Fic: Look at What You've Done
Title: Look at What You've Done
Author: vinvy
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Pairing: Gabe/Pete
Word Count: ~ 975
Summary: “This is bullshit, man. I didn’t come by here to help you write so you could mope in the corner all day.”
Warnings: profanity, spray paint, a little bit of angst, shameless fluff
Disclaimer: If you have found this by searching anything for yourself or one of your friends GO BACK RIGHT THE FUCK NOW. Also this never happened and I don't do these things for profit. Duh.
A/N: Written for iron_fist123 for the prompt "Pete, eyeliner, and a notebook" because she knows just what to feed my brain. The first in our Gravity!verse. There is totally more to come, okay?
The worst thing about really nice eyeliner pencils is their tendency to be made of hardwood. When sharpened, if you aren't lucky, you'll get jagged edges that'll slice your eyelids off once the pencil wears down.
"Is that why you're using that thing to write with?"
It's rude to read over people's shoulders, Gabe, Pete writes with a flourish. The oily consistency of the eyeliner makes flourishes run smoothly. They're out of place in his messy print but he adds them anyway to keep things classy.
Tuesdays are boring, even in the studio they're boring. It's because they're too. "Too" as an adjective. Too-sdays. Too muddled after Mondays and too early in the week- nothing to look forward to, just more days. The walls here are too soundproof- Pete wants to hear traffic and chatter, nothing pretty or euphonic, just rattling and bustling and alive. The air is too cool and the carpeting is too beige. Far too beige. He can almost taste the beige for fuck’s sake. It's like oatmeal but without a half cup of brown sugar and too much water instead of cream.
"Want me to find some spray paint? Then we can fix the carpet before the next take," Gabe says.
Pete sighs at his notebook then resharpens the eyeliner pencil, meticulously twisting it until it's got a needle-point. That’s not going to do any good.
Gabe's exit barely registers in Pete’s brain- it’s too busy telling him to make a meticulous border around the edge of this page- but Gabe must have been running because he’s back in ten minutes with something ridiculously loud that keeps hitting the wall and what sounds like a plastic bag. Pete’s curious but Gabe is incapable of not making a loud entrance so the curiosity isn’t to the point that he’ll look up. This “Too-sdays” business looks promising. Paper rips- hopefully Gabe isn’t messing with any scores- duct tape (oh the familiar sound of shoe-repair) coming off of a roll follows. There’s rustling for a few minutes, blessed white noise.
Finally, Gabe huffs like he’s done with his racket. “This is bullshit, man. I didn’t come by here to help you write so you could mope in the corner all day.”
“Not moping, writing.” Well. Doodling. Little cartoons going to war in smudged eyeliner in the back of his notebook.
There’s a plastic rattling sound. “Holy shit he can still speak!”
This is the point where Pete would say “Fuck off” except there’s a telltale hiss after Gabe’s exclamation that turns it into “What are you doing to my studio?” as he snaps his eyeliner pencil and flails to get to his feet. The wheeled chair goes flying and knocks over the Monster he left on the floor- the poor thing didn’t even see it coming.
“Your studio needs new wallpaper,” he explains without looking at Pete. The can of spray paint in his hand produces the most violent shade of orange Pete has ever seen against the massive sheets of paper that have been taped to the wall. That eye-bending orange becomes the outline of a penis- that’s all the artistic talent of bathroom stall graffiti right there.
“Are you kidding me?” Pete rolls his eyes and catches the can Gabe tosses him. “Other people have to work here, you know.”
“This way they know what they’re getting into!”
The jovial, almost manic, grin is catching. Gabe starts to add a caption to his piece “For a good time call” but Pete intersects- in fluorescent green! Nice!- whatever name Gabe would have put with “Juliet” in sloppy cursive. Next comes a stick figure girl with goggling eyes, a zombie, wholly appropriate, he thinks. His jeans are neon casualties. Gabe comes back with purple this time and gives the zombie girl a dream bubble- and of course she’s dreaming of brains. What else would be on her mind? Poor, starving Juliet who’s only looking for a good time which in her world means a feast of grey matter. Purple matter. With orange spots.
It’s a good thing that the paper covers the whole wall- it turns out that this was just what Pete’s brain needed. Shouting and color and paint fumes. Lyrics he’s been tossing around for weeks get dashed in the corner. Gabe adds something to them about rain which is perfect when you looked at it in dripping paint. They wrestle for the last of the purple paint and it ends up sprayed all over their shoes and hands. There’s a good-sized splotch of it on Gabe’s neck, too.
They wheeze with laughter, each glance they spare the newly christened wall making them double over again.
“I can honestly say that’s something I’ve never done before,” Gabe announces, settling onto the floor to admire their work once the giggles subside.
Pete grins and drops down next to him, swaying. “I am dizzy as fuck. What the hell made you think to do that?”
Gabe hums. There’s a fan just out of reach and he stretches to turn it on. “Paint fumes, dude. Magical stuff.”
“You’re magical stuff,” Pete says and snorts because, did he seriously just say that? It sets Gabe laughing again. The things that come out of his mouth are things he should not be responsible for. Especially the things that worm their way out when he’s high on paint fumes. “You got me high on paint fumes,” he accuses Gabe, who’s leaning back on his elbows and giving him a cheeky grin, “This is your own fault, then -” He leans down and kisses Gabe because Gabe’s mouth his open at the start of a reply and Pete has always been a sucker for perfect angles- really, how could he not?
