find a way for what you want to say
adellyna: man
adellyna: you know what you should write me?
adellyna: bill/patrick!!!
heartequals: !!!
This is, obviously, for adellyna; this took me too long. ily! Thanks to dreamofthem for the beta and violentfires for educating me about North American beers. Sorry that it got all britpop in the middle. Title from "Supersonic" by Oasis.
Find a way (Patrick/William, pg, 1452)
Teenage rock stars!
William folds himself into an abandoned arm chair and awaits well-wishers.
William wraps an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and he says, "you and me, Patrick."
Patrick wiggles away. “‘m gonna go get something to drink,” he mumbles.
William smiles and lets him go with a shove. "Go." He's never been one to hold his friends back and to start now would be criminal. Besides. Patrick has a radar for the good beer. He never shows up with Bud light and rarely with anything in a can. Patrick is a most useful drummer.
Patrick looks at him funny.
William spreads his arms, wide. "Dos Equis!" he says. "Dos Equis for this motherfuckin' rock star."
"One houseparty," says Patrick, a little flushed from booze or music or flattery.
"Just tell them William Beckett sent you," says William, with all the confidence their thirty-minute set in the living room of Paul's cousin's house allows. Which is a fuck of a lot, thank you very much. Neverenders triumphed at their first ever gig. Paul's cousin said so. They triumphed, and there was even applause between songs. There might have been people dancing.
William folds himself into an abandoned arm chair and awaits well-wishers.
When none appear, he sings along to whatever's blasting on the stereo. Britpop or something. He could take 'em! He could take 'em all, Noel, Liam, Damon. They weren't named William Beckett. And they hadn't just triumphed a thirty-minute set in Paul's friend's living room to actual applause.
He sings along anyway, and runs a hand through his hair, pleased when his fingers come back uninked. The dye is not running. William approves. He knew black was the way to go, and never mind that it was women's hair dye. Rock stars were meant to break gender rules anyway.
"Here," says Patrick. He hands a bottle of Dos Equis to William. "Move."
William is keeping this drummer. It's even a cold bottle. He makes space for Patrick on the arm chair. It's an easy fit, since Patrick is shorter and William is taller and they're both still growing, losing weight and gaining length. Patrick's hair, for example, is longer than William's. It looks like he's going blonde. William peers, and touches his hair. "You're getting light, my friend," he says.
"You're too dark," says Patrick. "That hair dye makes you look goth."
"Shut up," says William. "I'm a rock star." He tugs a hand through his hair and it sticks up in all directions.
"You look like an emo dandelion." Patrick yawns. "Is this Oasis?"
"Feelin' supersonic," William hums.
"Give me gin and tonic," Patrick sings, quiet, so only William can hear.
"You can have it all you want, but how much do you want it," William finishes. "Patrick, sing with me."
"No," says Patrick, ducking his head. His hair falls into his face.
William squeezes an arm around Patrick's shoulders and they settle a little more comfortably.
"Please?"
"No."
William hums. That thirty-minute set was just warm-up. He could go another two hours - maybe three. Maybe even four. Not five though. Only assholes play five hour concerts. But perhaps when he's famous, and all his friends are famous, he could get all his friends on stage and play for five hours. Hell. William would be playing but he'd still pay good money to see that.
"Would you play a five hour set?" he asks.
"Only assholes do that," says Patrick. He tips his head back. He appears to be dozing off. That's all right. They just played a thirty-minute set, and Patrick had carried all the parts that William hadn't, drumming like he'd never fucking drummed in practice. Drumming like explosions, limbs everywhere. Grinning and singing along with William, even though he didn't have a mic. It was beautiful. The most beautiful thing William had seen all night, maybe even all week. William wonders where the fuck that energy have been during all their rehearsals.
He tugs on Patrick's hair.
"Bill," says Patrick, unhappy.
"You were amazing," says William sharply. "What the fuck."
"What the fuck?"
William tugs on his hair again. "Patrick. You were bigger than I was."
"That's impossible," says Patrick. His eyes are closed. "No one is bigger than you."
