(no subject)
squared triangles
484 // PG
for dec 05.
pete, patrick
pete is exhausted. he thinks that maybe it's the constant movement of his mind - black and white notes, neon and patterned garments - or the speed of conversations; no time to stumble over words said or written. it's. it's.
"if you keep rambling like an idiot, i'm flying out there," patrick says.
"isn't your job to make me stop rambling? 'cause that's not really a threat, what you just said." pete stares at the corner of his blanket. he feels the warmth of the sunset on his back, but doesn't roll over.
(it's the perpetual forward motion, he says later. like a car making its way down I-5, falling into the gravity of los angeles.)
patrick arrives the next night, around the time when there's another episode of 'degrassi' beginning as soon as the credits for the previous one fade out. a soft whump of a nylon duffel bag in the nearly empty foyer and then patrick comes ambling through the hallway, still bundled up against the ghost of a chicago winter. he slides onto a stool and folds his hands on the counter.
"want a sandwich?" pete offers. he's standing behind the kitchen island. he'd laid out a cutting board, some utensils, and a roll of paper towels an hour ago. they're useless props now, but it looks nice. he walks around to the counter and holds out an open bag of wonderbread, letting patrick sniff at it. he wrinkles his nose. pete snatches the bag back before he can say anything.
"i'm making you a fucking sandwich," he states.
patrick laughs. "the beleaguered angry housewife?"
pete makes a face. they eat salami sandwiches and watch degrassi with pete's ankles digging into patrick's thighs. he moves them around on purpose, just to see patrick react: a quick sigh, or maybe he moves when pete does, or maybe he holds pete's feet and says, "dude, rewind it, i didn't hear the last part." he looks over at pete a lot, during commercials for pimple cream and some department store sales, but not with a worried look. just tiny, casual glances; quietly affectionate, like he's never stopped seeing pete everyday.
the next morning, pete gets up to find that patrick has left a note taped onto the wall by the thermostat, letters blending together into almost illegible loops and lines. turn up the fucking heat. it says, with that punctuation mark at the end that sends the message with no mistake: turn up the fucking heat, you cheap asshole.
pete scribbles under it with a pink highlighter that he grabs off the coffee table. fuck you. he makes the period extra bold, realizes that it might bleed through onto the wall, realizes that he doesn't care, and then picks up the duffel bag that's still sitting on the floor. it's a comforting weight pulling on pete's fingers. he takes it up to patrick's room.
484 // PG
for dec 05.
pete, patrick
pete is exhausted. he thinks that maybe it's the constant movement of his mind - black and white notes, neon and patterned garments - or the speed of conversations; no time to stumble over words said or written. it's. it's.
"if you keep rambling like an idiot, i'm flying out there," patrick says.
"isn't your job to make me stop rambling? 'cause that's not really a threat, what you just said." pete stares at the corner of his blanket. he feels the warmth of the sunset on his back, but doesn't roll over.
(it's the perpetual forward motion, he says later. like a car making its way down I-5, falling into the gravity of los angeles.)
patrick arrives the next night, around the time when there's another episode of 'degrassi' beginning as soon as the credits for the previous one fade out. a soft whump of a nylon duffel bag in the nearly empty foyer and then patrick comes ambling through the hallway, still bundled up against the ghost of a chicago winter. he slides onto a stool and folds his hands on the counter.
"want a sandwich?" pete offers. he's standing behind the kitchen island. he'd laid out a cutting board, some utensils, and a roll of paper towels an hour ago. they're useless props now, but it looks nice. he walks around to the counter and holds out an open bag of wonderbread, letting patrick sniff at it. he wrinkles his nose. pete snatches the bag back before he can say anything.
"i'm making you a fucking sandwich," he states.
patrick laughs. "the beleaguered angry housewife?"
pete makes a face. they eat salami sandwiches and watch degrassi with pete's ankles digging into patrick's thighs. he moves them around on purpose, just to see patrick react: a quick sigh, or maybe he moves when pete does, or maybe he holds pete's feet and says, "dude, rewind it, i didn't hear the last part." he looks over at pete a lot, during commercials for pimple cream and some department store sales, but not with a worried look. just tiny, casual glances; quietly affectionate, like he's never stopped seeing pete everyday.
the next morning, pete gets up to find that patrick has left a note taped onto the wall by the thermostat, letters blending together into almost illegible loops and lines. turn up the fucking heat. it says, with that punctuation mark at the end that sends the message with no mistake: turn up the fucking heat, you cheap asshole.
pete scribbles under it with a pink highlighter that he grabs off the coffee table. fuck you. he makes the period extra bold, realizes that it might bleed through onto the wall, realizes that he doesn't care, and then picks up the duffel bag that's still sitting on the floor. it's a comforting weight pulling on pete's fingers. he takes it up to patrick's room.