(no subject)
Plans for this weekend (while everyone else is reading Harry Potter and/or wank) include writing Torchwood because I made kaneko promise we could do flashfic amnesty next. Now I owe her which is not a good thing when you're a lazy co-mod. Which I'm not, I'm just saying! Bad idea! And, okay, so there's totally a little Chris/Lance story that I'm thinking about. I'm pretty sure I have to write at least one popslash story a year or my brain will pop, is all.
But anyway, the warm up appears to be bandslash ficlets. *grins*
Pete/Patrick, ~800 words, a totally gratuitious bit of Uganda schmoop with absolutely no basis in reality. Hurray for wallowing, and thanks to dsudis for the read-through!
Adventurers by Fate
Patrick watches the tiny plane speed away, growing even smaller and smaller before it disappears only minutes after it took off. Then he settles his hat more firmly on his head, turns around, and marches back to their tents.
"Pete," he yells, although he's still too far away for it to really do any good. "Peter fucking Wentz, get out here," and Pete must've been waiting, because his head pops out the half-zipped door, and he's got an innocent look on his face, which might as well be a confession signed in blood.
"They left without us," Patrick says. Pete looks around, like he's surprised to see that while Patrick was sleeping, their camp cleared of almost all the tents and most of the people they'd brought with them; they're down to a translator and maybe two security guards.
"Well," Pete says, looking back at him and yawning ostentatiously, unconcerned, "think of this as a new adventure, Patrick. Lost in Africa! It'll be awesome for Behind the Music."
"I don't want to be on Behind the Music," Patrick says.
"Aww, but how will we know we're has-beens if we don't go on Behind the Music?" Pete asks, and Patrick hasn't made a noise like that since he was seventeen; hasn't wanted to kill a person so much in almost a decade. He's beet red, he knows it, but Pete only blinks and fails to hide a grin. "C'mon, Patrick, they'll be back when they notice we're gone. A day or two, maybe? Hey, you wanna come in here with me? I've got like, the card games and stuff."
"No," Patrick says, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring. "I would like to be on that plane. Being on that plane would be awesome. But I'll wait, like, an hour while you call them and get them back here."
"Um."
"Um?" Patrick closes his eyes. "Where is your phone."
Pete shifts behind the door of the tent, nylon and netting whispering against each other. "I'm pretty sure I accidentally left it in Joe's bag. Or. Maybe that was your phone. Or maybe. Both."
Patrick's heart starts slamming in his chest. He's not scared--it's not like they're really stranded, or like anyone's been anything but awesome to them, but it's not everyday of his life that he's been left behind in Africa, and the adrenaline rush is sort of intense.
He opens his eyes, looks at Pete's subtly smirking, idiot face, and says, "Move over."
Pete moves over, unzipping the tent from the inside, and Patrick crawls in, settles in Pete's nest of sleeping bags while Pete closes the door behind him. "Dude, seriously, if you'd wanted to stay a couple days, you could have just asked. They'd have let you stay as long as you wanted!"
"But you might not have stayed," Pete says, his eyes on his hands, fiddling with the zipper. He's shirtless, just wearing shorts and ink, his hair a little greasy and matted down, his hands grubby and cut up from playing with kids and fucking with people's vegetable patches in earnest attempts to help. Patrick watches him for a long moment, both of them quiet, even the camp and village beyond it quiet, and then he sighs and collapses backwards against Pete's pillow.
"This is like, kidnapping," he says to the ceiling of Pete's tent, the skylight open even though it was a cold, chilly night, because Pete's obsessed with the thousand and thousands of stars they can see here. "I'm calling the cops when we get home. And the tabloids. And your mom."
Pete snorts, and then he's curling up at Patrick's side, shoving until Patrick gives him a corner of the pillow. His hand is on Patrick's bare arm, fingers curled loosely, his breath is warm and humid against Patrick's neck. He says, "If it is like a kidnapping, then you've already got Stockholm Syndrome," and Patrick can tell he's grinning.
He rolls his eyes, takes off his hat, pretending he's not being careful to avoid dislodging Pete's hand from his arm, and says, "Yeah. Well, I've heard that sets in after a couple years."
Pete presses closer, pushes his face against Patrick's shoulder, and now Patrick can feel him grinning. They stay like that for a long time, not sleeping, not talking, just listening to each other breathe and the sounds of a couple people waking up in their camp.
