Peter Pan and What Never Can
Title: Peter Pan and What Never Can
Author: becomingblurred
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Word Count: 741
Rating: PG
Summary: I do believe in fairies. In tricks. In miracles.
Disclaimer: I don't own Fall Out Boy or Peter Pan.
Author’s Note: There is a character death implied. Don't be scared. Thank you to twentiethway for grammar and Peter Pan accuracies.
Peter Pan and What Never Can
By Donna
Hospitals helped Pete realize how much he hated perfection.
It was pretty obvious, to his friends and enemies, at least, that he had a thing against things being 100% A-OK. Even if he was wearing some suit that probably cost more than his life, he had to wear two different socks. When he was expected to be mature during an interview, he always had a comment “slip” (Andy and/or Patrick making a face) and when he went to hospitals... well... he almost, on several occasions, ran to the pediatric ward just to pick up some crayons and write obscenities across the white walls.
Instead, he sat in a cold plastic chair, gripping faded denim that covered his knees. He flexed the material in-between his fingers, pretending he could see movies from the white-washed walls. Past. Present. Future. Alternative universe.
He found the alternative universe the most amusing. He watched his alter egos spill onto the screen and save the day. A figure with a cape and mask flew past, picking up helpless boys from car crashes. Peter Pan tumbled into bedrooms, watching children’s eyes light up.
And at that point, Pete decided that if Patrick was to ever join him in this alternative Neverland, he decided that Patrick would be Tink. Not Wendy, as he knew many would predict. Tink had the attitude. Tink had the moves. Tink could put up a fight. He didn’t wear a dress, but he had wings woven from half notes and g-clefs. And he wasn’t small enough that if Pete was to do anything to him he could risk breaking him.
Once he made such a grand decision, he determined that his body could not bear to concentrate on anything anymore. Once that image of Patrick-as-a-unconventional-Tinkerbell was engraved in his brain he decided that he reached his breaking point. The details were too much.
Deterioration of some lobe. Life support. Plugs. Pulled out plugs. Final visits. Final hours. Funeral plans. Contacts. Website postings. Memorials.
He was thirty. If he lived like a normal man, he could/should have kids to tend to.
He was thirty. If he had half a brain he would have a wedding... commitment ceremony... union-ing to plan.
Well, clearly, sitting in a white hospital surrounded by puce-colored plastic chairs and magazines from 2001, that wasn’t going to happen. He could, at least, face that fact.
For some reason, he faced another way a second later, looking at a wall that he knew didn’t necessarily tell the truth.
I do believe in fairies. I do. I do.
I do believe in miracles. I do. I do.
I do believe in tricks. In games. In him. I do. I do.
“Peter, come, let’s go see him... one last time.”
He had some form of control... didn’t he?
Well, he could say he didn’t want to go through the “one last time” and just say that three days ago, when everyone that mattered was alive and well was the “one last time.” It’d be less painful... wouldn’t it?
He rationalized that if he didn’t have the guts, if he didn’t go through this “one last time”, the one person that mattered couldn’t hear his chant. His one last... hope.
He repeated it to himself over and over (“I do. I do.”). No one took much thought to it. They found it almost endearing. Aw, the man built on no hope is trying to find some.
Hospital rooms made music. It wasn’t exactly good music, but it was music none theless. A ventilator shoom-hiss, shoom-hissed. A monitor beeped. A light erked whenever it blinked.
Tubes flowed like bars of music. Into a corpse.
Into him. Him. This is life support. Get it right.
“I do, I do. Now you do, too.”
This was Neverland.
He was never going to wake up.
“But... but. Didn’t you hear me? I believe in you.”
Someone wrapped their arms around him. He looked up and thought he saw a miracle.
It was just half of the boy in the bed.
“Oh God. This is really it.”
“No it’s not. Just wait.”
Just wait.
But waiting for miracles and epic conclusions was like asking for mountains to move out of the way or inhibition less “I love you”s. They weren’t going to happen. Not for a long, long time.
Tinkerbell was dead.
