feat. warm milk & crickets
1.) my life is a liiiiiie, you guys. sometimes i think i have some free time, but that just means i've got homework i forgot i need to do, or a test i have miserably not studied for. (but i'll get to the photos for this meme soon, it's interesting!)
2.) IN OTHER NEWS, Kaks (sonstoodstammer) and i? believe we have CRACKED THE CODE of the themes of FOB's new album. See, crickets, star themes, slightly manic herky-jerky vaudevillian arrangements (see: this ain't a scene...), "genuine becoming"s ? DUDE, IT'S *~*PINOCCHIO*~* BUT TOTES NOT. becoming, yknow, like a real boy, etc. !
hahaha kind of not. but yes. but kind of not.
3.) i hope this isn't so TL;DR but here, have some textfic, passed between me and kaks via cellphones, feat. pete/patrick & crickets & warm milk:
kaks sonstoodstammer: i wonder why pete hasn't blogged about the amas yet.
katrina sobrellevar:
obviously pete's still at the AFTERPARTY. still tingling from being back out there, hours later, like seeing the sun again after a (self-imposed) prison sentence. he's still waiting for his eyes to recover from the light, trying to play good host in the meantime, opening his house and playing something like social butterfly. (in his head he denies this and pretend's he's a grasshopper. with much to learn. or something.)
patrick's in the kitchen, resting. he's almost -- only almost -- forgotten how singing that hard can keep his throat burning long after. it's a good burn. it's good to be reminded.
kaks sonstoodstammer:
patrick decides he could use a glass of warm milk, navigates a sea of empty beer cups. pete may not drink but he does throw parties, so being straightedge doesn't mean a reprieve from the smell of alcohol.
"just like that," a voice startles him, and patrick falls back against the fridge.
"dude, what the fuck."
pete grins at him from the doorway, palms up in mock surrender, "nothing, nothing, it's just..." he steps forward and traces patrick's brow, trails the slight frown patrick hadn't realized he'd been holding; follows an invisible dotted line with calloused fingertips, familiar as the bassline to 'arms race' has grown to be. "you squint. i hadn't noticed, 'till the performance. when you hit the high notes."
pete laughs, the first time in a long time, and patrick can't help but think: far from a genuine becoming.
(but we're getting there, patrick thinks, as pete pours him his milk chattering on and on about the aesthetic versatility of crickets, but we're getting there.)
katrina sobrellevar:
there had been a stretch of time during recording when patrick had stopped sleeping in pete's presence; a kind of breathing room, cliche as that sounds.
pete is the kind of boy that stays up all night to write, believing somehow that maybe this next line would be *it* -- like he is translating the everyday until it becomes the ultimate. patrick didn't think he could keep up with that. his kind of tiredness and pete's didn't mix well, ending usually in tense recording sessions, slammed doors.
but back to the now:
pete's stopped playing good house-host and is talking loosely, amiably about how kanye west was shortchanged and how he misses the old gwen stefani. (his heart still melts for harajuku.) he places a glass of milk in patrick's hands with unnecesary gentleness.
"it isn't warm, though," pete says.
patrick is still amused by how pete still remains so apologetic about some things. "i don't need it to sleep," he says, eyebrow raised as pete traces the glass thoughtfully.
pete dips a finger into the milk and has the guiltiest grin on his face as he traces a thin milky sheen onto patrick's bottom lip, kisses him very tentatively.
it's an entirely foreign bedtime ritual, entirely too early at night; from a world without crickets for consciences, but still a sky with stars to wish on. and for a moment they're both taken back to how young they both were, once, and maybe how young they still are.
but the hum of the open refrigerator door sings them back into the present, the yellow light from inside wholly unromantic, creeping into the corners of the seconds.
dude, (i say 'dude' a lot, ok fine) i just realized how when other people do textfic or chatfic it's like cracked out ideas and porn and fun stuff, and when it's me and kaks, it's always domestic and nothing really happens at all. and for gawd's sake we type things out in full words (the text messages reach like, series of eights, tens) and we have like *~*~SYNTAX*~*~* and everything. ha ha ha.
but sonstoodstammer and me, we're good together. she's still my friend of all friends. ♥
2.) IN OTHER NEWS, Kaks (sonstoodstammer) and i? believe we have CRACKED THE CODE of the themes of FOB's new album. See, crickets, star themes, slightly manic herky-jerky vaudevillian arrangements (see: this ain't a scene...), "genuine becoming"s ? DUDE, IT'S *~*PINOCCHIO*~* BUT TOTES NOT. becoming, yknow, like a real boy, etc. !
hahaha kind of not. but yes. but kind of not.
