish that every day was Saturday?
Am I the only one who goes round thinking:
It ain't me (stay real, look sweet) It ain't me
It ain't me (stay real, look sweet) It ain't me
The three of them go out of a Saturday as soon as he gets off work. Not that they're not having filthy threesomes every day of the week, but, on Saturday they always go and do something nice as a couple. Or a triple, or whatever the fuck you call them.
Daisy and Poppy will turn up together, holding hands, to collect him and he'll turn and look at me and grin. His eyes saying something like, 'Am I the luckiest bastard in the world, or what?' I'll smile back weakly and they'll all bound off together. I usually sit in the corner after I've closed up and give myself Chinese burns, thinking about them smiling and feeding each other fork-fulls of their food.
You and me shaking sugar under sheets we bought last week
You and me share a language that our souls can speak
Talk right, stay real, look sweet yeah
Me and Pete are closer than most couples. I don't know why he's never realised how I feel about him. The gay thing wouldn't bother him, I can't count (that's a lie, each time is burned into my memory) the number of times I've caught him necking with a bloke. He'll just smile and wink at me and give the guy a pinch on the bum. It's torture.
“Who was that?”
“Some bloke. Bought me a drink.”
“I buy you drinks all the time.”
“Yeah, you're a mate.”
“You queer now or something?”
“Naw, tits are wicked. I just fancied him a bit is all.”
And it was that bloody simple to him. He didn't care about who the person he fancied was, he just got stuck in there and didn't let trivial things like gender freak him out. Why doesn't he get it by now? I don't know how I can be any more obvious. No one puts this much effort in if all they cared about was having someone to go to the pub with, or even just someone to shag. I want him.
Am I the only one to no longer wish that every day was Saturday?
Am I the only one who goes round thinking:
It ain't me (stay real, look sweet) It ain't me
It ain't me (stay real, look sweet) It ain't me
(Ah, sweet)
Shuffling through the alley with your cufflinks all a-dangling
And your funny eyes attached to the sun
It's not fair. I did not put in this much work for Pete to go off with a pair of tarts. He was always the One. I've never wavered on that. It was always Pete, since the moment I met him. He came bounding up to me and started chatting like we'd known each other for years.
“Do you wanna be my friend?” he'd asked, smiling like an idiot and dancing around with his hands in his pockets.
Because it was that straightforward with Pete. He told you exactly what he was thinking and subtlety didn't even enter into his mind in the slightest. It was flattering, being shown that much unguarded affection. It's beaten out of most people by the age of about two or three, but it never even occurred to him to hold back. I loved him. With all my sixteen year old certainty, I loved him.
I'm not like him though. I can't just say, “do you wanna go out with me,” straight off the bat. I need time to... well I've not thought that far ahead really. Get him pissed and jump him after he's been chucked has always been a tentative plan, but he's never been chucked. So the logical progression of that thought is, set it up so that he does. That one didn't work out all that well.
Shuffling through the alley
Oh rocky dandy
People say you've got no handy
And your handkerchief is much too red
My poor, understand it
Oh you're so avant-garde
You're making me hard
Our stage
But you're looking like a stiff to me, yeah
I can't stand looking at him sometimes. He's all angles and sharp edges and he drives me crazy. He looks like a goblin or something, but that doesn't stop me getting half hard when I get assaulted by his gigawatt smile, unawares. His individual features are, by themselves, not all that attractive. Too big nose, pointy chin, sticky out cheekbones, but together they knock me sideways. He could wear a bin bag and make it look good.
He's coming through the door, furious about something. He looks good when he's angry, I should try and piss him off more often.
“OI!”
...