white christmas is on!
I adore White Christmas. It's my very favorite Christmas movie :)
I was sick at home for Thanksgiving. I couldn't stop coughing, so I missed turkey dinner. Sadmaking.
So whatever, here's around 1800 words of a larger fic that may or may not ever be finished:
Patrick clutches his satchel to his chest as the train rocks to a stop.
“Patrick! Paaaatrick!” Brendon practically pounces on him. “Patrick,” he says breathlessly, face so close Patrick can count the flecks of green in his eyes. “We’re here.”
“We are,” Patrick says. He’s having trouble remembering why he ever agreed to do this, ever agreed to leave home and follow Brendon to the ends of the earth. Or the ends of the civilized world, at least.
“We’ll have a farm,” Brendon had said, so earnest. “We’ll have a farm and we won’t have to marry and won’t that be wonderful?” And that honestly had sounded wonderful, since Patrick had stopped wanting to marry Brendon-well. There’s probably never a time he actually wanted to marry Brendon. Brendon’s kind of exhausting. He never understood why their parents had been so adamant about that in the first place, but they’d been neighbors since birth, friends always, it seemed, and their parents apparently just had delusions of grandeur.
“I’m gonna sit atop your piano, Mr. Stump,” Brendon says, threading his fingers through Patrick’s, “and sing my little heart out.”
Patrick smiles. “Of course you will.”
“Sisky,” William yells over their heads. “Sisky, grab my knives, will you?” He grins down at them, long arms boxing them into their seats. “Patrick, dumpling, look at you smile,” he says, and Patrick rolls his eyes. William’s a flirt. For the first leg of the trip, Patrick had blushed nearly nonstop, but he’s well accustomed to William now.
William, he’s found, doesn’t mean anything by it. Mostly.
“Just wait. Just wait ‘til you taste my apple crisp,” William says, long fingers playing over the brim of Patrick’s hat. “You’ll be mine then, Patrick, I warn you. Mine to do exactly as I please with.”
“Billy.” Brendon tugs on the end of William’s tie - another button on his vest slips open - and William leans down close, still grinning. “William, you do have ices, don’t you?”
William’s grin turns sly. “Oh, for you, dear Brendon, I’ll make absolutely sure.”
*
Spencer perches on the end of Ryan’s narrow bed and crosses his legs. “You don’t want to meet the train?” he asks.
Ryan flicks his gaze to Spencer in the mirror. “Give me a minute,” he says, and Spencer flops back onto the mattress with a groan. A minute to Ryan means at least twenty.
“Your hair looks fine, Ryan,” Spencer says, staring up at the ceiling.
“There’s nothing wrong with being neat,” Ryan says flatly.
Spencer agrees, of course, but Spencer can be neat in less than half the time Ryan can. Spencer has exactly three shirts and one suit to his name. Ryan’s borrowed nearly ten from Pete in the past few years, since he tends to mix and match designs and colors, and Pete lets him take whatever he wants, because Spencer suspects Pete thinks Ryan’s fashion sense is hilarious.
Ryan slaps Spencer’s leg. “Ready, asshole,” he says, and Spencer rolls his eyes, levers himself up.
They don’t want to miss the train. The train’s possibly the most exciting part of the week, except for whenever Gabe tries to shoot somebody or Bob hurts himself or Frank invents a new way to make sandwiches or something.
“I heard the Way brothers are on board,” Spencer says, getting to his feet. He tugs on his vest, smooths the fine but worn material over his thighs.
Ryan’s tapped on a gray bowler hat, silk roses clustered over the side brim courtesy of the lovely, exotic Maja. “Well, that’s stupid,” Ryan says, shrugging into a dark green jacket. “Who told you that?”
“Gabe.” Gabe always knew an awful lot before anyone else did. Spencer still isn’t sure how.
“Gabe’s full of shit,” Ryan says, which is true, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s wrong.
*
“Mikey,” Gerard hisses.
Mikey ignores him, pulls his bag out from under his seat.
“Mikes, talk to me, please,” Gerard says, gripping Mikey’s sleeve.
Mikey scowls, but says, “This is stupid,” and Gerard counters emphatically, “It isn’t. It isn’t, it’s the only way.”
“It’s not going to matter.” Mikey darts his gaze around the car before leaning towards Gerard, voice a hush. “Whether he confesses or we kill him, Gerard, that’s not going to make any damn difference, you know that.”
