FOB ficlet: What We Say
So, I said something, then circuity said something, and we did that a couple of times, and then I thought, oooooooooh.
It started when they were all still in Chicago, notes taped to Patrick's door with rehearsal times, because Pete was the kind of guy who'd bum a ride off a friend and leave a note on the way to a trip to the movies instead of calling and leaving a message with Patrick's mom. When they got on tour, finally, after struggles with parents and equipment and schedulers, Patrick would find the notes mixed in with his CDs, shoved into his pillow to give a papery crinkle when he lay down, slid in between the pages of his magazines. Not often, and never anything too important. The wrapper from a piece of laffy-taffy with the joke underlined. A reminder to not eat cheese. Fragments of obscure song lyrics. A message from Patrick's older brother that Pete had taken when Patrick was showering.
When Patrick was in Chicago and Pete was in LA or New York City, he'd send postcards with rude messages on the back, handwritten poetry inked on restaurant napkins and show flyers, a fortune from a fortune cookie that said, "If you're not afraid to do it wrong the first time, eventually you'll do it right." Pete had carefully printed out "in bed" at the end of that one in black ballpoint pen.
It was just a thing, a Pete thing, or maybe a Pete and Patrick thing, because Pete never did it to Joe or Andy. Once, early on, Patrick had snorted at a bad "your mama" joke and crumpled it up, shooting it at Pete's head. Pete had been driving at the time, and it had bounced harmlessly off the headrest to land in Joe's lap. Joe had opened it up and read it, then squinted at Patrick, saying, "What the fuck?" Patrick had just shrugged, finding himself strangely unwilling to explain, and Joe had let the subject drop.
Pete's attention was fleeting and his temper mercurial, but the notes were tangible tokens of Pete's affection, a secret language of reassurance, and Patrick spoke it gratefully.
It started when they were all still in Chicago, notes taped to Patrick's door with rehearsal times, because Pete was the kind of guy who'd bum a ride off a friend and leave a note on the way to a trip to the movies instead of calling and leaving a message with Patrick's mom. When they got on tour, finally, after struggles with parents and equipment and schedulers, Patrick would find the notes mixed in with his CDs, shoved into his pillow to give a papery crinkle when he lay down, slid in between the pages of his magazines. Not often, and never anything too important. The wrapper from a piece of laffy-taffy with the joke underlined. A reminder to not eat cheese. Fragments of obscure song lyrics. A message from Patrick's older brother that Pete had taken when Patrick was showering.
When Patrick was in Chicago and Pete was in LA or New York City, he'd send postcards with rude messages on the back, handwritten poetry inked on restaurant napkins and show flyers, a fortune from a fortune cookie that said, "If you're not afraid to do it wrong the first time, eventually you'll do it right." Pete had carefully printed out "in bed" at the end of that one in black ballpoint pen.
It was just a thing, a Pete thing, or maybe a Pete and Patrick thing, because Pete never did it to Joe or Andy. Once, early on, Patrick had snorted at a bad "your mama" joke and crumpled it up, shooting it at Pete's head. Pete had been driving at the time, and it had bounced harmlessly off the headrest to land in Joe's lap. Joe had opened it up and read it, then squinted at Patrick, saying, "What the fuck?" Patrick had just shrugged, finding himself strangely unwilling to explain, and Joe had let the subject drop.
Pete's attention was fleeting and his temper mercurial, but the notes were tangible tokens of Pete's affection, a secret language of reassurance, and Patrick spoke it gratefully.