Secrets Secrets Are No Fun, Secrets Secrets Hurt Someone
Secrets Secrets Are No Fun, Secrets Secrets Hurt Someone
PG-13
Swearing, mild brief sexual references
632 words
A/N- Done for a writing exercise. Supposed to write a dramatic scene about a secret that is not revealed to the characters, nor readers.
Patrick’s golden red hair falls over his tense hand gripping his throbbing forehead. His downcast eyes are hidden. The man’s body slouches, crumpled, as if to embody pure exhaustion. The hat usually perched perfectly on his head is slipping to one side more, more, mo-Patrick’s other hand quickly catches it before it falls. He can’t even think. He doesn’t want to. No longer will he be able to deal with his best friend’s bullshit; he just can’t. Being this emotionally drained just for being part of a crazy lovehatesexsilenttreatmentartistryjokesmusiceverything relationship isn’t normal. Why can’t he just be normal?
Though the room that Patrick feels trapped in is tiny, there’s an enormous distance he put between himself and this “friend”. Calm before the storm? The other man is on edge, jittery. His legs cross, uncross, recross, shift, shuffle, cross. His fingers fold, unfold, wring each other, stretch, lay still for only a moment, close into fists, relax. He bites his lip. His honeybrown eyes, pupils blown, look up without a shift of his hung head, searching for Patrick. Any sign of reassurance. He’s just waiting for him to stretch out his arms with a smile on his face and say, “C’mere, asshole. I’m sorry.” This man believes it’ll happen, counts the seconds until it will. One. Two. Three. Four. Cinco. Seis. Siete. Huit. Neuf. Dix. Onze. Zwoelf. Dreizehn. Vierzehn. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. He taps his foot to match the beat of the foreverseconds in his head. Twentyfourtap. Twentyfivetap. Twentysixtap. Twentyseventap.
“Pete.”
The notsobestfriend lifts his head, eagerly, at the sound of his name. He stares at Patrick long and hard. Where’s the hug?
“Fucking stop.”
Not exactly a hug, but at least those words were directed at him. No more dead silence. That’s a start. Pete figured now would be a good time to respond.
“I’m just tapping my foot. Jesus.”
“You intentionally try to annoy the living shit out of me, don’t you? Dear God. Just stop. Stop.” Patrick’s words were harsh, jagged. Vindictive. Pete stares at him with hurt puppydogeyes. It doesn’t work; Patrick rolls his eyes and turns his head.
“”Trick. I just can’t tell you,” murmurs Pete. There. It’s spoken. The reason they fought. Secrets secrets are no fun ‘cause secrets secrets hurt someone. Juvenility is sometimes the easiest way to explain things.
Now it’s lingering in the air, tangible, taunting Patrick. The original rage bubbles back inside him. Up and up and up and he thinks he might throw up. His hands crumple into clenched fists with white knuckles, fingernails catching on the corduroy of the arm chair he’s uncomfortably in. His face flushes. His toes curl. He wants to kill Pete.
“And why the FUCK not?” Patrick’s voice comes out louder than he expected, but he doesn’t care.
Pete stutters for a moment, stunned.
“I-I’m not ready to yet.” A lip bitten, Pete stares at his best friend, terrified of what he’ll do next. Pete knows Patrick wants to kill him.
“PETE! I-” Patrick begins yelling, furious. But he’s stopped. He continues softer, somber, sober, bittersweet. “Pete. Do you know who I am? Your best friend, your lover, your artist, your singer, your favorite, your secret keeper.”
Pete’s eyes fall to his toes. A flood of things he wants to say overwhelm his throat and his head, which make his tongue go dry. Instead, his eyes water.
“I know, ‘Trick. Just not now. I can’t. I can’t even admit it to myself. I don’t know if I ever will be able to tell you.”
Dead silence again. Is it the end or just the eye of the hurricane?
