I Can Feel Your Heartbeat. (WIP amnesty)
Title: I Can Feel Your Heartbeat. (1/?)
Rating: PG-13, for now.
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Word-count: 1102
Summary: Pete and Patrick wake up one morning and are not themselves. They're each other.
Author's Notes: This was originally intended to be a longer fic, but instead this is just a long-forgotten WIP. Think of it as a cliff-hanger pilot episode of a show that didn't get picked up.
Patrick knew something was wrong almost immediately.
He felt too light and springy, too well-rested, and yet curiously like he hadn't slept for long at all. Passing this strange awake feeling off as having the early-morning urge to pee, Patrick crawled out of his bunk. He was on the wrong side. Hmm. Disoriented, he turned himself around, shook his head, and manoeuvred himself into the tiny bus bathroom. As he positioned himself in front of the toilet, Patrick realized with a shock just exactly what was different. He had lost a significant amount of weight overnight. Also, he was not dressed in his own pyjamas, and someone seemed to have replicated with great precision Pete's sleeves in ink upon his arms.
Forgetting completely why he was in the bathroom to begin with, Patrick stood marvelling at his new flat, tattooed stomach for several minutes. This was not how he was used to looking. This was not Patrick's body. He looked in the mirror and it confirmed that very suspicion, but his thoughts were too morning-foggy to fully comprehend what this meant. It couldn't be real. Patrick must still be dreaming. He certainly had been waking up thinking about his bass-playing best friend a lot more than usual as of late. What's one more totally fucked up dream about Pete to add to his collection? Except this one felt a lot more real than the others had.
Pete took a little longer to figure things out.
He rolled over in bed. He blinked and opened his eyes, but he could barely see. Pete rubbed at them to no avail. It was more than sleep that clouded his vision. He stumbled dizzily from his bunk and made his way through the door to the front section of the bus. Pete needed to whine to someone about this immediately.
Listening to him complain uninterrupted for what felt like an eternity, Andy stared at Pete (at Patrick), puzzled. "So, why don't you just put your glasses on, dude?"
This should have been an obvious solution, but Pete so rarely wore his that he had no idea where they were. He wasn't like Patrick, who kept his own specs sitting neatly on the small shelf in his bunk, tucked in their case with a little cleaning cloth, at the ready for when he wasn't in the mood for poking contacts into his eyes. Pete half-smiled, thinking fondly to himself that Patrick was prepared for nearly every situation; he was like a boy-scout without the uniform. His mind then began to wander, thinking very peculiar thoughts about Patrick in such a costume. Oh.
Turning back to making his breakfast, Andy continued to insist that he should just go put his glasses on, and perhaps his eyes would feel better. He said this as if Pete wore glasses every day, and that it was the most obvious thing in the world. In his tirade, Pete had not yet noticed that he was not quite himself.
Joe ate his Lucky Charms quietly, absorbed in reading something on his laptop. Pete hadn't even noticed he was there until he let the spoon clatter in the empty bowl.
"Andy's right, man. I don't know what the fuck you're going on about. Can you just not find your contacts or something?"
When Patrick walked into the living area, as Pete, he quite naturally expected the universe to implode. Instead, he saw himself standing in the middle of the room, begging for Andy's attentions.
Andy smiled thankfully and said "good morning," glad for the distraction from the bizarre complaints.
Pete (as Patrick) saw only a blurry shape of a man. A man that, upon closer inspection, looked a lot like him. The blur walked forward, became clearer. A man that... fucking hell? Is him?! Pete started to feel dizzy again, but for a completely different reason. He sat down heavily on the nearest bench seat and stared. His body began to feel foreign, strange.
Through Pete's brown eyes, Patrick stared back.
This continued for what felt like an enternity, until Pete finally looked down at his own arms, hands, body, and the numbness of shock washed over him in waves. He should be screaming, but couldn't make a sound. He then realized why the other boys had failed to notice that anything was wrong and continued to eat their respective breakfasts, oblivious to the ground-shaking goings-on of their very own tour bus.
There were no two-Petes, and no two-Patricks either. Everything looked normal, on the outside. The numbers added up, but the math was all wrong.
