Haze [1/1]
*Note: This is not new, it is a repost. It was originally posted on 09/28/07.
Title: Haze
Author: periculosa
Pairing: Pete/Patrick (Fall Out Boy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Fictional.
Summary: Sometimes, you only say things when you know nobody can hear you.
Notes: Total fluff! Written for the June 9th prompt on we_are_cities. I actually started it that day, but I had to go to work before I finished, and I fell out of the ~groove. Anyway, I hope you like it. :D
Haze
Pete only writes when Patrick is asleep.
Patrick is always perplexed by the sheer amount of material Pete is able to churn out; every other Wednesday, Pete will smile at him from the corner of his mouth, and subtly nudge his worn spiral notebook towards him, but as Patrick’s eyes skim over Pete’s words, he always wonders when Pete ever got the time to write it all. Whenever he sees Pete (which is every waking minute of every waking hour, generally), he’s laughing, or smiling, or joking, or just being, and Patrick doesn’t see how he has the time to be as introspective as he needs to be to create. Pete never answers the unspoken question, but instead, his teeth show and his eyes crinkle, and Patrick averts his gaze because he still feels pretty inferior, despite the fact that they’ve been best friends for two years already.
But whenever they settle into a hotel room for the night, Patrick sees a different side of Pete. Instead of being bouncy and obnoxious and energetic, he seems much more melancholy and lethargic and introverted. There must be something in the dusty lights, the dusty curtains, the dusty sheets, Patrick thinks, because when Pete sits on top of his bed, that’s all he does, really. He sits, and he stares towards the obstructed window, and sometimes he even closes his eyes. It’s usually late after a gig, and Patrick’s really too tired to make sense of any of it. He always says he’ll put off the thinking until later, but he never does, because he always forgets until the next time, when he’s too tired to think again.
Joe and Andy don’t notice the change, because they’re either too wrapped up in their own problems to focus on Pete’s (Patrick’s?), or they’re in a different room. Pete always puts his arm around Patrick and says, “You’re with me tonight.” Patrick never argues.
[//]
Patrick doesn’t know what Pete looks like when he’s asleep, not really. He’s seen Pete fall asleep on the bus a few times, but that’s not really sleep. It’s more of an escape from the immediate world-a couple of moments of isolation in order to regain some semblance of coherency. Pete never stays in that state long, and when he wakes up, he never appears groggy. He just shifts slightly, and jumps into whatever conversation without missing a beat. Patrick is even intimidated by him then.
At night, Pete hardly sleeps. He’s the biggest insomniac ever, and Patrick wonders how he even has enough energy to play shows. Patrick always falls asleep the instant his head hits the pillow, and he’s always awakened by Pete ruffling his hair or yanking off his covers or jumping on him. Logic tells Patrick that Pete must sleep at some time or another, but he just always manages to miss it when it’s happening. Even if he gets up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, he passes Pete’s bed and he can’t tell if Pete’s asleep or just lying very, very still.
Patrick doesn’t know why, but for some reason, he really wants to watch Pete sleep. There’s a sort of vulnerability that cannot be recreated in any other way, and Patrick feels like in order for him to feel at ease around Pete, he has to see it.
[//]
One night, in the middle of the night, Patrick wakes up unexpectedly. It’s got to be around four in the morning, but Patrick suddenly finds himself wide-awake. He doesn’t move, though; he’s on his side, facing towards where Pete’s bed is, and he just keeps his eyes closed for a while, sort of just being. And it’s the strangest thing; he can hear whispers. In his sleep-hazed mind, this doesn’t seem at all odd, and Patrick just lets the sounds of a voice-Pete’s, he thinks belatedly-wrap around him and soothe him. The words aren’t discernable, but there’s something comforting about them, something that feels like cool summer nights and bright stars through drawn curtains and home.
But after a few minutes, Patrick’s consciousness catches up with time, and he starts to feel like he’s intruding on something, since Pete clearly thinks he’s asleep. When Patrick opens his eyes, he looks past the night table and straight towards Pete’s bed, which is still made. Pete is sitting on top of the pristine covers, facing towards Patrick with his notebook in his lap, and his eyes wide open.
“Pete, is that you?” he mumbles through his sleepy haze. It’s a silly question, really, but Patrick’s half asleep and he’s not really sure how else to tell Pete that he’s suddenly reached some state of consciousness.
