...To Find Some Beautiful Place To Get Lost [1/1]
Title: ...To Find Some Beautiful Place To Get Lost [Standalone]
Author: Rosa,
Pairing: Pierre/David
Rating: R
POV: David's
Summary: You don't have much, you and Pierre. AU, very much so.
Disclaimer: *sigh* Still not mine. Title belongs to Elliott Smith.
Author Notes: In between periods of not knowing what to write, I made a soundtrack for this. If you're interested. Maybe that's a little weird considering that this isn't anything epic, but yeah :)
New: This is the latest story I wrote, even though I posted it back in August, but I noticed there are many new faces and I'd like to share it with them =]. I'm working on some new stuff, one story in particular. And maybe even a pre-quel to this, if I find the right motivation.
Warnings: Language. Brief sexual content. Squirrel death.
Soundtrack: http://x--bangbangxx.livejournal.com/40528.html#cutid1
You don’t have much, you and Pierre; a small house on the corner of a busy street; a family with maybe one too many children as your closest neighbor. Screaming kids and speeding cars keep you awake, but it’s okay, you think, it’s comfortable. You have a car yourselves; small, like your house, unreliable. But it’s okay, you think, you work with what you’ve got.
As you walk together to the laundry mat, you realize just how domestic the two of you really are. In all actuality, you never thought you would be domesticated; that you would cling and depend on someone the way you do Pierre. His arm encircles your waist and reassures you that that isn’t a bad thing at all.
And really it’s not. As time goes by, you’ve become more accustomed to this “settling down” idea. This feeling you get every morning when you wake up in Pierre’s arms, his breath on your neck, and his heartbeat to your back. Safe. You don’t even mind that you more often wake up first and have to wait around, because secretly, just staring at him is enough to keep you occupied.
But you don’t tell him this, nor will you ever, because that’s just not how you do. You’re not one to voice these things you feel - not about to tell Pierre that he means so much to you. You probably couldn’t find the words anyway.
He’s the exact opposite. He says what he feels rather than holding it in like you do. And he never misses an opportunity to praise you, admire you. So unlike yourself and you hope to God that Pierre understands that you love him, need him, but just can’t say it.
*
Something has always been off about this part of tow. It’s frightening, but welcoming and you haven’t yet figured out how that can be. And it’s so honest, this area here, with it’s shitty laundry mat that you come to every week - the one with the uneven windows and cracked parking lot. Unkept, but unbeholden.
And it’s a pseudo constant too, these people here. The guy who sits in the corner, headphone clamped to his ears, singing songs out of tune; the man whose hands shake and he talks of Jesus and eternal life - the lady with him who is the only one that’s listening. Unashamed, unafraid, not deceitful.
Sometimes you wish you had that. You’ve based your whole life on half-lies and almost-truths - except for when it comes to Pierre, because he’s about the only truth you’ve ever known. One of the few people you trust.
You trust him so much, in so many ways, that it’s almost overwhelming. Your life together is almost overwhelming. Spinning spinning spinning and you think you should be throwing up now, think you should be dead because this is too good; too much, not enough and your alive.
This is yours.
*
When you’re eating, your foods can not, not, not touch. Ever. You keep things that are of no importance because you think, well someday you’ll need them; and it will be fucking spectacular when you can shove them in people’s faces and say,
“Ha-ha, motherfuckers, that’s what you get for not keeping your 10th grade Biology tests.”
You wash your hands and brush your teeth far more than the normal person. You carry baby wipes around in your messenger bag.
But now you’re in the laundry mat bathroom that you’re positive hasn’t been cleaned in years. Somehow - somehow, Pierre’s managed to get you on your knees; the dirty, grimy floor beneath you and the steady sound of clothes going through cycle coming through the walls. And it doesn’t even matter - doesn’t matter at all - because oh, the taste of Pierre on your tongue is the best thing in the world.
*
When you’re on top of a playground, it kind of feels like you’re going to live forever. It’s kind of like you’re playing the Sims - people coming out of nowhere, somewhere. Coming in, going out, never quite remaining in one place and maybe staying constant is overrated.
You think your childhood, and your adolescence, went by too fast. It’s kind of like they were never there at all, never really happened. You took off with Pierre as soon as you were both 18. Now you’re going on 21, but you feel younger than you have in years, more alive than you’ve ever felt. Pierre behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, head over your shoulder as you both stay poised at the top of the slide.
It’s so quiet here, compared to what it would sound like at this time in your own neighborhood. It’s a good quiet though, you think, it’s soothing. You decide you like it here, on these summer nights. Your eyes close and you pretend for a minute that you don’t have any responsibilities, your parents are proud of you, and Santa Clause is real. You close your eyes and dream of past summers with Pierre - way back when you were innocent and young, wide eyed and fascinated by the feel of his lips on yours when he pulled you to him and gave you your first kiss. You blink and none of that is now, but you’re exactly where you want to be, so you win.
“I really want to meet Billy Corgan,” you say, “just to tell him I appreciate his existence.”
Pierre just chuckles at you, low, and ruffles your hair, “Someday.”
He fucked up your hair and it’s taking everything you have not to pout because you know he will just tease you even more, so you resort to asking him a question that’s been begging you since you arrived at the park. A question that makes you feel so small and vulnerable and you really don’t like that.
“We can stay like this, yeah?”
“For now?”
