State of Being
Title: State of Being
Author: languisity
Rating: R
Fandom/Pairing: FOB/PatD, Pete/Ryan.
Summary: How they are the same. How they aren't.
Disclaimer: Unicorns are more real than this story.
Author's Note: Thanks to 1001cranes for the beta-ing.
1
Ryan gives away his hellos the way most people give money to the homeless, with underlying suspicion. It's not a conscious habit. When he says "hi" it's a soft sound, muttered with muscle memory distrust. Ryan's giving an inch and he expects more to be taken, does his best to make sure it isn't.
Pete breathes out his hellos, gathers them with each breath and sets them free on each exhale. They're obligatory invitations tied to false hopes and it's not really enough. It's hardly ever enough.
They both take what they can get.
2
Pete talks fast and often, except when he doesn't. He talks about everything and anything, except when he doesn't. But he's always wanting Ryan to listen.
Ryan speaks carefully, voice low, and nearly expressionless. It's the kind of voice you have to pay attention to if only because there isn't anything about it that makes you want to pay attention, and you can almost hear him thinking as the words stumble their way past his lips.
They both ask, "You know? I mean, you know?"
Pete says, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
Ryan says, "I understand."
3
Pete writes like he's bleeding. His pen (or crayon or keyboard...) is an extension of his wounded soul, hemmoraging his deepest, truest thoughts. But mostly it's just that sometimes his thoughts are too big and too fast and too many all at once. Sometimes he just needs to get them out of his head to get closer to that blank space he's been dreading and dreaming of. So he writes when he can where ever he can with no regard for grammar, syntax, or proper punctuation. He writes in his paper journal and in his blogs, on diner napkins and on his arms and sometimes -- sometimes he could swear his head was a little clearer for it.
Ryan has a journal that he writes in religiously, even just to say he doesn't feel like writing that day. He chooses his words carefully and whites out the ones he's having second thoughts about until he can find the right fit. He writes everything he means and everything he doesn't mean and makes sure to state the differences. It's an exercise in honesty and precision. Precise honesty. Ryan's saving it for himself; he's the only one who wants it.
Neither one of them can speak their own words.
4
Pete... Pete doesn't have secrets. Ryan doesn't think so, anyway. They can't be secrets when he writes them for the world to see. Not when he sets them to music for someone else to sing. Pete doesn't have secrets, he has confessions, and every place he steps is hallowed ground.
Ryan has secrets. Ryan's secrets have secrets, and Pete wants to tear them out one by one. He doesn't. He can't. Instead he coaxes them out, and when that doesn't work, he waits. Pete waits until Ryan has to tell, mouth pressed to Pete's neck, Pete's stomach. Lips pushing a steady stream of hushed words into Pete.
Ryan hopes for absolution, Pete believes in it.
5
When Ryan and Pete have sex, it's a lot less like fucking but even less like making love and, beyond getting off, this is the only thing they can agree upon implicitly.
Pete wants-- now, more, always-- and doesn't really care how. Today in a bathroom, hushed voices and rushed hands. That night on the floor. Tomorrow in bed, sleep hazey and drifting. However.
Ryan is all slow touches and sweeping caresses. He traces the goosebumps he raises on Pete's skin as if they were braille and follows them with his lips. It's a slow heat, a slow burn. He's making memories for a 'later' he can't imagine, but expects all the same.
6
Ryan, in Pete's humble-enough opinion, is an unusually heavy sleeper. When he can sleep. Ryan usually can't, though, because Pete can't sleep. Pete's having trouble feeling bad about it, but he tries.
Pete passes out more often than he sleeps, but when he makes the effort it doesn't usually work out. He lies still enough for Ryan when he can, though, and Ryan thinks it's the thought that counts.
7
Pete says goodbye like he never means it. It's a throw away comment to tide people (Ryan) over until the call five minutes later and the text after that and the ten hour plane ride back to him three months and four days later. It's a mantra to himself because there are no endings until you believe them.
Ryan says goodbye like it's always the last time. There's "never again" etched into every parting hug. It's in the way he says "see you around" or "later" or "don't fucking die, asshole" like he can't believe the first two, and stays up thinking about the last late at night when things are too quiet and his head is too loud.
They both say goodbye, but they never hear it.
8
Home is every cramped apartment and too-many-rooms house. It's every motel, hotel, van, and tour bus. It's bodies within arms reach and friends just a phone call away. It's the feel of warm skin and soft breaths in the night. It's where ever and whenever they are.
Pete and Ryan are both sure of this.