“What?” Pete says, his whispers cutting themselves off short and his voice coming out at a normal volume, and Patrick thinks that maybe he caught him off guard, just a little. “Oh, yeah. Um, I didn’t know you were awake.”
“I wasn’t,” Patrick says slowly, sitting up and facing Pete. “But I am now, I guess.”
“Oh,” Pete says, putting his notebook down on the night table, and folding the heavily creased cover over the page he was writing on. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” Patrick says carefully, wondering why things were so awkward.
“Good,” Pete replies, and in the dark, Patrick can see the inked ring of thorns across Pete’s chest; there’s a sliver of light that’s falling on him just so, and Patrick finds himself wondering, not for the first time, how Pete manages to look beautiful all the time.
Pete shifts on the bed, trying to get under the covers.
“Go back to sleep, ‘Trick,” he says, and Patrick feels patronized, but it doesn’t really make him angry.
“Okay.” Patrick closes his eyes, and in the morning he forgets.
[//]
Pete doesn’t do anything halfway; this, Patrick has always known. If he wants to do something, he pulls out all the stops and just does it, even if it’s completely insane or potentially dangerous. So when Pete plays, he always gives it his all, even when he’s ill.
Patrick’s surprised when Pete’s sniffle shows itself, because Pete’s one of those people that Patrick thinks can’t ever get sick. Sure, he’s a mess in his head a lot of the time, but Pete isn’t the type to let physical weakness get the best of him. The first few sneezes go unnoticed, but then Pete’s eyes get kind of red and puffy, and oh, okay. Then his voice gets even more nasal, and Patrick thinks it’s kind of endearing, but when they get to the next venue he asks Pete if he’ll be okay when he plays.
“Of course, man,” he says, rubbing his eyes a little. “Don’t worry about me.”
So Patrick doesn’t, and when they’re on stage, Pete slams the strings on his bass just as hard as he usually does, and he might even scream louder. His smile, it’s blinding as usual, and Patrick actually forgets. That is, until they stumble off stage on their post-show high and Pete is unusually silent. Patrick chances a look at him, and sees that whatever energy he had on stage is completely gone now, and he’s about ready to fall over. But still, Pete rests one of his hands on the small of Patrick’s back and curves it over until it’s settled into his waist, then leans in close and whispers something quietly in Patrick’s ear, something about the show or his voice or maybe the hotel, but Patrick can’t really understand it. He’s too caught up in breath-motion-Pete, and all the words and specifics sort of just disintegrate between the small space between himself and Pete.
So Patrick smiles shyly and his hand quakes a little with uncertainty as he rests it on Pete’s hip, in a gesture of camaraderie. Pete’s mouth brushes Patrick’s cheek briefly, perhaps even accidentally, and at the same time that Patrick freezes uncomfortably and stops breathing, he wants to just give up and completely fall into it.
But then Pete’s moved away, and he’s back to looking folded-in and unhappy. And behind all those smiles, Patrick can not only see but also feel his exhaustion, and really, he has to sleep sometime. Patrick thinks this might be the night.
[//]
When they get to the hotel, there are no words exchanged. Pete and Patrick wordlessly make their way to the room they know is theirs, and Pete’s exhaustion is contagious because Patrick can feel the absence of kinetic energy in the air, and the lethargy sinks into his bones until even the idea of brushing his teeth becomes too much. He removes his glasses and drops them carelessly on the night table, and casts one last look at Pete, sprawled on top of his covers with his eyes open, before he drifts off.
Patrick’s dreams lack color; in fact, they lack light as well. They’re as dark as the room he’s wrapped in, but also just as soft, and he can hear. He can always hear the whispers, almost tangible, pressing themselves against his closed eyelids and the spot just under his jaw. He doesn’t have to think.
He wakes up just as the first stream of light is making its way across the room, filtering through the dusky curtains and resting in a pool by the door. Patrick can feel Sleep clinging to his eyelashes, but he can also hear soft, even breathing coming from the next bed over, and when he blinks a few times, he can feel Sleep dislodging itself, and splashing into the recesses of the room. Patrick lifts himself up on one elbow, and squints at Pete’s bed.
