STORY. READ.
I have written genfic, and I don't know where to put it. Can't use patrickxpeter or slutrick due to the lack of slash. It's not a bookverse crossover, which exempts it from fahrenheit_0101. So I'm just gonna post it here. Which means, oh my god, a public entry. (Okay, to fahrenheit_0101 it goes. But I'm just gonna leave it here and link to it there because I am lazy.)
I think my mind has some sort of mechanism to insure that, in the odd event that I write gen, it is always crack. After all, the last one I wrote was a crossover between MCR and Sandman. And this one...well.
Title: Apocalypse Please
Author: new_evolution
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The end is near.
Disclaimer: Don't own, didn't happen, lyrics are courtesy of David Bowie.
When the warnings of nuclear holocaust started coming in over the airwaves, they dispersed and fled home to their respective families. Only when they were settled in did they realize that the four of them were a family, and there was no way they could be apart from each other in these last hours. Pete called Patrick, interrupting Patrick's call to Andy, who was on AIM talking to Joe at the same time. Hastily, they went over the logistics and decided to reconvene in Patrick's parents' basement. It seemed fitting to meet the end in the place where it had all begun.
Now they're clustered together in a circle, ignoring the couch and chairs in favor of the floor. It gives them the feeling of being huddled in a bomb shelter, except they know that the basement won't protect them if (when) the bombs hit.
"So this is it, huh?" Pete says. "The end of the world."
Andy rolls his eyes. "If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you were enjoying this."
"Well, you've gotta admit there's something exciting about the fact that we'll all be baked to a crisp within the next few hours--"
Joe snaps to attention. "Speaking of baked...." He starts going through his pockets. "Could've sworn I had it on me--a-ha." He extracts a plastic bag containing half a joint. "There is no way I'm staying sober for this."
As he's holding his breath after the first hit, Andy asks softly, "Feel like sharing that?"
Joe's lungful of smoke exits in a rush. "You?" he exclaims between coughs. "Okay, now I know we're all gonna die, because this has to be a sign of the apocalypse."
Andy glances between Pete and Patrick's bewildered faces. "Well, I'd let them give me morphine if I had terminal cancer. This isn't much different."
"The hell it isn't!" Pete says angrily. "What about your principles? What about dying as you lived?"
Andy rubs at his temples. "One, I'm not about to listen to a lecture on straight-edge principles from the fucking Drugstore Cowboy. Two, if I'm dead, it won't make much difference. And three...." He sighs. "I just don't really want to be thinking clearly right now."
Joe, looking slightly awed, passes him the joint. Andy takes it in his fingertips, and a sheepish expression crosses his face. "You think you could, uh, show me how?"
Joe isn't sure whether to laugh or cry at that. He settles for patiently explaining the mechanics of pot-smoking--taking a few small drags, breathing in air afterwards to force the smoke into the lungs, holding it in for as long as possible. Andy coughs surprisingly little upon exhaling.
"I don't feel anything."
"It'll kick in soon. Be patient."
Andy starts to give the joint back, but then Patrick speaks up. "Pass it here."
Pete gives him a pained look. "Not you too."
Patrick shrugs. "Can't let them have all the fun, can we?" He takes the lighter from Joe and the joint from Andy and calmly sparks up as though he's been doing it all his life.
He tries to hand the joint to Pete after he's done; all he gets is a you've-lost-your-mind stare. He nudges him playfully. "Come on, cowboy. What's one more chemical going to hurt?"
Pete sighs. "Oh, what the hell."
---
Joe is now wondering why he never tried to get Patrick stoned before, as it is possibly the most entertaining thing he has ever seen. Currently, the boy is giggling madly, face red, hat askew, and fighting a losing battle to explain what he finds amusing. Joe thinks he might have heard the words "cockroaches" and "Keith Richards" in there somewhere. Pete is laughing almost as hard at his pitiful attempts at coherent speech, while Andy just smiles and plays mindlessly with a lock of his hair.
By and by, they quiet down, and the four of them look around at each other in a moment of reflection. "This is perfect," Patrick murmurs happily. "I just wish we had music."
Pete gives him a light shove. "Then sing something, genius."
"Oh. Right. What should I sing?"
"Anything about the end of the world. Except that stupid REM song."
"Hang on." They can almost see him scrolling through his mental music archive. "Okay, got it." He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. "Pushing through the market square, so many mothers sighing...."
When he gets to the chorus, the other three join in. They throw their arms across each other's shoulders and sway, as though they were around a campfire or at a bar on a Saturday night instead of in a basement at the end of the world. "Five years, stuck on my eyes/Five years, what a surprise/We got five years, my brain hurts a lot/Five years, and that's all we've got...."
