(no subject)
you, me & the satellites.
pete&patrick, pete&gabe, pete&william, pete&travis // pg-13.
for may 22nd, a grand plot that I adore.
It was a very subtle and gradual change, but it was felt like shockwaves through all the ranks of friends and lovers and aquaintances and et ceteras. It started, oddly enough, with the socks. Where Patrick had managed to ever find a pair of argyle socks was quite remarkable, but he had done it, and Pete had stolen them ever so long ago. It was something a parent did; Patrick knew that Pete had stolen them, but he smiled in that "I know, but keep on pretending" way that made Pete feel important and stealthy.
When Pete took those socks and put them in a cardboard box (a very dramatic and scary change for someone who usually had those socks laying out beside his keyboard), and when William visited for cupcakes from Sprinkles, said man flipped out almost catastrophically.
"My god, Wentz. My God. What happened? Are you okay?" William was borderline hysterical, his voice (already so girlish) rising octaves as he shouted and grabbed Pete's shoulders. It was amusing, too, because any other couple would be the midst of cacophony that an ex's belonging was in one's apartment. Pete found it strange that Patrick was so ingrained into everyone's system that Pete still having his articles of clothing was normal.
"Will. WILL. Calm the fuck down." Pete's eyes drifted towards his keyboard. "Why the hell would I still want his socks? If anyone, I should have your socks, okay?" But it wasn't being communicated across.
"No, no. I'm the in-between" (this alone had enough power to kill ten men, because what person in love had already accepted and aknowledged that they were the second-best without dying a little inside?) "you don't need my fuckin' socks. I don't wear socks!" He then tore apart Pete's apartment looking for the argyle socks. Pete watched.
----------------
Travis was different than William (thank god). Pete put the socks (which hadn't moved from where Will had placed them last summer) in the bottom dresser drawer very casually before he went to bed, curving his hips to fit the long back and torso of Travis. When Pete looked for his scarf the next morning so he could go shovel the walkway (they were out of coffee and were seven dollars over-due on "Better Off Dead"), he noticed the lack of argyle in the bottom drawer.
The socks were laying over the cord of Pete's mouse in the living, in the corner where he kept his desk. Travis kissed Pete's cheek and asked him to buy a new toothbrush; his bristles were splitting. Travis purposefully avoided his eyes.
The next night, Pete instead put the socks in the miscellaneous kitchen drawer, all the way agianst their snowed-in white window, right next to the CD and paper-covered dining table that went unused except for wild sexcapade nights (twice every month, and birthdays).
Travis didn't look Pete in the eye the next morning, and Pete hid the socks again.
----------------
It was Gabe that didn't understand, and Pete felt worse for it. Pete put a thing a day (or if it was a long day, several things) in that same cardboard box, with all intensive pupose of giving it to someone just so they weren't his posessions anymore. Just so that he could feel good giving them to Andy or Mrs. Stumph or Salvation Army or something. No, not feel good...more like relieved.
"What are you doing?" Gabe asked. Damn. Pete had been caught in the act--well, it wasn't that hard, as it was two PM and Gabe was making lunch for them. Pete tried to make a gentle toss to get a Wilmette Play Production hat into The Box, but Gabe (admn him, he was fast as hell!) was already in the doorway and reaching for the flying brim.
"Playing hat frisbee," Pete answered, in all complete and utter seriousness. Gabe held his hand out strong and slapped Pete's head a few times.
"C'mon. Really. Why do you still have Patrick's hat?" Gabe's tone developed a soft tone, like radio fuzz and Pete thinks that he could answer that voice, seriously, it'd be so easy to...
He does. "Nobody took it away. No one said I couldn't keep it. So I kept it. But I wanna give it away, because I'll never really...Nobody said I couldn't try and keep him Gabe." Pete's shoulders sag and he tries to grab back the hat (even after a year and seven months, it still smells like that stupid orange and vanilla bean lotion Pete had tried to masturbate with secretively while sleeping beside Patrick. Do you think it worked?), but Gabe pull it out of reach.
"Let him go. You can't try and keep him, Pete. I'm yours now, and I'm not Patrick but I'm what you've got right now."
"Gabe, jesus, can't you see?!" Pete grabs the edges of the box and shake them, ruining all the progress that he had made in nine weeks. Pens and buttons and socks and a pair of tweety bird boxers and a novel all scattered the floor, a mine field of memories for Pete. "I was getting rid of him! In my own way, damnit!"
One by one, bit by bit, Gabe went on his hands and knees and folded clothes, neatly stacked everything together in the box, and set it on the couch. He pulled at a loose bang on Pete's head and the man looked up, sniffing angrily like a little child trying to stay mad but never suceeding.
"He won't stay alive through his...tweety boxers," Gabe said softly, more radio static that Pete wanted to listen to.
"I can try," Pete huffed defiantly, and he was so parallel to a stubborn child that Gabe almost laughed, but that would have ruined the moment. "I haven't washed them--"
"Uhm, ew!" Gabe hissed, eyes wide.
"--since he did, dumbass. They're clean. But if I wash them, that's bits and pieces of Patrick that I'll lose forever, and I'll have lost them to the damn lint filter." Pete hugged the Wilmette hat to his chest, and Gabe stood up, tugging Pete by the fist, where their hands connected. "C'mon."
"What the hell, kid?! Where..."
Gabe took the box forcibly from Pete and walked straight out the front door, pulling his lighter out of his pocket. Pete looked horrified.
"Gabe, no, no don't you fuckin' dare..."
Gabe dropped his Zippo lighter in the box and the entire thing burst into a phoenix flame in his hands. "It's not a lint filter," Gabe told Pete, wrapping his arms around the crying man. More radio static, exactly what Pete needed to hear.
pete&patrick, pete&gabe, pete&william, pete&travis // pg-13.
for may 22nd, a grand plot that I adore.