Pete starts counting seconds again. Untap. Deuxtap. Troistap. Quatretap. Fivetap. Sixtap. Seventap. Achttap. Neuntap. Zehntap. Elftap. Docetap. Trecetap. Catorcetap. Fifteentap. Sixteentap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
PG-13
Swearing, mild brief sexual references
632 words
A/N- Done for a writing exercise. Supposed to write a dramatic scene about a secret that is not revealed to the characters, nor readers.
Patrick’s golden red hair falls over his tense hand gripping his throbbing forehead. His downcast eyes are hidden. The man’s body slouches, crumpled, as if to embody pure exhaustion. The hat usually perched perfectly on his head is slipping to one side more, more, mo-Patrick’s other hand quickly catches it before it falls. He can’t even think. He doesn’t want to. No longer will he be able to deal with his best friend’s bullshit; he just can’t. Being this emotionally drained just for being part of a crazy lovehatesexsilenttreatmentartistryjokesmusiceverything relationship isn’t normal. Why can’t he just be normal?
Though the room that Patrick feels trapped in is tiny, there’s an enormous distance he put between himself and this “friend”. Calm before the storm? The other man is on edge, jittery. His legs cross, uncross, recross, shift, shuffle, cross. His fingers fold, unfold, wring each other, stretch, lay still for only a moment, close into fists, relax. He bites his lip. His honeybrown eyes, pupils blown, look up without a shift of his hung head, searching for Patrick. Any sign of reassurance. He’s just waiting for him to stretch out his arms with a smile on his face and say, “C’mere, asshole. I’m sorry.” This man believes it’ll happen, counts the seconds until it will. One. Two. Three. Four. Cinco. Seis. Siete. Huit. Neuf. Dix. Onze. Zwoelf. Dreizehn. Vierzehn. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. He taps his foot to match the beat of the foreverseconds in his head. Twentyfourtap. Twentyfivetap. Twentysixtap. Twentyseventap.
“Pete.”
The notsobestfriend lifts his head, eagerly, at the sound of his name. He stares at Patrick long and hard. Where’s the hug?
“Fucking stop.”
Not exactly a hug, but at least those words were directed at him. No more dead silence. That’s a start. Pete figured now would be a good time to respond.
“I’m just tapping my foot. Jesus.”
“You intentionally try to annoy the living shit out of me, don’t you? Dear God. Just stop. Stop.” Patrick’s words were harsh, jagged. Vindictive. Pete stares at him with hurt puppydogeyes. It doesn’t work; Patrick rolls his eyes and turns his head.
“”Trick. I just can’t tell you,” murmurs Pete. There. It’s spoken. The reason they fought. Secrets secrets are no fun ‘cause secrets secrets hurt someone. Juvenility is sometimes the easiest way to explain things.
Now it’s lingering in the air, tangible, taunting Patrick. The original rage bubbles back inside him. Up and up and up and he thinks he might throw up. His hands crumple into clenched fists with white knuckles, fingernails catching on the corduroy of the arm chair he’s uncomfortably in. His face flushes. His toes curl. He wants to kill Pete.
“And why the FUCK not?” Patrick’s voice comes out louder than he expected, but he doesn’t care.
Pete stutters for a moment, stunned.
“I-I’m not ready to yet.” A lip bitten, Pete stares at his best friend, terrified of what he’ll do next. Pete knows Patrick wants to kill him.
“PETE! I-” Patrick begins yelling, furious. But he’s stopped. He continues softer, somber, sober, bittersweet. “Pete. Do you know who I am? Your best friend, your lover, your artist, your singer, your favorite, your secret keeper.”
Pete’s eyes fall to his toes. A flood of things he wants to say overwhelm his throat and his head, which make his tongue go dry. Instead, his eyes water.
“I know, ‘Trick. Just not now. I can’t. I can’t even admit it to myself. I don’t know if I ever will be able to tell you.”
Dead silence again. Is it the end or just the eye of the hurricane?
Pete starts counting seconds again. Untap. Deuxtap. Troistap. Quatretap. Fivetap. Sixtap. Seventap. Achttap. Neuntap. Zehntap. Elftap. Docetap. Trecetap. Catorcetap. Fifteentap. Sixteentap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.