Author: languisity
Rating: R
Fandom/Pairing: FOB/PatD, Pete/Ryan.
Summary: How they are the same. How they aren't.
Disclaimer: Unicorns are more real than this story.
Author's Note: Thanks to 1001cranes for the beta-ing.
1
Ryan gives away his hellos the way most people give money to the homeless, with underlying suspicion. It's not a conscious habit. When he says "hi" it's a soft sound, muttered with muscle memory distrust. Ryan's giving an inch and he expects more to be taken, does his best to make sure it isn't.
Pete breathes out his hellos, gathers them with each breath and sets them free on each exhale. They're obligatory invitations tied to false hopes and it's not really enough. It's hardly ever enough.
They both take what they can get.
2
Pete talks fast and often, except when he doesn't. He talks about everything and anything, except when he doesn't. But he's always wanting Ryan to listen.
Ryan speaks carefully, voice low, and nearly expressionless. It's the kind of voice you have to pay attention to if only because there isn't anything about it that makes you want to pay attention, and you can almost hear him thinking as the words stumble their way past his lips.
They both ask, "You know? I mean, you know?"
Pete says, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
Ryan says, "I understand."
3
Pete writes like he's bleeding. His pen (or crayon or keyboard...) is an extension of his wounded soul, hemmoraging his deepest, truest thoughts. But mostly it's just that sometimes his thoughts are too big and too fast and too many all at once. Sometimes he just needs to get them out of his head to get closer to that blank space he's been dreading and dreaming of. So he writes when he can where ever he can with no regard for grammar, syntax, or proper punctuation. He writes in his paper journal and in his blogs, on diner napkins and on his arms and sometimes -- sometimes he could swear his head was a little clearer for it.
Ryan has a journal that he writes in religiously, even just to say he doesn't feel like writing that day. He chooses his words carefully and whites out the ones he's having second thoughts about until he can find the right fit. He writes everything he means and everything he doesn't mean and makes sure to state the differences. It's an exercise in honesty and precision. Precise honesty. Ryan's saving it for himself; he's the only one who wants it.
Neither one of them can speak their own words.
4
Pete... Pete doesn't have secrets. Ryan doesn't think so, anyway. They can't be secrets when he writes them for the world to see. Not when he sets them to music for someone else to sing. Pete doesn't have secrets, he has confessions, and every place he steps is hallowed ground.
Ryan has secrets. Ryan's secrets have secrets, and Pete wants to tear them out one by one. He doesn't. He can't. Instead he coaxes them out, and when that doesn't work, he waits. Pete waits until Ryan has to tell, mouth pressed to Pete's neck, Pete's stomach. Lips pushing a steady stream of hushed words into Pete.
Ryan hopes for absolution, Pete believes in it.
5
When Ryan and Pete have sex, it's a lot less like fucking but even less like making love and, beyond getting off, this is the only thing they can agree upon implicitly.
Pete wants-- now, more, always-- and doesn't really care how. Today in a bathroom, hushed voices and rushed hands. That night on the floor. Tomorrow in bed, sleep hazey and drifting. However.
Ryan is all slow touches and sweeping caresses. He traces the goosebumps he raises on Pete's skin as if they were braille and follows them with his lips. It's a slow heat, a slow burn. He's making memories for a 'later' he can't imagine, but expects all the same.
6
Ryan, in Pete's humble-enough opinion, is an unusually heavy sleeper. When he can sleep. Ryan usually can't, though, because Pete can't sleep. Pete's having trouble feeling bad about it, but he tries.
Pete passes out more often than he sleeps, but when he makes the effort it doesn't usually work out. He lies still enough for Ryan when he can, though, and Ryan thinks it's the thought that counts.
7
Pete says goodbye like he never means it. It's a throw away comment to tide people (Ryan) over until the call five minutes later and the text after that and the ten hour plane ride back to him three months and four days later. It's a mantra to himself because there are no endings until you believe them.
Ryan says goodbye like it's always the last time. There's "never again" etched into every parting hug. It's in the way he says "see you around" or "later" or "don't fucking die, asshole" like he can't believe the first two, and stays up thinking about the last late at night when things are too quiet and his head is too loud.
They both say goodbye, but they never hear it.
8
Home is every cramped apartment and too-many-rooms house. It's every motel, hotel, van, and tour bus. It's bodies within arms reach and friends just a phone call away. It's the feel of warm skin and soft breaths in the night. It's where ever and whenever they are.
Pete and Ryan are both sure of this.