Gerard’s jaw tightens. “It’ll matter to me.”
“Ladies, ready to disembark?”
Mikey glares at Gerard over his specs, mutters, “Worst idea ever, Gee,” then pushes them up his nose and flashes Ashlee a somewhat strained smile past Gerard’s shoulder.
Gerard grimaces, twists his upper body a little because, goddamn, corsets are, like, the most uncomfortable garments ever created.
*
William likes new things. He likes excitement and drama and he has to stifle a laugh when he sees the belligerent looks on the faces of the town-folk gathered around the saloon. He hooks his arm through Greta’s and whispers in her ear, “Which one, do you think?” and Greta makes a pained little whimper sound, clutching William tighter.
William has no intention of letting Miss Greta marry any of them, of course. Greta’s far too sweet-natured to put up with any of the ruffians this town surely has to offer, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have fun, and it isn’t like any of them are particularly disgusting. There’s a peacock in particular that he wouldn’t mind fooling around with, hair falling across his face under a ridiculous flowered hat, sharp creases in his slim black pants.
“William,” Miss Greta says, voice small. “William, do you think-”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re working for Ray, all right?” William takes hold of her fingers, slips a steadying arm around her back. It’s fun to speculate, but not all that amusing to have Greta vomit all over his shoes. She’s gone from too pale to a decidedly greenish tint.
Miss Ashlee marches up to them then, thumbs up her hat so it nearly tips off her head. “Greta,” she says, nose to her nose, “pull yourself together, okay?”
William watches Greta’s eyes nearly cross as they stare at each other, and then the color slowly seeps back into Greta’s face, pinking her cheeks even, and Ashlee beams.
“That’s a girl,” she says, then slaps a hand over William’s chest, pushing him back a step. “Take her over to Ray’s, will you, Mr. Beckett?” she says, and William salutes smartly.
He’s always been a sucker for bossy women.
*
“Who do you think it is?” Gabe asks, lounging against the railing.
“I don’t care,” Bob says, like it doesn’t make any difference to him. Pete can see the shift of his eyes over the crowd, though, the bustle in the dry dirt as the train pulls away.
Pete thinks it’s pretty amusing, but he knows better than to mention it. Bob’s got connections, and the bar more often than not is stocked with liquor well above rotgut level.
Gabe laughs, this side of nasty, and says, “Oh, look at that,” and Pete follows the flick of his wrist to see. Nothing all that impressive. A short guy in a rumpled gray traveling suit, clutching a leather bag to his chest, face half-hidden by the shadow of his cap.
Gabe clamps his teeth around his cigar, the accompanying, “And the puppy following him,” is mangled.
Pete gets it, though, because the kid - and they’re both kids, Pete can see that now, when the littler one tips his head up to smile, nervous at the edges, pale clear skin and reddish hair visible even from where Pete’s standing - but the other one is vibrating, grinning so wide it seems like his face could split open at any moment.
Pete’s curious.
“A couple of kids,” Bob says, a warning couched in his voice.
Pete waves him off, says, “Hey, I’m a gentleman,” and Maja laughs, throaty.
“Oh yes, so gentile,” Maja says, sauntering over, running the tips of her fingers over Pete’s lapel.
Pete bats her hand away, but his scowl is playful. Maja’s a delight, and not just because she fills out her blouse so well. “I’m going to say hi,” he says. “Welcome them to the neighborhood.” He crooks a finger at Ryan. “Come keep me company, Ross.”
“Try to be nice,” Bob says dryly, and Pete’s almost entirely sure he’s talking to Ryan, because Pete’s always nice. Pete’s a fount of friendliness. He oozes goodwill and charm. He-
“Pete.” Ryan arches his eyebrows at him.
“Right. Little guys. That-a way.”
*
Brendon has never been so excited in his entire life, except for maybe that time when he’d turned eight and his father had finally let him ride a horse. Their old workhorse, Samson, who had big fluffy fetlocks and this wonderfully creamy mane, and Brendon had fallen off and broken his leg, but it had been so very exciting, honestly. This is exactly like that. Only better, because Brendon doesn’t anticipate breaking any bones.
