Year Zero
Year Zero
Pete/Patrick pre-fame // 710 words // PG
For the Feb 13 prompt.
& for dreamofthem xxx
Most days, Pete feels like a bullet, aimed up and shooting, screaming at the slate-grey sky. He waits, braced for the impact, for the shatter, for how he knows the whole sky will fall in a million glittering pieces. Other days, he’s hanging on to the side of a mountain, with deep, crashing waves so far beneath his feet he can’t hear them, a shudder away from sliding off.
He wonders sometimes if maybe he doesn’t want to sleep, subconsciously, as in some throwback to childhood rebellion. Because making an enemy of the morning means he’ll always have tonight to fight for.
He blinks in time to the exhaustion that thrums through him, singing in his veins, as dark as the room. His slow heartbeat is the backdrop for each thought as it chases the last, like dreams he’d never have while asleep, like stars you can only see as you begin to look away.
The sunrise, like the tortoise, always wins.
*
Patrick doesn’t get it, but he wants to, and he tries.
There’s a switch somewhere in Pete, and it has an infinite number of triggers, and the times when it’s less like eggshells and more like a minefield is when Patrick tries the hardest.
His shoes crunch on the slight layer of snow, stealing across lawns of silent and sleeping houses, far-off streetlights revealing rooftops the next block over. The repetition of the sound urges him to walk faster, to kick up the tempo against the increasing numbness of his toes.
There is a moon, somewhere, beneath the thick overcast layer above. As he moves from the lawns into the open air of the park, Patrick shudders through a gust of cold wind and tucks his hands beneath his arms. He pauses, and scans the perimeter of the tiny lake, eyes narrowing in the low light.
Pete’s breath falls out of him in a silent cloud, dense and dissipating, his downward gaze in profile where he’s sat on the park bench. Patrick twitches in recognition and tucks his chin to his chest as he wanders over.
*
Pete looks away when Patrick sits, looks down at the ground to where his heel has dug a line in the snow, right through to the dark dirt, then up at the starless sky. Patrick clears his throat but tries to stifle the noise. Guilt and relief ricochet through Pete, a tug of war in the cavern between his heart and his stomach. Through the silence he counts in his head, broken seconds rolling out as if from a factory line. He’s nearly to two hundred when Patrick speaks at last, his voice unsteady; he’s shivering.
“Come to the car. It’s freezing.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” Pete says, but stands up anyway.
“Okay,” Patrick agrees quickly. “Okay,” he says again, for sincerity.
*
It’s not as if this hasn’t happened before, over and over just like this; a pause button when Patrick finds him, making time stop.
There’s still a part of Pete that is surprised by it though, surprised and grateful, and in the flare of amazement as they climb into the backseat and shut out the world, he hopes that element never fades completely. Because Patrick deserves it, and more, forever.
He doesn’t get it, Pete knows, because Patrick’s never been broken in jagged pieces, sharp angles that threaten to slice right through skin. But he tries, soft mouth and hands that aren’t warm but want to be, smoothing across the slightness of Pete’s body, reminding him that he hasn’t disappeared.
Patrick needs the limits of maps, the concentric plans of cul-de-sacs, the empty concrete drives. He’s not stifled by the fact the roads have second thoughts every mile, renaming themselves, but never look any different; or that even the frozen lake they were just sitting by is artificial. His contentment is an anchor, the slow sustain of his gaze and steady presence of his touch keeping Pete still.
When the insides of the windows have gone from fog to frost, hazy to opaque, Pete presses the tips of his fingers against them to make tiny holes, pushing to grow them larger, turning the white back to clear, to open the night back up.
[fin]
Pete/Patrick pre-fame // 710 words // PG
For the Feb 13 prompt.
& for dreamofthem xxx
Most days, Pete feels like a bullet, aimed up and shooting, screaming at the slate-grey sky. He waits, braced for the impact, for the shatter, for how he knows the whole sky will fall in a million glittering pieces. Other days, he’s hanging on to the side of a mountain, with deep, crashing waves so far beneath his feet he can’t hear them, a shudder away from sliding off.
He wonders sometimes if maybe he doesn’t want to sleep, subconsciously, as in some throwback to childhood rebellion. Because making an enemy of the morning means he’ll always have tonight to fight for.
He blinks in time to the exhaustion that thrums through him, singing in his veins, as dark as the room. His slow heartbeat is the backdrop for each thought as it chases the last, like dreams he’d never have while asleep, like stars you can only see as you begin to look away.
The sunrise, like the tortoise, always wins.
*
Patrick doesn’t get it, but he wants to, and he tries.
There’s a switch somewhere in Pete, and it has an infinite number of triggers, and the times when it’s less like eggshells and more like a minefield is when Patrick tries the hardest.
His shoes crunch on the slight layer of snow, stealing across lawns of silent and sleeping houses, far-off streetlights revealing rooftops the next block over. The repetition of the sound urges him to walk faster, to kick up the tempo against the increasing numbness of his toes.
There is a moon, somewhere, beneath the thick overcast layer above. As he moves from the lawns into the open air of the park, Patrick shudders through a gust of cold wind and tucks his hands beneath his arms. He pauses, and scans the perimeter of the tiny lake, eyes narrowing in the low light.
Pete’s breath falls out of him in a silent cloud, dense and dissipating, his downward gaze in profile where he’s sat on the park bench. Patrick twitches in recognition and tucks his chin to his chest as he wanders over.
*
Pete looks away when Patrick sits, looks down at the ground to where his heel has dug a line in the snow, right through to the dark dirt, then up at the starless sky. Patrick clears his throat but tries to stifle the noise. Guilt and relief ricochet through Pete, a tug of war in the cavern between his heart and his stomach. Through the silence he counts in his head, broken seconds rolling out as if from a factory line. He’s nearly to two hundred when Patrick speaks at last, his voice unsteady; he’s shivering.
“Come to the car. It’s freezing.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” Pete says, but stands up anyway.
“Okay,” Patrick agrees quickly. “Okay,” he says again, for sincerity.
*
It’s not as if this hasn’t happened before, over and over just like this; a pause button when Patrick finds him, making time stop.
There’s still a part of Pete that is surprised by it though, surprised and grateful, and in the flare of amazement as they climb into the backseat and shut out the world, he hopes that element never fades completely. Because Patrick deserves it, and more, forever.
He doesn’t get it, Pete knows, because Patrick’s never been broken in jagged pieces, sharp angles that threaten to slice right through skin. But he tries, soft mouth and hands that aren’t warm but want to be, smoothing across the slightness of Pete’s body, reminding him that he hasn’t disappeared.
Patrick needs the limits of maps, the concentric plans of cul-de-sacs, the empty concrete drives. He’s not stifled by the fact the roads have second thoughts every mile, renaming themselves, but never look any different; or that even the frozen lake they were just sitting by is artificial. His contentment is an anchor, the slow sustain of his gaze and steady presence of his touch keeping Pete still.
When the insides of the windows have gone from fog to frost, hazy to opaque, Pete presses the tips of his fingers against them to make tiny holes, pushing to grow them larger, turning the white back to clear, to open the night back up.
[fin]