Then Pete moves, pressing a quick, wet kiss to the corner of Patrick's mouth before rolling back onto his hands and knees and crawling towards the door. "Come on," he says over his shoulder. "Let's go get the kids," and Patrick sighs but does the same thing he's been doing, been wanting to do, since he walked away from normal life and into a van with Pete, and follows him to adventure.
But anyway, the warm up appears to be bandslash ficlets. *grins*
Pete/Patrick, ~800 words, a totally gratuitious bit of Uganda schmoop with absolutely no basis in reality. Hurray for wallowing, and thanks to dsudis for the read-through!
Adventurers by Fate
Patrick watches the tiny plane speed away, growing even smaller and smaller before it disappears only minutes after it took off. Then he settles his hat more firmly on his head, turns around, and marches back to their tents.
"Pete," he yells, although he's still too far away for it to really do any good. "Peter fucking Wentz, get out here," and Pete must've been waiting, because his head pops out the half-zipped door, and he's got an innocent look on his face, which might as well be a confession signed in blood.
"They left without us," Patrick says. Pete looks around, like he's surprised to see that while Patrick was sleeping, their camp cleared of almost all the tents and most of the people they'd brought with them; they're down to a translator and maybe two security guards.
"Well," Pete says, looking back at him and yawning ostentatiously, unconcerned, "think of this as a new adventure, Patrick. Lost in Africa! It'll be awesome for Behind the Music."
"I don't want to be on Behind the Music," Patrick says.
"Aww, but how will we know we're has-beens if we don't go on Behind the Music?" Pete asks, and Patrick hasn't made a noise like that since he was seventeen; hasn't wanted to kill a person so much in almost a decade. He's beet red, he knows it, but Pete only blinks and fails to hide a grin. "C'mon, Patrick, they'll be back when they notice we're gone. A day or two, maybe? Hey, you wanna come in here with me? I've got like, the card games and stuff."
"No," Patrick says, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring. "I would like to be on that plane. Being on that plane would be awesome. But I'll wait, like, an hour while you call them and get them back here."
"Um."
"Um?" Patrick closes his eyes. "Where is your phone."
Pete shifts behind the door of the tent, nylon and netting whispering against each other. "I'm pretty sure I accidentally left it in Joe's bag. Or. Maybe that was your phone. Or maybe. Both."
Patrick's heart starts slamming in his chest. He's not scared--it's not like they're really stranded, or like anyone's been anything but awesome to them, but it's not everyday of his life that he's been left behind in Africa, and the adrenaline rush is sort of intense.
He opens his eyes, looks at Pete's subtly smirking, idiot face, and says, "Move over."
Pete moves over, unzipping the tent from the inside, and Patrick crawls in, settles in Pete's nest of sleeping bags while Pete closes the door behind him. "Dude, seriously, if you'd wanted to stay a couple days, you could have just asked. They'd have let you stay as long as you wanted!"
"But you might not have stayed," Pete says, his eyes on his hands, fiddling with the zipper. He's shirtless, just wearing shorts and ink, his hair a little greasy and matted down, his hands grubby and cut up from playing with kids and fucking with people's vegetable patches in earnest attempts to help. Patrick watches him for a long moment, both of them quiet, even the camp and village beyond it quiet, and then he sighs and collapses backwards against Pete's pillow.
"This is like, kidnapping," he says to the ceiling of Pete's tent, the skylight open even though it was a cold, chilly night, because Pete's obsessed with the thousand and thousands of stars they can see here. "I'm calling the cops when we get home. And the tabloids. And your mom."
Pete snorts, and then he's curling up at Patrick's side, shoving until Patrick gives him a corner of the pillow. His hand is on Patrick's bare arm, fingers curled loosely, his breath is warm and humid against Patrick's neck. He says, "If it is like a kidnapping, then you've already got Stockholm Syndrome," and Patrick can tell he's grinning.
He rolls his eyes, takes off his hat, pretending he's not being careful to avoid dislodging Pete's hand from his arm, and says, "Yeah. Well, I've heard that sets in after a couple years."
Pete presses closer, pushes his face against Patrick's shoulder, and now Patrick can feel him grinning. They stay like that for a long time, not sleeping, not talking, just listening to each other breathe and the sounds of a couple people waking up in their camp.
Then Pete moves, pressing a quick, wet kiss to the corner of Patrick's mouth before rolling back onto his hands and knees and crawling towards the door. "Come on," he says over his shoulder. "Let's go get the kids," and Patrick sighs but does the same thing he's been doing, been wanting to do, since he walked away from normal life and into a van with Pete, and follows him to adventure.