Candyland
Title: Candyland
Rating: PG
Author:
skelly_lector (AKA me.)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Warning: Some soul-eating fluff and a couple naughty words. Hold on to your hat.
Summary: Sometimes, Pete wishes Patrick didn't exist. And then there are other times when he thinks that Patrick's the only thing keeping him alive.
Disclaimer: This has never happened (to the best extent of my knowledge, in any case).
A/N: This is a one-shot I wrote a while ago, and it's one of my favorites. Hope you guys enjoy and I don't screw up too badly.
Sometimes, Pete wishes Patrick didn't exist.
When he stumbles back to the bus at three A.M. to discover the doors locked.
When he has to rattle the handles with alcohol-slippery fingers and scream so loud that the windows rattle.
When the door finally opens and he's greeted by an accusing stare, magnified by the dark-rimmed glasses he's stolen so many times.
Those are the sometimes he wishes that Patrick weren't real; that the tiny, strawberry-blond boy he'd first seen in that horrible, horrible, adorable argyle sweater was just a figment of his imagination.
And then there are the other times that Pete thinks that Patrick is the only thing keeping him alive.
When everything's too much, and the only thing that can sing him to sleep is Ambien in the key of overdose.
When he decides that maybe his name isn't Pete after all, that it's Alice, and the world on the other side of the mirror is where he really belongs. And then it turns out that the mirror doesn't quite work that way.
When his mind starts working so fast that everything's fuzzy and nothing seems real anymore but the soft, gentle arms around his chest, the comfortable shoulder his head rests against, and the faint breath brushing his ear.
Patrick always smells like licorice.
But in the most recent times, Patrick really does seem not to exist.
Pete wonders if Patrick's avoiding him. He can think of a million reasons why, but the one that won't leave him is recent. Patrick's saved his life, and he always wants to thank him. Patrick's the reason he is who he is today. Sometimes Pete wonders if that's necessarily a good thing.
"Seriously, Trick," Pete says, trying to pull on his "serious face" and not quite succeeding. "Like, here, I'll give you proof; Ashlee says she'd never have dated me in the old days. She didn't like the psycho I was back then."
Patrick just nods and smiles that certain sad smile that Pete rarely sees anymore. It used to come out a lot "in the old days", but now it's faded behind flashbulbs and a pile of press releases.
"I did," Patrick says softly, not looking at Pete.
It takes Pete a few seconds to figure out what Patrick meant, and by then, Patrick's already gone.
But Patrick's not really avoiding Pete; he's just busy. They're all just busy. Patrick's busy with his movies, his music, his producing. Andy's busy with his vegan, PETA stuff. And Joe's busy with...well, with whatever the hell it is Joe does.
And Pete's always busy. Sometimes he feels like Atlas; he's got an entire empire on his shoulders. Decaydance, Clandestine Industries, The Bat Squad; a bunch of brand names for what Pete used to think of as his dreams. Now, though, it's just a burden.
He hardly ever talks to Patrick anymore; half the time, he finds out what Trick's up to through the media instead of from Patrick. It's like being on an island, Pete thinks; every once in a while, he sees someone swim by, but they're too far away for him to call out to.
But really, it's more like a glass box. And everyone's living in their own box, soundproof and impenetrable. They can see everyone else walk past, but there's no communication. There's only really one time those boxes break, and, well, Pete doesn't do that with guys anymore.
So that's why Pete calls up the guys and suggests a new record. It's like they've been waiting for his signal; in a matter of days, they've convened in a studio in LA. Andy's got an apartment, and so does Joe, but Patrick sold his a while ago, because, in his words, "The whole town's built on bullshit."
Of course, having his huge house in Tinsel Town, Pete feels obligated to invite Patrick to stay.
"I wouldn't want to intrude," Patrick protests, his angel voice hesitant.
"Bullshit, Trick, I'd be happy to have you," Pete insists.
"But...Ashlee?" Patrick reminds him. "The baby?"
"Hey, the kid ain't even born yet, I wouldn't worry," Pete jokes, but Patrick doesn't even smile. "Besides," he adds quickly, "Ash is visiting her folks for a while. She's giving me my space for the writing and recording."
Patrick nods slowly, as if weighing the options under that fedora of his.
