Hopelessly Hopeful
Patrick/Pete
(550)//(PG)
So, yes. I actually wrote this a few weeks ago but I've been too much of a chicken to post. Bawk. The story was kicking in my head for a bit and the March 13th prompt drove me to finish. Only I can take an uplifting prompt and find sadness, lol.
And I want to be known for my hits, not just my misses
I took a shot and didn't even come close
Some nights Patrick disconnects, just crawls inside his head during this song because he really can’t think about it - the it, the it no one mentions, the one about which glances are exchanged but no one will come out and just tell Pete to stay the hell away from Best Buy parking lots for, like, ever.
And the record won't stop skipping
And the lies just won't stop slipping
And besides my reputation's on the line
And he sees Pete singing, far enough from the microphone so no one but Patrick can hear him and, really, Patrick just hears Pete’s voice in his head like he does whenever new words are shoved in his hands between interviews, shows, and dinners with people who aren’t him. And that’s fine, whatever; Patrick knows Pete needs him in ways he can’t express; he’s not so great with the words if they aren’t spoken through a pen or a keyboard. And he knows those nights when Pete stumbles in their hotel room, bleary-eyed and stinking of smoke, perfume and sweat and he curls against Patrick, legs tangling, breath warming his neck, that it’s Pete’s way of saying I love you and I need you and please always be here when I get back.
Please put the doctor on the phone 'cause I'm not making any sense
Blame everyone but me for this mess
And my back has been breaking from this heavy heart
We never seemed so far
Sometimes Patrick wishes Pete would help carry his own baggage but, really, the only baggage Patrick has is Pete and he’ll carry all of it forever if he has to. Which he might. But none of that makes this moment easier - it’s hard enough to lay yourself raw in front of strangers but this is Patrick laying Pete out for everyone to see.
We can fake it for the airwaves
Force our smiles, baby, half dead
From comparing myself to everyone else around me
Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and presses against the microphone and wonders - again, always, forever and ever - why Pete never told him anything. Wonders how Pete can post his rambling thoughts on the Web for everyone to see and dissect, how he can fling himself into a crowd of people he doesn’t know and trust them to hold him up when it’s Patrick whose been holding him up for years. And it never gets easier because the worry is there, the what if his cell rings one night it’s not Trohman fucking around again but a sleepy Pete warbling I’m sorry and I can’t and Patrick won’t get there in time. Patrick may write the music to Pete’s words but Pete *is* Patrick’s music, a loud frenetic screech that pings around inside his head and he’s the only one who hears it fade into a melody when no one is around. Patrick knows he could never live with that silence. So, he’ll sing and he’ll write and he’ll be in the hotel rooms at 4am to give Pete what he needs and it’s okay. It is. Because Patrick never wants to know the day that his head is full of wordless melodies.
(550)//(PG)
So, yes. I actually wrote this a few weeks ago but I've been too much of a chicken to post. Bawk. The story was kicking in my head for a bit and the March 13th prompt drove me to finish. Only I can take an uplifting prompt and find sadness, lol.
And I want to be known for my hits, not just my misses
I took a shot and didn't even come close
Some nights Patrick disconnects, just crawls inside his head during this song because he really can’t think about it - the it, the it no one mentions, the one about which glances are exchanged but no one will come out and just tell Pete to stay the hell away from Best Buy parking lots for, like, ever.
And the record won't stop skipping
And the lies just won't stop slipping
And besides my reputation's on the line
And he sees Pete singing, far enough from the microphone so no one but Patrick can hear him and, really, Patrick just hears Pete’s voice in his head like he does whenever new words are shoved in his hands between interviews, shows, and dinners with people who aren’t him. And that’s fine, whatever; Patrick knows Pete needs him in ways he can’t express; he’s not so great with the words if they aren’t spoken through a pen or a keyboard. And he knows those nights when Pete stumbles in their hotel room, bleary-eyed and stinking of smoke, perfume and sweat and he curls against Patrick, legs tangling, breath warming his neck, that it’s Pete’s way of saying I love you and I need you and please always be here when I get back.
Please put the doctor on the phone 'cause I'm not making any sense
Blame everyone but me for this mess
And my back has been breaking from this heavy heart
We never seemed so far
Sometimes Patrick wishes Pete would help carry his own baggage but, really, the only baggage Patrick has is Pete and he’ll carry all of it forever if he has to. Which he might. But none of that makes this moment easier - it’s hard enough to lay yourself raw in front of strangers but this is Patrick laying Pete out for everyone to see.
We can fake it for the airwaves
Force our smiles, baby, half dead
From comparing myself to everyone else around me
Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and presses against the microphone and wonders - again, always, forever and ever - why Pete never told him anything. Wonders how Pete can post his rambling thoughts on the Web for everyone to see and dissect, how he can fling himself into a crowd of people he doesn’t know and trust them to hold him up when it’s Patrick whose been holding him up for years. And it never gets easier because the worry is there, the what if his cell rings one night it’s not Trohman fucking around again but a sleepy Pete warbling I’m sorry and I can’t and Patrick won’t get there in time. Patrick may write the music to Pete’s words but Pete *is* Patrick’s music, a loud frenetic screech that pings around inside his head and he’s the only one who hears it fade into a melody when no one is around. Patrick knows he could never live with that silence. So, he’ll sing and he’ll write and he’ll be in the hotel rooms at 4am to give Pete what he needs and it’s okay. It is. Because Patrick never wants to know the day that his head is full of wordless melodies.