Patrick crossed the room slowly, and sat beside Pete, beside himself, on the couch. Pete was beginning to tremble nervously, and he leaned in until their arms and shoulders were touching.
"I don't know how to say this, but," he began quietly, "are you Patrick?" Because, oh god, what if it wasn't? What if someone else entirely was in his body, and he'd lost Patrick forever? Pete's thoughts ran a mile a minute. On top of it all, Pete had never seen his own ear from quite that angle, much less whispered into it, and it was unnerving. A shiver ran through Patrick as well, but it was from the way Pete's breath was tickling his face, not fear. "Please, is that you in there?"
A weak "yes" was all that came in reply.
"Am I dreaming?"
"I don't know." Patrick stared out the window, the bus whipping past fields and trees, the world was moving too fast for this to be his imagination. This was too real to be a dream. "I don't think so, Pete."
"Well, then-- is this another bad body-swap comedy remake? I know I said that I loved those movies but..." Pete's voice faltered. Surely their combined love and knowledge of eighties family cinema would get them through this, quickly and quietly. Clips of Vice Versa, Like Father Like Son, and about ninety versions of Freaky Friday all played through his mind at once, and those were just the parent-child relationships.
Patrick frowned. He had nothing but respect and understanding for Pete, and that's how those kinds of plots were always resolved. It had also been awhile since his last fortune cookie, and he would certainly never wish to be in Pete's shoes. He didn't care for the limelight.
If those films had taught them anything, however, it was that these things didn't just happen. Something must have happened the night before, something significant. They needed to figure out just what that was, and change themselves back before anyone noticed what was going on. What about Andy and Joe? Would they be able to fool them long enough, or should they just tell them what was going on? Perhaps there would be no need.
Pete wriggled a little, and his pale Patrick-face blushed. "Dude, um, I need to use the bathroom." How does one say this? "Is that okay?"
Oh. Oh dear. Patrick blinked, and realized how comfortable they would both have to become with each other's bodies. They were close friends, very close, but there were certainly places on Pete that he'd never... touched. He felt a weird tingle of curiosity, mixed with certain humiliation.
"Do what you have to do, Pete." He paused. "Remember to wash your hands."
This was an unexpected way to wake up, to say the least.
The very least.
###
See original comments here.
Rating: PG-13, for now.
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Word-count: 1102
Summary: Pete and Patrick wake up one morning and are not themselves. They're each other.
Author's Notes: This was originally intended to be a longer fic, but instead this is just a long-forgotten WIP. Think of it as a cliff-hanger pilot episode of a show that didn't get picked up.
Patrick knew something was wrong almost immediately.
He felt too light and springy, too well-rested, and yet curiously like he hadn't slept for long at all. Passing this strange awake feeling off as having the early-morning urge to pee, Patrick crawled out of his bunk. He was on the wrong side. Hmm. Disoriented, he turned himself around, shook his head, and manoeuvred himself into the tiny bus bathroom. As he positioned himself in front of the toilet, Patrick realized with a shock just exactly what was different. He had lost a significant amount of weight overnight. Also, he was not dressed in his own pyjamas, and someone seemed to have replicated with great precision Pete's sleeves in ink upon his arms.
Forgetting completely why he was in the bathroom to begin with, Patrick stood marvelling at his new flat, tattooed stomach for several minutes. This was not how he was used to looking. This was not Patrick's body. He looked in the mirror and it confirmed that very suspicion, but his thoughts were too morning-foggy to fully comprehend what this meant. It couldn't be real. Patrick must still be dreaming. He certainly had been waking up thinking about his bass-playing best friend a lot more than usual as of late. What's one more totally fucked up dream about Pete to add to his collection? Except this one felt a lot more real than the others had.
Pete took a little longer to figure things out.
He rolled over in bed. He blinked and opened his eyes, but he could barely see. Pete rubbed at them to no avail. It was more than sleep that clouded his vision. He stumbled dizzily from his bunk and made his way through the door to the front section of the bus. Pete needed to whine to someone about this immediately.
Listening to him complain uninterrupted for what felt like an eternity, Andy stared at Pete (at Patrick), puzzled. "So, why don't you just put your glasses on, dude?"