"Sure, Pete," he says finally, defeated. Pete squeals like a little kid on Christmas. Patrick just half-smiles and scribbles something down in the notebook he's taken to clutching like a teddy bear.
Things are fine for the first few days; having someone else in his house is like having one of those little Chinese fountains that are supposed to channel chi. Pete feels whole, calm, and productive, spilling out lyrics like a veritable machine.
Until one night, where he can't get things to sound right, and whenever he tries, his head starts to hurt. His hand reaches for the bedside drawer where he keeps the pill bottles, but it hits air. Then he remembers that night that Patrick visited his house and made him move the pills away from his bed. "You don't make good decisions when you're half asleep," Patrick said. And, in Pete's mind, Patrick is always right.
That's why he slips out of bed, out of his room, and down the hall into the guest bedroom that Patrick's taken over.
Pete cracks open the door without knocking, as he always does. He always hopes to catch Patrick doing something he shouldn't, but that hasn't happened yet. Pete finds Patrick sitting rigidly on his bed, staring at the glowing screen of his laptop, his eyes wide and blank, reflecting nothing but the bluish light.
"Trick?"
Patrick's reaction time is just a little too slow; Pete counts to five before he looks up.
"Yeah... Pete?" Patrick asks in an unsure voice, his usually perfect pitch wavering like the sound waves that make it up.
"Patrick," Pete repeats, inching all the way through the door and surveying the wreckage of the room. Patrick's clothes are scattered across the floor like weird, multicolored snow, complicated by half-read books and half-written sheets of music. Typical Patrick mess.
What's not typical is the little white bottle Pete trips over on the way to Patrick. He bends down, picks it up, and reads the label, the panic rising in the back of his throat like hot acid.
"Patrick?" Pete says a third time, his voice cracking as he holds up the bottle.
Patrick stares at him, and then he shakes his head slowly. "I took two, Pete."
Pete's face must give him away; Patrick frowns. "You can count them out if you want to, Pete. I just can't sleep."
Pete takes Patrick up on this one; he dumps the contents of the bottle out on a clear space on the floor and counts up the little white pills until he's sure that Patrick's telling the truth.
"Be careful with these, okay?" Pete says anxiously as he scoops the pills back into the bottle.
"Okay," Patrick says absently. Pete looks up and finds that he's turned back to his MacBook again. Pete hates that damn computer; Patrick's always on it, occupied by it, staring at the screen instead of at Pete.
He creeps up, leaps onto the bed, and slams the lid shut. Patrick yelps and blinks at him through glazed eyes.
"What the hell was that, Pete?" he demands.
Pete just shrugs. He never has to give Patrick a reason. "I can't sleep, either," Pete announces.
Patrick just nods and reaches for his laptop. Pete grabs his hand before he can touch the thing. Patrick freezes, the drug glaze vanishing from his eyes momentarily. Pete clutches onto Patrick's hand for a few seconds longer than he should, letting the lines and calluses soak into his fingers.
When Patrick jerks his hand away, Pete's heart breaks.
But Patrick doesn't move any further. "What do you want, Pete?" he sighs.
What does he want? Pete feels like a little kid, and acts the part by peeling back the sheets and cuddling up to Patrick. Patrick doesn't move, and Pete takes that as a green light to wrap his arms around Patrick's soft waist and nuzzle his face into his chest.
Slowly, Patrick's hand comes to rest on Pete's head, and his fingers start to stroke his hair. Momentarily, Pete thinks that maybe he shouldn't be doing this, but at the moment he's too comfortable for those kinds of doubts.
There's a click, and the room darkens. Patrick's switched off the lamp. Comfortable in the darkness, Pete snuggles closer to Patrick's warm, inviting form. And then he does something he knows he shouldn't do.
He wriggles up until their faces are level, and then, he gently presses his lips against Patrick's. He hasn't done this in a long time, but it's like putting on a comfortable, worn shirt; it feels perfectly right.
Patrick twists away. "Pete, stop it," he mumbles, looking away. "You're married. That's not right."
Pete just shakes his head and kisses Patrick again.
The sun wakes Pete up; streaming in through the blinds in Patrick's room. He yawns, stretches slightly, and buries his face in his pillow.
A smile spreads across his face. The sheets smell like licorice.