3.) i hope this isn't so TL;DR but here, have some textfic, passed between me and kaks via cellphones, feat. pete/patrick & crickets & warm milk:
kaks sonstoodstammer: i wonder why pete hasn't blogged about the amas yet.
katrina sobrellevar:
obviously pete's still at the AFTERPARTY. still tingling from being back out there, hours later, like seeing the sun again after a (self-imposed) prison sentence. he's still waiting for his eyes to recover from the light, trying to play good host in the meantime, opening his house and playing something like social butterfly. (in his head he denies this and pretend's he's a grasshopper. with much to learn. or something.)
patrick's in the kitchen, resting. he's almost -- only almost -- forgotten how singing that hard can keep his throat burning long after. it's a good burn. it's good to be reminded.
kaks sonstoodstammer:
patrick decides he could use a glass of warm milk, navigates a sea of empty beer cups. pete may not drink but he does throw parties, so being straightedge doesn't mean a reprieve from the smell of alcohol.
"just like that," a voice startles him, and patrick falls back against the fridge.
"dude, what the fuck."
pete grins at him from the doorway, palms up in mock surrender, "nothing, nothing, it's just..." he steps forward and traces patrick's brow, trails the slight frown patrick hadn't realized he'd been holding; follows an invisible dotted line with calloused fingertips, familiar as the bassline to 'arms race' has grown to be. "you squint. i hadn't noticed, 'till the performance. when you hit the high notes."
pete laughs, the first time in a long time, and patrick can't help but think: far from a genuine becoming.
(but we're getting there, patrick thinks, as pete pours him his milk chattering on and on about the aesthetic versatility of crickets, but we're getting there.)
katrina sobrellevar:
there had been a stretch of time during recording when patrick had stopped sleeping in pete's presence; a kind of breathing room, cliche as that sounds.
pete is the kind of boy that stays up all night to write, believing somehow that maybe this next line would be *it* -- like he is translating the everyday until it becomes the ultimate. patrick didn't think he could keep up with that. his kind of tiredness and pete's didn't mix well, ending usually in tense recording sessions, slammed doors.
but back to the now:
pete's stopped playing good house-host and is talking loosely, amiably about how kanye west was shortchanged and how he misses the old gwen stefani. (his heart still melts for harajuku.) he places a glass of milk in patrick's hands with unnecesary gentleness.
"it isn't warm, though," pete says.
patrick is still amused by how pete still remains so apologetic about some things. "i don't need it to sleep," he says, eyebrow raised as pete traces the glass thoughtfully.
pete dips a finger into the milk and has the guiltiest grin on his face as he traces a thin milky sheen onto patrick's bottom lip, kisses him very tentatively.
it's an entirely foreign bedtime ritual, entirely too early at night; from a world without crickets for consciences, but still a sky with stars to wish on. and for a moment they're both taken back to how young they both were, once, and maybe how young they still are.
but the hum of the open refrigerator door sings them back into the present, the yellow light from inside wholly unromantic, creeping into the corners of the seconds.
dude, (i say 'dude' a lot, ok fine) i just realized how when other people do textfic or chatfic it's like cracked out ideas and porn and fun stuff, and when it's me and kaks, it's always domestic and nothing really happens at all. and for gawd's sake we type things out in full words (the text messages reach like, series of eights, tens) and we have like *~*~SYNTAX*~*~* and everything. ha ha ha.
but sonstoodstammer and me, we're good together. she's still my friend of all friends. ♥