He feels Patrick stiffen beside him and glances up to see the most ridiculously dressed person he has ever seen. Brendon instantly likes him. “Hello,” he says, and the guy beside the Ridiculously Dressed Person flashes this huge, toothy grin.
“Hi, there,” he says, and there’s something there. Something that Brendon thinks Patrick would say is smarmy, he’s sure. “I’m Pete.”
Patrick makes a little grunting sound, so yes, Brendon is entirely sure Patrick thinks this Pete is unacceptable.
Pete’s eyes glitter, and he pulls off his hat, like he’s greeting a lady, and Brendon knows, knows that Patrick is bright red and bristling, without even looking at him. Patrick has a notoriously bad temper.
“Brendon Urie,” Brendon says, extending a hand before Patrick gets it into his head that punching Pete is a good idea. Brendon’s pretty sure both Pete and the Ridiculously Dressed Person - seriously, it’s wonderful, and his vest is so very bright, Brendon wishes he had something so fine - are armed. “And this is Patrick.”
“Patrick,” Pete echoes, shaking Brendon’s hand. “Oh, and my friend here is Ross.” He reels Brendon in closer - and Brendon isn’t very tall himself, but Pete is the only other man besides Patrick that he’s ever had to look down at - and says, “Don’t ever let him sucker you into a game of cards, Urie.”
Brendon knows his eyes are big, but he just can’t help it. “He’s good then?”
Pete grins. “He cheats.” He lets go of Brendon’s hand. “But if you call him on it he’ll shoot you. In the leg, probably, because Ross is sort of tragically soft-hearted, but it’ll be messy and the Butcher’ll more than likely be too drunk to stitch you up right.”
Brendon swallows hard, unsure if Pete’s joking or not.
Patrick grabs his wrist. “Nice,” he mutters darkly.
“You talk, excellent,” Pete says, and there’s a sharp twist to his lips that sets even Brendon on edge. “Thought perhaps you were mute, and that wouldn’t be any fun, honestly.”
“Pete,” Ross says, low, and suddenly Pete is back a step, two, and Brendon hadn’t realized how close he’d been standing to Patrick until right then. “We’ll see you around,” Ross adds, touching the brim of his hat with a small nod.
Brendon twists his wrist around so his palm is flat against Patrick’s. “Okay.”
I was sick at home for Thanksgiving. I couldn't stop coughing, so I missed turkey dinner. Sadmaking.
So whatever, here's around 1800 words of a larger fic that may or may not ever be finished:
Patrick clutches his satchel to his chest as the train rocks to a stop.
“Patrick! Paaaatrick!” Brendon practically pounces on him. “Patrick,” he says breathlessly, face so close Patrick can count the flecks of green in his eyes. “We’re here.”
“We are,” Patrick says. He’s having trouble remembering why he ever agreed to do this, ever agreed to leave home and follow Brendon to the ends of the earth. Or the ends of the civilized world, at least.
“We’ll have a farm,” Brendon had said, so earnest. “We’ll have a farm and we won’t have to marry and won’t that be wonderful?” And that honestly had sounded wonderful, since Patrick had stopped wanting to marry Brendon-well. There’s probably never a time he actually wanted to marry Brendon. Brendon’s kind of exhausting. He never understood why their parents had been so adamant about that in the first place, but they’d been neighbors since birth, friends always, it seemed, and their parents apparently just had delusions of grandeur.
“I’m gonna sit atop your piano, Mr. Stump,” Brendon says, threading his fingers through Patrick’s, “and sing my little heart out.”
Patrick smiles. “Of course you will.”
“Sisky,” William yells over their heads. “Sisky, grab my knives, will you?” He grins down at them, long arms boxing them into their seats. “Patrick, dumpling, look at you smile,” he says, and Patrick rolls his eyes. William’s a flirt. For the first leg of the trip, Patrick had blushed nearly nonstop, but he’s well accustomed to William now.
William, he’s found, doesn’t mean anything by it. Mostly.
“Just wait. Just wait ‘til you taste my apple crisp,” William says, long fingers playing over the brim of Patrick’s hat. “You’ll be mine then, Patrick, I warn you. Mine to do exactly as I please with.”
“Billy.” Brendon tugs on the end of William’s tie - another button on his vest slips open - and William leans down close, still grinning. “William, you do have ices, don’t you?”
William’s grin turns sly. “Oh, for you, dear Brendon, I’ll make absolutely sure.”