If Peter Pan drank the poison now, it was his own damn fault.
END
Author: becomingblurred
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Word Count: 741
Rating: PG
Summary: I do believe in fairies. In tricks. In miracles.
Disclaimer: I don't own Fall Out Boy or Peter Pan.
Author’s Note: There is a character death implied. Don't be scared. Thank you to twentiethway for grammar and Peter Pan accuracies.
Peter Pan and What Never Can
By Donna
Hospitals helped Pete realize how much he hated perfection.
It was pretty obvious, to his friends and enemies, at least, that he had a thing against things being 100% A-OK. Even if he was wearing some suit that probably cost more than his life, he had to wear two different socks. When he was expected to be mature during an interview, he always had a comment “slip” (Andy and/or Patrick making a face) and when he went to hospitals... well... he almost, on several occasions, ran to the pediatric ward just to pick up some crayons and write obscenities across the white walls.
Instead, he sat in a cold plastic chair, gripping faded denim that covered his knees. He flexed the material in-between his fingers, pretending he could see movies from the white-washed walls. Past. Present. Future. Alternative universe.
He found the alternative universe the most amusing. He watched his alter egos spill onto the screen and save the day. A figure with a cape and mask flew past, picking up helpless boys from car crashes. Peter Pan tumbled into bedrooms, watching children’s eyes light up.
And at that point, Pete decided that if Patrick was to ever join him in this alternative Neverland, he decided that Patrick would be Tink. Not Wendy, as he knew many would predict. Tink had the attitude. Tink had the moves. Tink could put up a fight. He didn’t wear a dress, but he had wings woven from half notes and g-clefs. And he wasn’t small enough that if Pete was to do anything to him he could risk breaking him.
Once he made such a grand decision, he determined that his body could not bear to concentrate on anything anymore. Once that image of Patrick-as-a-unconventional-Tinkerbell was engraved in his brain he decided that he reached his breaking point. The details were too much.
Deterioration of some lobe. Life support. Plugs. Pulled out plugs. Final visits. Final hours. Funeral plans. Contacts. Website postings. Memorials.
He was thirty. If he lived like a normal man, he could/should have kids to tend to.
He was thirty. If he had half a brain he would have a wedding... commitment ceremony... union-ing to plan.
Well, clearly, sitting in a white hospital surrounded by puce-colored plastic chairs and magazines from 2001, that wasn’t going to happen. He could, at least, face that fact.
For some reason, he faced another way a second later, looking at a wall that he knew didn’t necessarily tell the truth.
I do believe in fairies. I do. I do.
I do believe in miracles. I do. I do.
I do believe in tricks. In games. In him. I do. I do.
“Peter, come, let’s go see him... one last time.”
He had some form of control... didn’t he?
Well, he could say he didn’t want to go through the “one last time” and just say that three days ago, when everyone that mattered was alive and well was the “one last time.” It’d be less painful... wouldn’t it?
He rationalized that if he didn’t have the guts, if he didn’t go through this “one last time”, the one person that mattered couldn’t hear his chant. His one last... hope.
He repeated it to himself over and over (“I do. I do.”). No one took much thought to it. They found it almost endearing. Aw, the man built on no hope is trying to find some.
Hospital rooms made music. It wasn’t exactly good music, but it was music none theless. A ventilator shoom-hiss, shoom-hissed. A monitor beeped. A light erked whenever it blinked.
Tubes flowed like bars of music. Into a corpse.
Into him. Him. This is life support. Get it right.
“I do, I do. Now you do, too.”
This was Neverland.
He was never going to wake up.
“But... but. Didn’t you hear me? I believe in you.”
Someone wrapped their arms around him. He looked up and thought he saw a miracle.
It was just half of the boy in the bed.
“Oh God. This is really it.”
“No it’s not. Just wait.”
Just wait.
But waiting for miracles and epic conclusions was like asking for mountains to move out of the way or inhibition less “I love you”s. They weren’t going to happen. Not for a long, long time.
Tinkerbell was dead.
If Peter Pan drank the poison now, it was his own damn fault.
END