Pete’s sleeping. Really sleeping. His eyes are closed softly and his mouth is open a little, and his cheek is squished against the pillow, and one of his arms is twisted behind him at an awkward angle. Patrick feels the corner of his mouth rising in a reluctant smile; this is what he’s wanted to see.
Patrick quietly folds over his covers so he can swing his legs over to the floor. The sliver of carpet under his foot is warm from where the sunlight touched, and when he gets up and begins to walk, he doesn’t make a sound. The air is still, and the room is silent except for Pete’s breathing, and this, Patrick thinks, is how things should always be.
Patrick feels kind of creepy as he stands over Pete’s bed, but he pushes those thoughts out of his head quickly. Instead, he looks at Pete, and he knows how cliché it is, but he’s beautiful when he sleeps. Seeing him like this is strange; asleep, Pete is robbed of everything that makes him Pete-the energy, the tongue-in-cheek comments, the wide grin-and it’s eerie at the same time it is endearing.
“Pete,” Patrick whispers. Pete doesn’t move a muscle. “Pete, you’re such an ass,” he continues fondly, his voice still low and secretive. “But, um. I think you know that. And I, well, I put up with you anyway, so. I think that’s got to count for something, yeah?” Patrick swallows hard, and he wonders briefly if he can ever forgive himself for doing this. But, he reasons, some things need to be said, and some things that need to be said should not be said when they can be heard.
So Patrick keeps talking. He doesn’t even remember half of what he says, but he figures he must mean most of it, or he wouldn’t be saying it. He may or may not tell Pete that he hates that he has to be with him but not with him, and he might confess that when Pete messes with him, it means a little more than it should. Once Patrick starts talking, he can’t exactly stop, and throughout the whole thing, he’s half expecting Pete to open his eyes and smile, and tell him Hey, ‘Trick, don’t you worry, I know how you feel. But Pete’s eyes remain closed, and his mouth remains slack, and Patrick remembers that no, he isn’t in a cheesy romance novel. This is real life, and in real life, things don’t work out nicely like that.
When Patrick runs out of things to say, he gets to his feet and leans close over Pete’s face. He hovers there for a moment, and he just wants to press a kiss to the corner of his eye, but he’s afraid to touch him, because if he does, Pete will wake up, and he’ll have a lot of explaining to do. So Patrick climbs back into his bed and lets the moment fade with the remaining dark: when the sun is up, everything must return to normal, and that magical place where Night clings to Day is gone.
[//]
Pete’s awake and on his made bed, his legs crossed and his face relaxed as he listens to Patrick’s paced breathing.
“I hope you’re having sweet dreams, ‘Trick,” he whispers, even though Patrick can’t hear.
Pete sighs. “There are some things that I can’t tell you when you’re awake,” he says automatically; it’s routine by now. Pete likes it when Patrick is asleep, because he can say whatever he wants, and Patrick won’t roll his eyes or laugh it off. He’ll just stay still, and some part of him, maybe, will listen. “Like how my favorite thing is when you smile. Or when you sing. I’m not really sure about that one, but.” Pete pauses. “But when the light hits you, I know that you’re it, and I wouldn’t be able to explain that if you asked me to. You just are, okay?”
Pete rubs his eyes and fiddles with one of the pages in his notebook, folding the corner between his fingers, then bending it back the other way. It’s in that time that can’t quite be considered dawn-when Pete feels like he’s hanging halfway between here and there-that he feels the most optimistic. It’s when he can write.
Pete gets up and walks over to Patrick’s bed, then, with a gentle hand, touches his face. Patrick makes a small noise but doesn’t stir; his eyelids twitch a little, and so does his mouth, but he’s still dreaming, and Pete knows this from all the hours he’s watched it happen. The minimal light makes strands of Patrick’s hair glow golden, and Pete can’t help but touch it gently, and continue his whispers. Most of them don’t even make sense, but when his eyes are cast downward and he can see Patrick’s chest rise in time with his own, he almost believes in romance. But Patrick’s never opened his eyes and appreciated what was happening.
Today he does, and when he whispers Pete’s name, and when Pete hushes him first with a press of his finger, then with the press of his lips, Pete knows that Patrick finally understands. It happens right as Night stops desperately clinging to Day, and when Pete and Patrick, they’re finally here as opposed to there. The haze lifts, the sun rises. Two dusky smiles press together. Everything shines.