Rating: PG
Author:
skelly_lector (AKA me.)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Warning: Some soul-eating fluff and a couple naughty words. Hold on to your hat.
Summary: Sometimes, Pete wishes Patrick didn't exist. And then there are other times when he thinks that Patrick's the only thing keeping him alive.
Disclaimer: This has never happened (to the best extent of my knowledge, in any case).
A/N: This is a one-shot I wrote a while ago, and it's one of my favorites. Hope you guys enjoy and I don't screw up too badly.
Sometimes, Pete wishes Patrick didn't exist.
When he stumbles back to the bus at three A.M. to discover the doors locked.
When he has to rattle the handles with alcohol-slippery fingers and scream so loud that the windows rattle.
When the door finally opens and he's greeted by an accusing stare, magnified by the dark-rimmed glasses he's stolen so many times.
Those are the sometimes he wishes that Patrick weren't real; that the tiny, strawberry-blond boy he'd first seen in that horrible, horrible, adorable argyle sweater was just a figment of his imagination.
And then there are the other times that Pete thinks that Patrick is the only thing keeping him alive.
When everything's too much, and the only thing that can sing him to sleep is Ambien in the key of overdose.
When he decides that maybe his name isn't Pete after all, that it's Alice, and the world on the other side of the mirror is where he really belongs. And then it turns out that the mirror doesn't quite work that way.
When his mind starts working so fast that everything's fuzzy and nothing seems real anymore but the soft, gentle arms around his chest, the comfortable shoulder his head rests against, and the faint breath brushing his ear.
Patrick always smells like licorice.
But in the most recent times, Patrick really does seem not to exist.
Pete wonders if Patrick's avoiding him. He can think of a million reasons why, but the one that won't leave him is recent. Patrick's saved his life, and he always wants to thank him. Patrick's the reason he is who he is today. Sometimes Pete wonders if that's necessarily a good thing.
"Seriously, Trick," Pete says, trying to pull on his "serious face" and not quite succeeding. "Like, here, I'll give you proof; Ashlee says she'd never have dated me in the old days. She didn't like the psycho I was back then."
Patrick just nods and smiles that certain sad smile that Pete rarely sees anymore. It used to come out a lot "in the old days", but now it's faded behind flashbulbs and a pile of press releases.
"I did," Patrick says softly, not looking at Pete.
It takes Pete a few seconds to figure out what Patrick meant, and by then, Patrick's already gone.
But Patrick's not really avoiding Pete; he's just busy. They're all just busy. Patrick's busy with his movies, his music, his producing. Andy's busy with his vegan, PETA stuff. And Joe's busy with...well, with whatever the hell it is Joe does.
And Pete's always busy. Sometimes he feels like Atlas; he's got an entire empire on his shoulders. Decaydance, Clandestine Industries, The Bat Squad; a bunch of brand names for what Pete used to think of as his dreams. Now, though, it's just a burden.
He hardly ever talks to Patrick anymore; half the time, he finds out what Trick's up to through the media instead of from Patrick. It's like being on an island, Pete thinks; every once in a while, he sees someone swim by, but they're too far away for him to call out to.
But really, it's more like a glass box. And everyone's living in their own box, soundproof and impenetrable. They can see everyone else walk past, but there's no communication. There's only really one time those boxes break, and, well, Pete doesn't do that with guys anymore.
So that's why Pete calls up the guys and suggests a new record. It's like they've been waiting for his signal; in a matter of days, they've convened in a studio in LA. Andy's got an apartment, and so does Joe, but Patrick sold his a while ago, because, in his words, "The whole town's built on bullshit."
Of course, having his huge house in Tinsel Town, Pete feels obligated to invite Patrick to stay.
"I wouldn't want to intrude," Patrick protests, his angel voice hesitant.
"Bullshit, Trick, I'd be happy to have you," Pete insists.
"But...Ashlee?" Patrick reminds him. "The baby?"
"Hey, the kid ain't even born yet, I wouldn't worry," Pete jokes, but Patrick doesn't even smile. "Besides," he adds quickly, "Ash is visiting her folks for a while. She's giving me my space for the writing and recording."
Patrick nods slowly, as if weighing the options under that fedora of his.