- Fin
Author: vinvy
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Pairing: Gabe/Pete
Word Count: ~ 975
Summary: “This is bullshit, man. I didn’t come by here to help you write so you could mope in the corner all day.”
Warnings: profanity, spray paint, a little bit of angst, shameless fluff
Disclaimer: If you have found this by searching anything for yourself or one of your friends GO BACK RIGHT THE FUCK NOW. Also this never happened and I don't do these things for profit. Duh.
A/N: Written for iron_fist123 for the prompt "Pete, eyeliner, and a notebook" because she knows just what to feed my brain. The first in our Gravity!verse. There is totally more to come, okay?
The worst thing about really nice eyeliner pencils is their tendency to be made of hardwood. When sharpened, if you aren't lucky, you'll get jagged edges that'll slice your eyelids off once the pencil wears down.
"Is that why you're using that thing to write with?"
It's rude to read over people's shoulders, Gabe, Pete writes with a flourish. The oily consistency of the eyeliner makes flourishes run smoothly. They're out of place in his messy print but he adds them anyway to keep things classy.
Tuesdays are boring, even in the studio they're boring. It's because they're too. "Too" as an adjective. Too-sdays. Too muddled after Mondays and too early in the week- nothing to look forward to, just more days. The walls here are too soundproof- Pete wants to hear traffic and chatter, nothing pretty or euphonic, just rattling and bustling and alive. The air is too cool and the carpeting is too beige. Far too beige. He can almost taste the beige for fuck’s sake. It's like oatmeal but without a half cup of brown sugar and too much water instead of cream.
"Want me to find some spray paint? Then we can fix the carpet before the next take," Gabe says.
Pete sighs at his notebook then resharpens the eyeliner pencil, meticulously twisting it until it's got a needle-point. That’s not going to do any good.
Gabe's exit barely registers in Pete’s brain- it’s too busy telling him to make a meticulous border around the edge of this page- but Gabe must have been running because he’s back in ten minutes with something ridiculously loud that keeps hitting the wall and what sounds like a plastic bag. Pete’s curious but Gabe is incapable of not making a loud entrance so the curiosity isn’t to the point that he’ll look up. This “Too-sdays” business looks promising. Paper rips- hopefully Gabe isn’t messing with any scores- duct tape (oh the familiar sound of shoe-repair) coming off of a roll follows. There’s rustling for a few minutes, blessed white noise.
Finally, Gabe huffs like he’s done with his racket. “This is bullshit, man. I didn’t come by here to help you write so you could mope in the corner all day.”
“Not moping, writing.” Well. Doodling. Little cartoons going to war in smudged eyeliner in the back of his notebook.
There’s a plastic rattling sound. “Holy shit he can still speak!”
This is the point where Pete would say “Fuck off” except there’s a telltale hiss after Gabe’s exclamation that turns it into “What are you doing to my studio?” as he snaps his eyeliner pencil and flails to get to his feet. The wheeled chair goes flying and knocks over the Monster he left on the floor- the poor thing didn’t even see it coming.
“Your studio needs new wallpaper,” he explains without looking at Pete. The can of spray paint in his hand produces the most violent shade of orange Pete has ever seen against the massive sheets of paper that have been taped to the wall. That eye-bending orange becomes the outline of a penis- that’s all the artistic talent of bathroom stall graffiti right there.
“Are you kidding me?” Pete rolls his eyes and catches the can Gabe tosses him. “Other people have to work here, you know.”
“This way they know what they’re getting into!”
The jovial, almost manic, grin is catching. Gabe starts to add a caption to his piece “For a good time call” but Pete intersects- in fluorescent green! Nice!- whatever name Gabe would have put with “Juliet” in sloppy cursive. Next comes a stick figure girl with goggling eyes, a zombie, wholly appropriate, he thinks. His jeans are neon casualties. Gabe comes back with purple this time and gives the zombie girl a dream bubble- and of course she’s dreaming of brains. What else would be on her mind? Poor, starving Juliet who’s only looking for a good time which in her world means a feast of grey matter. Purple matter. With orange spots.
It’s a good thing that the paper covers the whole wall- it turns out that this was just what Pete’s brain needed. Shouting and color and paint fumes. Lyrics he’s been tossing around for weeks get dashed in the corner. Gabe adds something to them about rain which is perfect when you looked at it in dripping paint. They wrestle for the last of the purple paint and it ends up sprayed all over their shoes and hands. There’s a good-sized splotch of it on Gabe’s neck, too.
They wheeze with laughter, each glance they spare the newly christened wall making them double over again.
“I can honestly say that’s something I’ve never done before,” Gabe announces, settling onto the floor to admire their work once the giggles subside.
Pete grins and drops down next to him, swaying. “I am dizzy as fuck. What the hell made you think to do that?”
Gabe hums. There’s a fan just out of reach and he stretches to turn it on. “Paint fumes, dude. Magical stuff.”
“You’re magical stuff,” Pete says and snorts because, did he seriously just say that? It sets Gabe laughing again. The things that come out of his mouth are things he should not be responsible for. Especially the things that worm their way out when he’s high on paint fumes. “You got me high on paint fumes,” he accuses Gabe, who’s leaning back on his elbows and giving him a cheeky grin, “This is your own fault, then -” He leans down and kisses Gabe because Gabe’s mouth his open at the start of a reply and Pete has always been a sucker for perfect angles- really, how could he not?
- Fin