(no subject)
we won't need legs to stand
pete/patrick (but mostly tttyg era fob gen); 725 words (with some swearing) for the december 19th prompt.
thanks to matchsticks_p for being awesome and to sufjan stevens for overtly religious (yet inspiring) music. ♥
Pete generally doesn't like hotels. He never gets any sleep in them and always manages to find one stray hair left in the sheets from the previous occupant.
"Ugh, Patrick, ew," Pete groans, pinching the offensive strand of hair with his forefinger and thumb. He flings the hair in the general direction of the trash can. "Switch beds with me."
Patrick has already curled up into a ball underneath the sheets of the bed on the other side of the room. He's wearing a dark hat, and Pete's eyes adjust to the contrast of it on the off-white pillow. The room is poorly lit and pathetically painted red, which brings Pete to wonder how the walls would do in a black-light test. The unused energy from the show they just played is still bouncing around in his system and Pete wants nothing more than to go on adventures with Patrick for the rest of the night.
Patrick sighs in his sleep. Pete exhales a quiet damn, gets into bed and counts sheep until his eyes water.
The next morning, Pete regrets not showering when they got back to the hotel. He absolutely reeks of sweat and other people's cigarettes. He peers over at the other bed and realizes that it's empty. Suddenly Pete's mood brightens because he now has an excuse to run around looking for Patrick.
He doesn't have to look far. Pete spots Patrick on a sofa in the hotel lobby. He's on his cell phone and doesn't look happy, doesn't look up at Pete. Pete just stands nearby, waiting for Patrick to acknowledge him. It takes a long while for Patrick to close his phone after speaking quietly into it, but when he does he looks up at Pete with sad eyes.
"What's wrong?" Pete asks instantly and Patrick shrugs.
You miss her, Pete thinks. Patrick lets out a loud sigh (the very same sigh he let out in his sleep), gets up and walks back to their room with Pete at his heels.
The elevator ride is slightly awkward only because Pete's standing so close to Patrick that his breath is actually moving the hairs on the back of his neck. Patrick wiggles his shoulders and arms, trying to stop the strange sensation.
"Pete, don't," Patrick mumbles as the elevator door opens with a beep and clang. The never-ending carpet in the hallway has a red paisley print that makes Pete's head spin. He opens the door to their room (Patrick propped it open with one of Pete's shoes) and flings himself onto his bed.
He looks over at the alarm clock and sees that it's only ten a.m. and holy fuck, it's going to be a long day.
Like a headache creeping behind his eyelids, the day gets so progressively worse that Pete just wants to curl up somewhere safe where there are no police questioning him with 'what the hell happened here?' It was just a skid, officer, someone answers, and Pete grimaces.
They end up at a diner. Patrick shoves himself into the far corner of the booth and plays with the salt and pepper shakers, knocking them together. Joe's eyes look weary and Andy manages to look like he's the only one at the table not lost in his own head.
There's always time for things like this, Pete thinks blearily. Time for rest stops and sweaty palms and anxious phone calls home. There's always time for these things, until there is no more time and then, well.
"Guys," Pete says, clears his throat. They all look up directly into his face and he blushes for the first time in a long while. "I'm glad we're still here."
A collective sigh is let loose as the waitress places several plates down on the table. "We can't afford this," Joe mutters, looking at the food they ordered.
"Think of it as our first meal as saved men," Pete declares, reaching over Patrick's slumped shoulders for the ketchup.
Andy slurps from his glass of water and grins, "Saved, indeed."
"We're safe," Patrick half-whispers, eyes shining from underneath the brim of his hat. "And all in one piece."
"We fit," Joe says absentmindedly while stabbing a pickle off of Andy's plate with his fork.
"We fit," Pete repeats and knows it's true, infinitely and indefinitely, until time stops.
pete/patrick (but mostly tttyg era fob gen); 725 words (with some swearing) for the december 19th prompt.
thanks to matchsticks_p for being awesome and to sufjan stevens for overtly religious (yet inspiring) music. ♥
Pete generally doesn't like hotels. He never gets any sleep in them and always manages to find one stray hair left in the sheets from the previous occupant.
"Ugh, Patrick, ew," Pete groans, pinching the offensive strand of hair with his forefinger and thumb. He flings the hair in the general direction of the trash can. "Switch beds with me."
Patrick has already curled up into a ball underneath the sheets of the bed on the other side of the room. He's wearing a dark hat, and Pete's eyes adjust to the contrast of it on the off-white pillow. The room is poorly lit and pathetically painted red, which brings Pete to wonder how the walls would do in a black-light test. The unused energy from the show they just played is still bouncing around in his system and Pete wants nothing more than to go on adventures with Patrick for the rest of the night.
Patrick sighs in his sleep. Pete exhales a quiet damn, gets into bed and counts sheep until his eyes water.
The next morning, Pete regrets not showering when they got back to the hotel. He absolutely reeks of sweat and other people's cigarettes. He peers over at the other bed and realizes that it's empty. Suddenly Pete's mood brightens because he now has an excuse to run around looking for Patrick.
He doesn't have to look far. Pete spots Patrick on a sofa in the hotel lobby. He's on his cell phone and doesn't look happy, doesn't look up at Pete. Pete just stands nearby, waiting for Patrick to acknowledge him. It takes a long while for Patrick to close his phone after speaking quietly into it, but when he does he looks up at Pete with sad eyes.
"What's wrong?" Pete asks instantly and Patrick shrugs.
You miss her, Pete thinks. Patrick lets out a loud sigh (the very same sigh he let out in his sleep), gets up and walks back to their room with Pete at his heels.
The elevator ride is slightly awkward only because Pete's standing so close to Patrick that his breath is actually moving the hairs on the back of his neck. Patrick wiggles his shoulders and arms, trying to stop the strange sensation.
"Pete, don't," Patrick mumbles as the elevator door opens with a beep and clang. The never-ending carpet in the hallway has a red paisley print that makes Pete's head spin. He opens the door to their room (Patrick propped it open with one of Pete's shoes) and flings himself onto his bed.
He looks over at the alarm clock and sees that it's only ten a.m. and holy fuck, it's going to be a long day.
Like a headache creeping behind his eyelids, the day gets so progressively worse that Pete just wants to curl up somewhere safe where there are no police questioning him with 'what the hell happened here?' It was just a skid, officer, someone answers, and Pete grimaces.
They end up at a diner. Patrick shoves himself into the far corner of the booth and plays with the salt and pepper shakers, knocking them together. Joe's eyes look weary and Andy manages to look like he's the only one at the table not lost in his own head.
There's always time for things like this, Pete thinks blearily. Time for rest stops and sweaty palms and anxious phone calls home. There's always time for these things, until there is no more time and then, well.
"Guys," Pete says, clears his throat. They all look up directly into his face and he blushes for the first time in a long while. "I'm glad we're still here."
A collective sigh is let loose as the waitress places several plates down on the table. "We can't afford this," Joe mutters, looking at the food they ordered.
"Think of it as our first meal as saved men," Pete declares, reaching over Patrick's slumped shoulders for the ketchup.
Andy slurps from his glass of water and grins, "Saved, indeed."
"We're safe," Patrick half-whispers, eyes shining from underneath the brim of his hat. "And all in one piece."
"We fit," Joe says absentmindedly while stabbing a pickle off of Andy's plate with his fork.
"We fit," Pete repeats and knows it's true, infinitely and indefinitely, until time stops.