This should have been an obvious solution, but Pete so rarely wore his that he had no idea where they were. He wasn't like Patrick, who kept his own specs sitting neatly on the small shelf in his bunk, tucked in their case with a little cleaning cloth, at the ready for when he wasn't in the mood for poking contacts into his eyes. Pete half-smiled, thinking fondly to himself that Patrick was prepared for nearly every situation; he was like a boy-scout without the uniform. His mind then began to wander, thinking very peculiar thoughts about Patrick in such a costume. Oh.
Turning back to making his breakfast, Andy continued to insist that he should just go put his glasses on, and perhaps his eyes would feel better. He said this as if Pete wore glasses every day, and that it was the most obvious thing in the world. In his tirade, Pete had not yet noticed that he was not quite himself.
Joe ate his Lucky Charms quietly, absorbed in reading something on his laptop. Pete hadn't even noticed he was there until he let the spoon clatter in the empty bowl.
"Andy's right, man. I don't know what the fuck you're going on about. Can you just not find your contacts or something?"
When Patrick walked into the living area, as Pete, he quite naturally expected the universe to implode. Instead, he saw himself standing in the middle of the room, begging for Andy's attentions.
Andy smiled thankfully and said "good morning," glad for the distraction from the bizarre complaints.
Pete (as Patrick) saw only a blurry shape of a man. A man that, upon closer inspection, looked a lot like him. The blur walked forward, became clearer. A man that... fucking hell? Is him?! Pete started to feel dizzy again, but for a completely different reason. He sat down heavily on the nearest bench seat and stared. His body began to feel foreign, strange.
Through Pete's brown eyes, Patrick stared back.
This continued for what felt like an enternity, until Pete finally looked down at his own arms, hands, body, and the numbness of shock washed over him in waves. He should be screaming, but couldn't make a sound. He then realized why the other boys had failed to notice that anything was wrong and continued to eat their respective breakfasts, oblivious to the ground-shaking goings-on of their very own tour bus.
There were no two-Petes, and no two-Patricks either. Everything looked normal, on the outside. The numbers added up, but the math was all wrong.
Patrick crossed the room slowly, and sat beside Pete, beside himself, on the couch. Pete was beginning to tremble nervously, and he leaned in until their arms and shoulders were touching.
"I don't know how to say this, but," he began quietly, "are you Patrick?" Because, oh god, what if it wasn't? What if someone else entirely was in his body, and he'd lost Patrick forever? Pete's thoughts ran a mile a minute. On top of it all, Pete had never seen his own ear from quite that angle, much less whispered into it, and it was unnerving. A shiver ran through Patrick as well, but it was from the way Pete's breath was tickling his face, not fear. "Please, is that you in there?"
A weak "yes" was all that came in reply.
"Am I dreaming?"
"I don't know." Patrick stared out the window, the bus whipping past fields and trees, the world was moving too fast for this to be his imagination. This was too real to be a dream. "I don't think so, Pete."
"Well, then-- is this another bad body-swap comedy remake? I know I said that I loved those movies but..." Pete's voice faltered. Surely their combined love and knowledge of eighties family cinema would get them through this, quickly and quietly. Clips of Vice Versa, Like Father Like Son, and about ninety versions of Freaky Friday all played through his mind at once, and those were just the parent-child relationships.
Patrick frowned. He had nothing but respect and understanding for Pete, and that's how those kinds of plots were always resolved. It had also been awhile since his last fortune cookie, and he would certainly never wish to be in Pete's shoes. He didn't care for the limelight.
If those films had taught them anything, however, it was that these things didn't just happen. Something must have happened the night before, something significant. They needed to figure out just what that was, and change themselves back before anyone noticed what was going on. What about Andy and Joe? Would they be able to fool them long enough, or should they just tell them what was going on? Perhaps there would be no need.
Pete wriggled a little, and his pale Patrick-face blushed. "Dude, um, I need to use the bathroom." How does one say this? "Is that okay?"
Oh. Oh dear. Patrick blinked, and realized how comfortable they would both have to become with each other's bodies. They were close friends, very close, but there were certainly places on Pete that he'd never... touched. He felt a weird tingle of curiosity, mixed with certain humiliation.
"Do what you have to do, Pete." He paused. "Remember to wash your hands."
This was an unexpected way to wake up, to say the least.
The very least.
###
See original comments here.