*
Spencer perches on the end of Ryan’s narrow bed and crosses his legs. “You don’t want to meet the train?” he asks.
Ryan flicks his gaze to Spencer in the mirror. “Give me a minute,” he says, and Spencer flops back onto the mattress with a groan. A minute to Ryan means at least twenty.
“Your hair looks fine, Ryan,” Spencer says, staring up at the ceiling.
“There’s nothing wrong with being neat,” Ryan says flatly.
Spencer agrees, of course, but Spencer can be neat in less than half the time Ryan can. Spencer has exactly three shirts and one suit to his name. Ryan’s borrowed nearly ten from Pete in the past few years, since he tends to mix and match designs and colors, and Pete lets him take whatever he wants, because Spencer suspects Pete thinks Ryan’s fashion sense is hilarious.
Ryan slaps Spencer’s leg. “Ready, asshole,” he says, and Spencer rolls his eyes, levers himself up.
They don’t want to miss the train. The train’s possibly the most exciting part of the week, except for whenever Gabe tries to shoot somebody or Bob hurts himself or Frank invents a new way to make sandwiches or something.
“I heard the Way brothers are on board,” Spencer says, getting to his feet. He tugs on his vest, smooths the fine but worn material over his thighs.
Ryan’s tapped on a gray bowler hat, silk roses clustered over the side brim courtesy of the lovely, exotic Maja. “Well, that’s stupid,” Ryan says, shrugging into a dark green jacket. “Who told you that?”
“Gabe.” Gabe always knew an awful lot before anyone else did. Spencer still isn’t sure how.
“Gabe’s full of shit,” Ryan says, which is true, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s wrong.
*
“Mikey,” Gerard hisses.
Mikey ignores him, pulls his bag out from under his seat.
“Mikes, talk to me, please,” Gerard says, gripping Mikey’s sleeve.
Mikey scowls, but says, “This is stupid,” and Gerard counters emphatically, “It isn’t. It isn’t, it’s the only way.”
“It’s not going to matter.” Mikey darts his gaze around the car before leaning towards Gerard, voice a hush. “Whether he confesses or we kill him, Gerard, that’s not going to make any damn difference, you know that.”
Gerard’s jaw tightens. “It’ll matter to me.”
“Ladies, ready to disembark?”
Mikey glares at Gerard over his specs, mutters, “Worst idea ever, Gee,” then pushes them up his nose and flashes Ashlee a somewhat strained smile past Gerard’s shoulder.
Gerard grimaces, twists his upper body a little because, goddamn, corsets are, like, the most uncomfortable garments ever created.
*
William likes new things. He likes excitement and drama and he has to stifle a laugh when he sees the belligerent looks on the faces of the town-folk gathered around the saloon. He hooks his arm through Greta’s and whispers in her ear, “Which one, do you think?” and Greta makes a pained little whimper sound, clutching William tighter.
William has no intention of letting Miss Greta marry any of them, of course. Greta’s far too sweet-natured to put up with any of the ruffians this town surely has to offer, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have fun, and it isn’t like any of them are particularly disgusting. There’s a peacock in particular that he wouldn’t mind fooling around with, hair falling across his face under a ridiculous flowered hat, sharp creases in his slim black pants.
“William,” Miss Greta says, voice small. “William, do you think-”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re working for Ray, all right?” William takes hold of her fingers, slips a steadying arm around her back. It’s fun to speculate, but not all that amusing to have Greta vomit all over his shoes. She’s gone from too pale to a decidedly greenish tint.
Miss Ashlee marches up to them then, thumbs up her hat so it nearly tips off her head. “Greta,” she says, nose to her nose, “pull yourself together, okay?”
William watches Greta’s eyes nearly cross as they stare at each other, and then the color slowly seeps back into Greta’s face, pinking her cheeks even, and Ashlee beams.
“That’s a girl,” she says, then slaps a hand over William’s chest, pushing him back a step. “Take her over to Ray’s, will you, Mr. Beckett?” she says, and William salutes smartly.
He’s always been a sucker for bossy women.
*
“Who do you think it is?” Gabe asks, lounging against the railing.
“I don’t care,” Bob says, like it doesn’t make any difference to him. Pete can see the shift of his eyes over the crowd, though, the bustle in the dry dirt as the train pulls away.