William ducks his head, but his hair isn't quite long enough to cover his flushed face. Just as well, he thinks, and takes a celebratory swig of his Dos Equis. Flattery will take some getting used to.
"I'm not very big?" he attempts, trying for modesty.
"Magnanimous," says Patrick, pining him with a stare. They face off for one, two, and then Patrick seems to pass out on William's shoulder.
William tries not move very much so Patrick can get some rest. He watches the people instead. There are a lot of people at this party. No one is really dancing right now, not like they might've been dancing when William was singing and Patrick was drumming and Paul was guitaring. William nods. Just as it should, and always will, be.
He hums along to the music and imagines himself on stage, towering over thousands of applauding, dancing people. He tries to imagine himself triumphant, magnanimous, but he can only see himself perfectly content, with his arms spread wide to welcome the world.
“Yo, kid,” says a man whom William remembers being introduced as ‘Paul’s cousin’s friend.’ “You’re in that band.”
Paul’s cousin’s friend has a girl clinging to him and she lights up when she looks at William. “Yeah, you!”
“Yes,” says William, startling a little. “Yes, that was me.”
“You were fuckin’ sweet,” says the girl on his arm, “oh kid, you were fuckin’ sweet.”
“Thank you,” says William, smiling. He’s a little taken aback by them. “I had a lot of fun.”
“Fuckin’ sweet,” she repeats.
“So fuckin’ good,” says Paul’s cousin’s friend. “And your fuckin’ drummer, man.”
“I know,” says William, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick stirs, but only just.
“Fuck, man,” says Paul’s cousin’s friend.
They stare at each other. William smiles and they look elated.
“Hey,” says Paul’s cousin’s friend. “Hey, can you do ‘American Pie’?”
“I don’t do requests,” says William, suddenly tired. “Sorry.”
The girl on Paul’s cousin’s friend’s arm bursts out laughing. She cheers. “Fuck you, you’re a fuckin’ rock star!”
“Fuckin’ rock star,” nods Paul’s cousin’s friend and the two stagger away singing along to the stereo. Patrick shifts a little closer, cheek pressed into William’s shoulder. William slides down. So. He has faced his first two drunken well-wishers and he has won. He smiles into his lap. He’s a fuckin’ rock star.
With that thought, he slides a little lower and dozes off on the chair next to Patrick. He might’ve dreamed something big, magnanimous, but he can’t remember once he’s being shaken awake by Paul’s cousin.
“Clear out, kid,” says Paul’s cousin, looking frantic. “Cops are coming, you gotta get the fuck out.”
William blinks and raises a hand to rub at his eyes. “Pardon?”
“Out,” says Paul’s cousin. He’s already turning away, back into a thinning crowd. “Get out, you were never here.”
“What?” says William, again, but Patrick’s awake too and pulling himself out of the chair. “Come on,” he says. “We can get our gear tomorrow.”
William realises the stereo’s off and that there’s a lot of shouting from the back of the house. He rubs his eyes again. Patrick takes his hand and they escape through the front door, just after a couple other underage teens. There are sirens in the distance.
Patrick pulls him down the street. Paul’s van is gone. William curses but Patrick just shakes his head. “His cousin probably kicked him out.”
They spend some time staring at the place where Paul’s van used to be until William says, “my house is closer, right?”
They walk home in the middle of the street where neither of them are in danger of falling off a sidewalk. It’s late, much later than William thought. The skies aren’t black anymore, but starting to turn grey. Somewhere in the city, the sun’s rising. William squints. Once they clear the roads around Paul’s cousin’s house, there are no moving cars and everything is dull and hushed like sleep.
Patrick is humming under his breath. William inclines his head. More Britpop.
“You think we could make it, Patrick?” asks William.
“Yeah,” says Patrick.
“You and me, Patrick?”
“Yeah, I think so,” says Patrick.
They walk several blocks in silence. William doesn’t realise they’re still holding hands until Patrick mutters, “yeah, bigger than Bowie, dude,” and William turns and presses his lips against Patrick’s.
Patrick shifts. William steps back, but he doesn’t let go. Patrick stares at him, unblinking, and then he smiles, just a little.
William smiles back.