It was a very subtle and gradual change, but it was felt like shockwaves through all the ranks of friends and lovers and aquaintances and et ceteras. It started, oddly enough, with the socks. Where Patrick had managed to ever find a pair of argyle socks was quite remarkable, but he had done it, and Pete had stolen them ever so long ago. It was something a parent did; Patrick knew that Pete had stolen them, but he smiled in that "I know, but keep on pretending" way that made Pete feel important and stealthy.
When Pete took those socks and put them in a cardboard box (a very dramatic and scary change for someone who usually had those socks laying out beside his keyboard), and when William visited for cupcakes from Sprinkles, said man flipped out almost catastrophically.
"My god, Wentz. My God. What happened? Are you okay?" William was borderline hysterical, his voice (already so girlish) rising octaves as he shouted and grabbed Pete's shoulders. It was amusing, too, because any other couple would be the midst of cacophony that an ex's belonging was in one's apartment. Pete found it strange that Patrick was so ingrained into everyone's system that Pete still having his articles of clothing was normal.
"Will. WILL. Calm the fuck down." Pete's eyes drifted towards his keyboard. "Why the hell would I still want his socks? If anyone, I should have your socks, okay?" But it wasn't being communicated across.
"No, no. I'm the in-between" (this alone had enough power to kill ten men, because what person in love had already accepted and aknowledged that they were the second-best without dying a little inside?) "you don't need my fuckin' socks. I don't wear socks!" He then tore apart Pete's apartment looking for the argyle socks. Pete watched.
----------------
Travis was different than William (thank god). Pete put the socks (which hadn't moved from where Will had placed them last summer) in the bottom dresser drawer very casually before he went to bed, curving his hips to fit the long back and torso of Travis. When Pete looked for his scarf the next morning so he could go shovel the walkway (they were out of coffee and were seven dollars over-due on "Better Off Dead"), he noticed the lack of argyle in the bottom drawer.
The socks were laying over the cord of Pete's mouse in the living, in the corner where he kept his desk. Travis kissed Pete's cheek and asked him to buy a new toothbrush; his bristles were splitting. Travis purposefully avoided his eyes.
The next night, Pete instead put the socks in the miscellaneous kitchen drawer, all the way agianst their snowed-in white window, right next to the CD and paper-covered dining table that went unused except for wild sexcapade nights (twice every month, and birthdays).
Travis didn't look Pete in the eye the next morning, and Pete hid the socks again.
----------------
It was Gabe that didn't understand, and Pete felt worse for it. Pete put a thing a day (or if it was a long day, several things) in that same cardboard box, with all intensive pupose of giving it to someone just so they weren't his posessions anymore. Just so that he could feel good giving them to Andy or Mrs. Stumph or Salvation Army or something. No, not feel good...more like relieved.
"What are you doing?" Gabe asked. Damn. Pete had been caught in the act--well, it wasn't that hard, as it was two PM and Gabe was making lunch for them. Pete tried to make a gentle toss to get a Wilmette Play Production hat into The Box, but Gabe (admn him, he was fast as hell!) was already in the doorway and reaching for the flying brim.
"Playing hat frisbee," Pete answered, in all complete and utter seriousness. Gabe held his hand out strong and slapped Pete's head a few times.
"C'mon. Really. Why do you still have Patrick's hat?" Gabe's tone developed a soft tone, like radio fuzz and Pete thinks that he could answer that voice, seriously, it'd be so easy to...
He does. "Nobody took it away. No one said I couldn't keep it. So I kept it. But I wanna give it away, because I'll never really...Nobody said I couldn't try and keep him Gabe." Pete's shoulders sag and he tries to grab back the hat (even after a year and seven months, it still smells like that stupid orange and vanilla bean lotion Pete had tried to masturbate with secretively while sleeping beside Patrick. Do you think it worked?), but Gabe pull it out of reach.
"Let him go. You can't try and keep him, Pete. I'm yours now, and I'm not Patrick but I'm what you've got right now."
"Gabe, jesus, can't you see?!" Pete grabs the edges of the box and shake them, ruining all the progress that he had made in nine weeks. Pens and buttons and socks and a pair of tweety bird boxers and a novel all scattered the floor, a mine field of memories for Pete. "I was getting rid of him! In my own way, damnit!"
One by one, bit by bit, Gabe went on his hands and knees and folded clothes, neatly stacked everything together in the box, and set it on the couch. He pulled at a loose bang on Pete's head and the man looked up, sniffing angrily like a little child trying to stay mad but never suceeding.
"He won't stay alive through his...tweety boxers," Gabe said softly, more radio static that Pete wanted to listen to.
"I can try," Pete huffed defiantly, and he was so parallel to a stubborn child that Gabe almost laughed, but that would have ruined the moment. "I haven't washed them--"
"Uhm, ew!" Gabe hissed, eyes wide.
"--since he did, dumbass. They're clean. But if I wash them, that's bits and pieces of Patrick that I'll lose forever, and I'll have lost them to the damn lint filter." Pete hugged the Wilmette hat to his chest, and Gabe stood up, tugging Pete by the fist, where their hands connected. "C'mon."
"What the hell, kid?! Where..."
Gabe took the box forcibly from Pete and walked straight out the front door, pulling his lighter out of his pocket. Pete looked horrified.
"Gabe, no, no don't you fuckin' dare..."
Gabe dropped his Zippo lighter in the box and the entire thing burst into a phoenix flame in his hands. "It's not a lint filter," Gabe told Pete, wrapping his arms around the crying man. More radio static, exactly what Pete needed to hear.