Pete thinks it’s pretty amusing, but he knows better than to mention it. Bob’s got connections, and the bar more often than not is stocked with liquor well above rotgut level.
Gabe laughs, this side of nasty, and says, “Oh, look at that,” and Pete follows the flick of his wrist to see. Nothing all that impressive. A short guy in a rumpled gray traveling suit, clutching a leather bag to his chest, face half-hidden by the shadow of his cap.
Gabe clamps his teeth around his cigar, the accompanying, “And the puppy following him,” is mangled.
Pete gets it, though, because the kid - and they’re both kids, Pete can see that now, when the littler one tips his head up to smile, nervous at the edges, pale clear skin and reddish hair visible even from where Pete’s standing - but the other one is vibrating, grinning so wide it seems like his face could split open at any moment.
Pete’s curious.
“A couple of kids,” Bob says, a warning couched in his voice.
Pete waves him off, says, “Hey, I’m a gentleman,” and Maja laughs, throaty.
“Oh yes, so gentile,” Maja says, sauntering over, running the tips of her fingers over Pete’s lapel.
Pete bats her hand away, but his scowl is playful. Maja’s a delight, and not just because she fills out her blouse so well. “I’m going to say hi,” he says. “Welcome them to the neighborhood.” He crooks a finger at Ryan. “Come keep me company, Ross.”
“Try to be nice,” Bob says dryly, and Pete’s almost entirely sure he’s talking to Ryan, because Pete’s always nice. Pete’s a fount of friendliness. He oozes goodwill and charm. He-
“Pete.” Ryan arches his eyebrows at him.
“Right. Little guys. That-a way.”
*
Brendon has never been so excited in his entire life, except for maybe that time when he’d turned eight and his father had finally let him ride a horse. Their old workhorse, Samson, who had big fluffy fetlocks and this wonderfully creamy mane, and Brendon had fallen off and broken his leg, but it had been so very exciting, honestly. This is exactly like that. Only better, because Brendon doesn’t anticipate breaking any bones.
He feels Patrick stiffen beside him and glances up to see the most ridiculously dressed person he has ever seen. Brendon instantly likes him. “Hello,” he says, and the guy beside the Ridiculously Dressed Person flashes this huge, toothy grin.
“Hi, there,” he says, and there’s something there. Something that Brendon thinks Patrick would say is smarmy, he’s sure. “I’m Pete.”
Patrick makes a little grunting sound, so yes, Brendon is entirely sure Patrick thinks this Pete is unacceptable.
Pete’s eyes glitter, and he pulls off his hat, like he’s greeting a lady, and Brendon knows, knows that Patrick is bright red and bristling, without even looking at him. Patrick has a notoriously bad temper.
“Brendon Urie,” Brendon says, extending a hand before Patrick gets it into his head that punching Pete is a good idea. Brendon’s pretty sure both Pete and the Ridiculously Dressed Person - seriously, it’s wonderful, and his vest is so very bright, Brendon wishes he had something so fine - are armed. “And this is Patrick.”
“Patrick,” Pete echoes, shaking Brendon’s hand. “Oh, and my friend here is Ross.” He reels Brendon in closer - and Brendon isn’t very tall himself, but Pete is the only other man besides Patrick that he’s ever had to look down at - and says, “Don’t ever let him sucker you into a game of cards, Urie.”
Brendon knows his eyes are big, but he just can’t help it. “He’s good then?”
Pete grins. “He cheats.” He lets go of Brendon’s hand. “But if you call him on it he’ll shoot you. In the leg, probably, because Ross is sort of tragically soft-hearted, but it’ll be messy and the Butcher’ll more than likely be too drunk to stitch you up right.”
Brendon swallows hard, unsure if Pete’s joking or not.
Patrick grabs his wrist. “Nice,” he mutters darkly.
“You talk, excellent,” Pete says, and there’s a sharp twist to his lips that sets even Brendon on edge. “Thought perhaps you were mute, and that wouldn’t be any fun, honestly.”
“Pete,” Ross says, low, and suddenly Pete is back a step, two, and Brendon hadn’t realized how close he’d been standing to Patrick until right then. “We’ll see you around,” Ross adds, touching the brim of his hat with a small nod.
Brendon twists his wrist around so his palm is flat against Patrick’s. “Okay.”