They walk the rest of the way to William’s house in silence.
adellyna: you know what you should write me?
adellyna: bill/patrick!!!
heartequals: !!!
This is, obviously, for adellyna; this took me too long. ily! Thanks to dreamofthem for the beta and violentfires for educating me about North American beers. Sorry that it got all britpop in the middle. Title from "Supersonic" by Oasis.
Find a way (Patrick/William, pg, 1452)
Teenage rock stars!
William folds himself into an abandoned arm chair and awaits well-wishers.
William wraps an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and he says, "you and me, Patrick."
Patrick wiggles away. “‘m gonna go get something to drink,” he mumbles.
William smiles and lets him go with a shove. "Go." He's never been one to hold his friends back and to start now would be criminal. Besides. Patrick has a radar for the good beer. He never shows up with Bud light and rarely with anything in a can. Patrick is a most useful drummer.
Patrick looks at him funny.
William spreads his arms, wide. "Dos Equis!" he says. "Dos Equis for this motherfuckin' rock star."
"One houseparty," says Patrick, a little flushed from booze or music or flattery.
"Just tell them William Beckett sent you," says William, with all the confidence their thirty-minute set in the living room of Paul's cousin's house allows. Which is a fuck of a lot, thank you very much. Neverenders triumphed at their first ever gig. Paul's cousin said so. They triumphed, and there was even applause between songs. There might have been people dancing.
William folds himself into an abandoned arm chair and awaits well-wishers.
When none appear, he sings along to whatever's blasting on the stereo. Britpop or something. He could take 'em! He could take 'em all, Noel, Liam, Damon. They weren't named William Beckett. And they hadn't just triumphed a thirty-minute set in Paul's friend's living room to actual applause.
He sings along anyway, and runs a hand through his hair, pleased when his fingers come back uninked. The dye is not running. William approves. He knew black was the way to go, and never mind that it was women's hair dye. Rock stars were meant to break gender rules anyway.
"Here," says Patrick. He hands a bottle of Dos Equis to William. "Move."
William is keeping this drummer. It's even a cold bottle. He makes space for Patrick on the arm chair. It's an easy fit, since Patrick is shorter and William is taller and they're both still growing, losing weight and gaining length. Patrick's hair, for example, is longer than William's. It looks like he's going blonde. William peers, and touches his hair. "You're getting light, my friend," he says.
"You're too dark," says Patrick. "That hair dye makes you look goth."
"Shut up," says William. "I'm a rock star." He tugs a hand through his hair and it sticks up in all directions.
"You look like an emo dandelion." Patrick yawns. "Is this Oasis?"
"Feelin' supersonic," William hums.
"Give me gin and tonic," Patrick sings, quiet, so only William can hear.
"You can have it all you want, but how much do you want it," William finishes. "Patrick, sing with me."
"No," says Patrick, ducking his head. His hair falls into his face.
William squeezes an arm around Patrick's shoulders and they settle a little more comfortably.
"Please?"
"No."
William hums. That thirty-minute set was just warm-up. He could go another two hours - maybe three. Maybe even four. Not five though. Only assholes play five hour concerts. But perhaps when he's famous, and all his friends are famous, he could get all his friends on stage and play for five hours. Hell. William would be playing but he'd still pay good money to see that.
"Would you play a five hour set?" he asks.
"Only assholes do that," says Patrick. He tips his head back. He appears to be dozing off. That's all right. They just played a thirty-minute set, and Patrick had carried all the parts that William hadn't, drumming like he'd never fucking drummed in practice. Drumming like explosions, limbs everywhere. Grinning and singing along with William, even though he didn't have a mic. It was beautiful. The most beautiful thing William had seen all night, maybe even all week. William wonders where the fuck that energy have been during all their rehearsals.
He tugs on Patrick's hair.
"Bill," says Patrick, unhappy.
"You were amazing," says William sharply. "What the fuck."
"What the fuck?"
William tugs on his hair again. "Patrick. You were bigger than I was."
"That's impossible," says Patrick. His eyes are closed. "No one is bigger than you."
William ducks his head, but his hair isn't quite long enough to cover his flushed face. Just as well, he thinks, and takes a celebratory swig of his Dos Equis. Flattery will take some getting used to.