“For forever,” you clarify, suddenly feeling even more insecure because maybe you’re being selfish again. Maybe he doesn’t want what you do.
“Of course we can,” he replies, hugging you tighter and kissing your cheek - a little awkward from this angle, but perfect.
You link hands and push off together down the slide.
*
The green Skittles are no longer just green Skittles. Now they’re Green Slushy. And okay, yeah, you think. Maybe.
Borderline irrelevant really, especially when Pierre’s got your pants down to your knees, finger venturing up the backs of your thighs, teasing around your entrance and pressing, almost. Not enough.
“You make me feel like a girl,” you grit out. So dirty in this laundry mat, waiting. You hope no one walks in because you think you’d just about die.
But Pierre just laughs at you, fingers curling, getting off on this because you’re such a -
“How so?”
You shift, the pressure of his fingers perfect against your spot and you’re surprised you can even talk.
“You’re fingering me!” Incredulous, but you press down against his hand anyway.
“Rather it was your tongue,” you add, breathless, as an afterthought of sorts.
Pierre smirks at you, presses his fingers deeper and says, “Later, babe.”
You moan.
*
Downtown’s so big, so dangerous but it’s okay because Pierre is so close. And it doesn’t even matter anymore that there could be someone waiting just around the corner to rob you blind, doesn’t phase you at all, because you know Pierre won’t let them have you.
*
“Dear Diary: my teen angst bullshit now has a body count.”
“Hey, I love this movie,” Pierre says, trying to pry the remote from your clutches. Not like you were going to turn anyway.
And you laugh a little because yeah, you already know this. You know everything about Pierre, you think, and that’s comforting beyond anything. Pierre throws an arm over your shoulder, tugs on you to cuddle closer until finally you give in - and yeah, you’re just playing with him.
*
Sometime during the movie Pierre managed to get you pinned under him. It was probably after you had started flipping back and forth from that channel to another because you own that damn movie. You and Pierre could be doing other…things and it was so anti-progressive.
“But it’s so much more special when it’s on TV,” Pierre had argued back. Maybe you agree with this, but you don’t say so, you just roll your hips upward, feeling only a little ridiculous.
Pierre however, just groans slightly and manages a, “You fight dirty Desrosiers,” before reaching between the cushions and rummaging around. Before you really have time to wonder what he’s doing, the concentrated look on his face disappears, only to be replaced with one of triumph. He retracts his hand from the depths of the sofa with an excited, “Aha!” and brandishes the small tube proudly.
You stare at him for a few moments before a small, embarrassed laugh spills from your lips.
“Why the hell is there lube in the sofa?”
*
Your senses are in total overload right now and you think it’s funny how used to this you’ve become. You can still remember when you were scared of sex; scared of anything more than three of Pierre’s fingers inside of you.
Hilarious almost, you think as you regard your current position: you on top of Pierre, Pierre’s cock lodged deep within you. Safe. Full. Touching that certain spot and you moan loudly, wondering when the hell you stopped being such a prude.
*
There’s a dead squirrel outside your house, on the street. Not hit by a car, but dead; inches away from being run over continuously.
You take a few steps forward, peering over at it curiously. It’s early, traffic isn’t so bad yet, but still you’re quite aware of what will become of the squirrel. From a distance it will almost resemble a tar stain, or wet leaves, but get closer and you’ll see a blend of fur and organs mashed into the concrete.
You’ve always wondered why people don’t move dead animals off the road - why there isn’t a job for doing just that. There’s the sound of a rushing car, a vile squish, and there’s blood on your feet.
At first you don’t move, can’t, not sure if you can even talk but you think you must’ve screamed or something because Pierre’s running out the front door - you can hear him.
His arms wrap around you, trying to get you to move. You can’t stop shaking and you did not need to see that. You almost think it was worse than the slaughter scene in Fast Food Nation.
Pierre’s trying to get you to calm down - wiping at your eyes and you didn’t even know you were crying. You’re just very glad that he’s not a squirrel.
*
Pierre is warm hands and gentle kisses; fingers through your hair and soft words in your ear. His voice is calm and maybe you just need to stop worrying so much - stop fussing over everything and just let things happen. And maybe that’s right. You spend most of your day fretting over things that shouldn’t even matter. Like what the old lady next door thinks when you kiss Pierre goodbye before he gets in the car for work. What people at your own job think of you when they see fresh marks on your neck every once in a while. What your parents are thinking right now; if they’re thinking of you at all. None of it is even vaguely important because you have a life that you love and even if you don’t have a lot, you have Pierre. So fuck it. Fuck them.
Pierre is pulling you closer to him, still talking to you - murmuring, rather, lyrics you think. His fingers run over your neck - your pulse, steady under his ministrations.
“But I bet the stars seemed so close, at the end.”
*
When you wake up late in the afternoon to warm limbs swathed around you and that familiar heartbeat to your back, you almost forget about the squirrel because you still have this. Pierre’s fingers tapping down your side and the quiet hum of you are my sunshine against your cheek - you’re really happy.
You turn around to face him and he’s grinning cheekily, fingers slipping into your boxers; not for sex though, just for the contact. You roll your eyes anyway, smile yourself and kiss him chastely.
“I love you,” you say.
He just laughs at you, quiet, “I know,” like it’s obvious and kisses you again, “Dude, you can borrow my bike anytime.”
“We were having a moment.”
He shrugs, “We have forever.” A promise.
And you’re quite content with that.
End.
Word Count - 2117