"But we don't have five years," Andy says contemplatively, after they finish. "It's gonna be, what, probably an hour, if that."
Joe groans. "God, you're a buzzkill even when you're high."
Andy is about to reply with a snarky comment when a quiet sniffle cuts him short. He looks over to realize that Patrick is in tears.
Usually Patrick is more mature than the three of them put together, but then sometimes there are moments like this, when he seems to lose ten years off his age and six inches off his height, and he suddenly becomes everyone's little brother. Three pairs of arms surround him like blankets, and he relaxes into the triple embrace, sobbing.
"Hey," Pete whispers in his ear. "Calm down, Rickster. It's gonna be okay."
"How can you say that?" Patrick wails. "It'll all be over, and nobody will ever hear the songs I was going to write, and I never got to have kids...."
"If you had kids, they'd be dying too," Pete says logically, "and imagine how much worse you'd feel then. Come on, don't think of it as an ending, think of it as an adventure. We're going someplace we've never been before."
Patrick leans his head on Pete's shoulder. "Where d'you think we're going?"
"To the place where all musicians go when they die," Pete replies quietly, "where the streets are paved with old drum heads, and there are shows every night starring everyone you never got to see when they were alive. You'll get to meet Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, Jeff Buckley...." He looks around. "Who else?"
Andy replies, "Joe Strummer."
"Dimebag Darrell," Joe offers, and the others laugh.
"Freddie Mercury," Patrick says finally, "and Billie Holiday." He sounds a bit happier.
Pete continues, "And we'll play guitars with strings made from the molten metal at the hearts of stars, and there'll be no stupid Top Forty because every song will be the best, and you'll be able to sing as long as you want without your throat getting sore."
Patrick smiles a little and whispers, "Thank you."
The four of them are still holding onto each other, and nobody seems to want to let go. Andy glances at his watch. "Shouldn't be much longer now."
Pete looks up from where his face is resting against the top of Patrick's head. "Well, boys?" He grins. "Shall we go out singing?"
"One of ours this time," Joe suggests, and Andy nods in agreement. Patrick breaks into the opening lines of "Saturday," shakily at first, but gathering strength as he goes. The others add their voices to his, slowly building in volume.
Soon the missiles will come, shattering the sky like bullets through glass. Soon the world will be silent forever. But at this moment, their song seems louder than any explosion.
Fin
I think my mind has some sort of mechanism to insure that, in the odd event that I write gen, it is always crack. After all, the last one I wrote was a crossover between MCR and Sandman. And this one...well.
Title: Apocalypse Please
Author: new_evolution
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The end is near.
Disclaimer: Don't own, didn't happen, lyrics are courtesy of David Bowie.
When the warnings of nuclear holocaust started coming in over the airwaves, they dispersed and fled home to their respective families. Only when they were settled in did they realize that the four of them were a family, and there was no way they could be apart from each other in these last hours. Pete called Patrick, interrupting Patrick's call to Andy, who was on AIM talking to Joe at the same time. Hastily, they went over the logistics and decided to reconvene in Patrick's parents' basement. It seemed fitting to meet the end in the place where it had all begun.
Now they're clustered together in a circle, ignoring the couch and chairs in favor of the floor. It gives them the feeling of being huddled in a bomb shelter, except they know that the basement won't protect them if (when) the bombs hit.
"So this is it, huh?" Pete says. "The end of the world."
Andy rolls his eyes. "If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you were enjoying this."
"Well, you've gotta admit there's something exciting about the fact that we'll all be baked to a crisp within the next few hours--"
Joe snaps to attention. "Speaking of baked...." He starts going through his pockets. "Could've sworn I had it on me--a-ha." He extracts a plastic bag containing half a joint. "There is no way I'm staying sober for this."
As he's holding his breath after the first hit, Andy asks softly, "Feel like sharing that?"
Joe's lungful of smoke exits in a rush. "You?" he exclaims between coughs. "Okay, now I know we're all gonna die, because this has to be a sign of the apocalypse."
Andy glances between Pete and Patrick's bewildered faces. "Well, I'd let them give me morphine if I had terminal cancer. This isn't much different."
"The hell it isn't!" Pete says angrily. "What about your principles? What about dying as you lived?"
Andy rubs at his temples. "One, I'm not about to listen to a lecture on straight-edge principles from the fucking Drugstore Cowboy. Two, if I'm dead, it won't make much difference. And three...." He sighs. "I just don't really want to be thinking clearly right now."