"Sure, Pete," he says finally, defeated. Pete squeals like a little kid on Christmas. Patrick just half-smiles and scribbles something down in the notebook he's taken to clutching like a teddy bear.
Things are fine for the first few days; having someone else in his house is like having one of those little Chinese fountains that are supposed to channel chi. Pete feels whole, calm, and productive, spilling out lyrics like a veritable machine.
Until one night, where he can't get things to sound right, and whenever he tries, his head starts to hurt. His hand reaches for the bedside drawer where he keeps the pill bottles, but it hits air. Then he remembers that night that Patrick visited his house and made him move the pills away from his bed. "You don't make good decisions when you're half asleep," Patrick said. And, in Pete's mind, Patrick is always right.
That's why he slips out of bed, out of his room, and down the hall into the guest bedroom that Patrick's taken over.
Pete cracks open the door without knocking, as he always does. He always hopes to catch Patrick doing something he shouldn't, but that hasn't happened yet. Pete finds Patrick sitting rigidly on his bed, staring at the glowing screen of his laptop, his eyes wide and blank, reflecting nothing but the bluish light.
"Trick?"
Patrick's reaction time is just a little too slow; Pete counts to five before he looks up.
"Yeah... Pete?" Patrick asks in an unsure voice, his usually perfect pitch wavering like the sound waves that make it up.
"Patrick," Pete repeats, inching all the way through the door and surveying the wreckage of the room. Patrick's clothes are scattered across the floor like weird, multicolored snow, complicated by half-read books and half-written sheets of music. Typical Patrick mess.
What's not typical is the little white bottle Pete trips over on the way to Patrick. He bends down, picks it up, and reads the label, the panic rising in the back of his throat like hot acid.
"Patrick?" Pete says a third time, his voice cracking as he holds up the bottle.
Patrick stares at him, and then he shakes his head slowly. "I took two, Pete."
Pete's face must give him away; Patrick frowns. "You can count them out if you want to, Pete. I just can't sleep."
Pete takes Patrick up on this one; he dumps the contents of the bottle out on a clear space on the floor and counts up the little white pills until he's sure that Patrick's telling the truth.
"Be careful with these, okay?" Pete says anxiously as he scoops the pills back into the bottle.
"Okay," Patrick says absently. Pete looks up and finds that he's turned back to his MacBook again. Pete hates that damn computer; Patrick's always on it, occupied by it, staring at the screen instead of at Pete.
He creeps up, leaps onto the bed, and slams the lid shut. Patrick yelps and blinks at him through glazed eyes.
"What the hell was that, Pete?" he demands.
Pete just shrugs. He never has to give Patrick a reason. "I can't sleep, either," Pete announces.
Patrick just nods and reaches for his laptop. Pete grabs his hand before he can touch the thing. Patrick freezes, the drug glaze vanishing from his eyes momentarily. Pete clutches onto Patrick's hand for a few seconds longer than he should, letting the lines and calluses soak into his fingers.
When Patrick jerks his hand away, Pete's heart breaks.
But Patrick doesn't move any further. "What do you want, Pete?" he sighs.
What does he want? Pete feels like a little kid, and acts the part by peeling back the sheets and cuddling up to Patrick. Patrick doesn't move, and Pete takes that as a green light to wrap his arms around Patrick's soft waist and nuzzle his face into his chest.
Slowly, Patrick's hand comes to rest on Pete's head, and his fingers start to stroke his hair. Momentarily, Pete thinks that maybe he shouldn't be doing this, but at the moment he's too comfortable for those kinds of doubts.
There's a click, and the room darkens. Patrick's switched off the lamp. Comfortable in the darkness, Pete snuggles closer to Patrick's warm, inviting form. And then he does something he knows he shouldn't do.
He wriggles up until their faces are level, and then, he gently presses his lips against Patrick's. He hasn't done this in a long time, but it's like putting on a comfortable, worn shirt; it feels perfectly right.
Patrick twists away. "Pete, stop it," he mumbles, looking away. "You're married. That's not right."
Pete just shakes his head and kisses Patrick again.
The sun wakes Pete up; streaming in through the blinds in Patrick's room. He yawns, stretches slightly, and buries his face in his pillow.
A smile spreads across his face. The sheets smell like licorice.