"I'm not very big?" he attempts, trying for modesty.
"Magnanimous," says Patrick, pining him with a stare. They face off for one, two, and then Patrick seems to pass out on William's shoulder.
William tries not move very much so Patrick can get some rest. He watches the people instead. There are a lot of people at this party. No one is really dancing right now, not like they might've been dancing when William was singing and Patrick was drumming and Paul was guitaring. William nods. Just as it should, and always will, be.
He hums along to the music and imagines himself on stage, towering over thousands of applauding, dancing people. He tries to imagine himself triumphant, magnanimous, but he can only see himself perfectly content, with his arms spread wide to welcome the world.
“Yo, kid,” says a man whom William remembers being introduced as ‘Paul’s cousin’s friend.’ “You’re in that band.”
Paul’s cousin’s friend has a girl clinging to him and she lights up when she looks at William. “Yeah, you!”
“Yes,” says William, startling a little. “Yes, that was me.”
“You were fuckin’ sweet,” says the girl on his arm, “oh kid, you were fuckin’ sweet.”
“Thank you,” says William, smiling. He’s a little taken aback by them. “I had a lot of fun.”
“Fuckin’ sweet,” she repeats.
“So fuckin’ good,” says Paul’s cousin’s friend. “And your fuckin’ drummer, man.”
“I know,” says William, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick stirs, but only just.
“Fuck, man,” says Paul’s cousin’s friend.
They stare at each other. William smiles and they look elated.
“Hey,” says Paul’s cousin’s friend. “Hey, can you do ‘American Pie’?”
“I don’t do requests,” says William, suddenly tired. “Sorry.”
The girl on Paul’s cousin’s friend’s arm bursts out laughing. She cheers. “Fuck you, you’re a fuckin’ rock star!”
“Fuckin’ rock star,” nods Paul’s cousin’s friend and the two stagger away singing along to the stereo. Patrick shifts a little closer, cheek pressed into William’s shoulder. William slides down. So. He has faced his first two drunken well-wishers and he has won. He smiles into his lap. He’s a fuckin’ rock star.
With that thought, he slides a little lower and dozes off on the chair next to Patrick. He might’ve dreamed something big, magnanimous, but he can’t remember once he’s being shaken awake by Paul’s cousin.
“Clear out, kid,” says Paul’s cousin, looking frantic. “Cops are coming, you gotta get the fuck out.”
William blinks and raises a hand to rub at his eyes. “Pardon?”
“Out,” says Paul’s cousin. He’s already turning away, back into a thinning crowd. “Get out, you were never here.”
“What?” says William, again, but Patrick’s awake too and pulling himself out of the chair. “Come on,” he says. “We can get our gear tomorrow.”
William realises the stereo’s off and that there’s a lot of shouting from the back of the house. He rubs his eyes again. Patrick takes his hand and they escape through the front door, just after a couple other underage teens. There are sirens in the distance.
Patrick pulls him down the street. Paul’s van is gone. William curses but Patrick just shakes his head. “His cousin probably kicked him out.”
They spend some time staring at the place where Paul’s van used to be until William says, “my house is closer, right?”
They walk home in the middle of the street where neither of them are in danger of falling off a sidewalk. It’s late, much later than William thought. The skies aren’t black anymore, but starting to turn grey. Somewhere in the city, the sun’s rising. William squints. Once they clear the roads around Paul’s cousin’s house, there are no moving cars and everything is dull and hushed like sleep.
Patrick is humming under his breath. William inclines his head. More Britpop.
“You think we could make it, Patrick?” asks William.
“Yeah,” says Patrick.
“You and me, Patrick?”
“Yeah, I think so,” says Patrick.
They walk several blocks in silence. William doesn’t realise they’re still holding hands until Patrick mutters, “yeah, bigger than Bowie, dude,” and William turns and presses his lips against Patrick’s.
Patrick shifts. William steps back, but he doesn’t let go. Patrick stares at him, unblinking, and then he smiles, just a little.
William smiles back.
They walk the rest of the way to William’s house in silence.