Joe, looking slightly awed, passes him the joint. Andy takes it in his fingertips, and a sheepish expression crosses his face. "You think you could, uh, show me how?"
Joe isn't sure whether to laugh or cry at that. He settles for patiently explaining the mechanics of pot-smoking--taking a few small drags, breathing in air afterwards to force the smoke into the lungs, holding it in for as long as possible. Andy coughs surprisingly little upon exhaling.
"I don't feel anything."
"It'll kick in soon. Be patient."
Andy starts to give the joint back, but then Patrick speaks up. "Pass it here."
Pete gives him a pained look. "Not you too."
Patrick shrugs. "Can't let them have all the fun, can we?" He takes the lighter from Joe and the joint from Andy and calmly sparks up as though he's been doing it all his life.
He tries to hand the joint to Pete after he's done; all he gets is a you've-lost-your-mind stare. He nudges him playfully. "Come on, cowboy. What's one more chemical going to hurt?"
Pete sighs. "Oh, what the hell."
---
Joe is now wondering why he never tried to get Patrick stoned before, as it is possibly the most entertaining thing he has ever seen. Currently, the boy is giggling madly, face red, hat askew, and fighting a losing battle to explain what he finds amusing. Joe thinks he might have heard the words "cockroaches" and "Keith Richards" in there somewhere. Pete is laughing almost as hard at his pitiful attempts at coherent speech, while Andy just smiles and plays mindlessly with a lock of his hair.
By and by, they quiet down, and the four of them look around at each other in a moment of reflection. "This is perfect," Patrick murmurs happily. "I just wish we had music."
Pete gives him a light shove. "Then sing something, genius."
"Oh. Right. What should I sing?"
"Anything about the end of the world. Except that stupid REM song."
"Hang on." They can almost see him scrolling through his mental music archive. "Okay, got it." He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. "Pushing through the market square, so many mothers sighing...."
When he gets to the chorus, the other three join in. They throw their arms across each other's shoulders and sway, as though they were around a campfire or at a bar on a Saturday night instead of in a basement at the end of the world. "Five years, stuck on my eyes/Five years, what a surprise/We got five years, my brain hurts a lot/Five years, and that's all we've got...."
"But we don't have five years," Andy says contemplatively, after they finish. "It's gonna be, what, probably an hour, if that."
Joe groans. "God, you're a buzzkill even when you're high."
Andy is about to reply with a snarky comment when a quiet sniffle cuts him short. He looks over to realize that Patrick is in tears.
Usually Patrick is more mature than the three of them put together, but then sometimes there are moments like this, when he seems to lose ten years off his age and six inches off his height, and he suddenly becomes everyone's little brother. Three pairs of arms surround him like blankets, and he relaxes into the triple embrace, sobbing.
"Hey," Pete whispers in his ear. "Calm down, Rickster. It's gonna be okay."
"How can you say that?" Patrick wails. "It'll all be over, and nobody will ever hear the songs I was going to write, and I never got to have kids...."
"If you had kids, they'd be dying too," Pete says logically, "and imagine how much worse you'd feel then. Come on, don't think of it as an ending, think of it as an adventure. We're going someplace we've never been before."
Patrick leans his head on Pete's shoulder. "Where d'you think we're going?"
"To the place where all musicians go when they die," Pete replies quietly, "where the streets are paved with old drum heads, and there are shows every night starring everyone you never got to see when they were alive. You'll get to meet Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, Jeff Buckley...." He looks around. "Who else?"
Andy replies, "Joe Strummer."
"Dimebag Darrell," Joe offers, and the others laugh.
"Freddie Mercury," Patrick says finally, "and Billie Holiday." He sounds a bit happier.
Pete continues, "And we'll play guitars with strings made from the molten metal at the hearts of stars, and there'll be no stupid Top Forty because every song will be the best, and you'll be able to sing as long as you want without your throat getting sore."
Patrick smiles a little and whispers, "Thank you."
The four of them are still holding onto each other, and nobody seems to want to let go. Andy glances at his watch. "Shouldn't be much longer now."
Pete looks up from where his face is resting against the top of Patrick's head. "Well, boys?" He grins. "Shall we go out singing?"
"One of ours this time," Joe suggests, and Andy nods in agreement. Patrick breaks into the opening lines of "Saturday," shakily at first, but gathering strength as he goes. The others add their voices to his, slowly building in volume.
Soon the missiles will come, shattering the sky like bullets through glass. Soon the world will be silent forever. But at this moment, their song seems louder than any explosion.
Fin