fic: Backward Compatibility, Pete/Patrick
It's Monday. I barely have time to breathe but, here's some fic.
Backward Compatibility
Pete/Patrick, PG, 3,249 words.
Thanks to ficklish for the beta. ♥
something's lost, but something's gained / in living every day
Patrick's phone vibrates in his pocket, a brief and steady buzz against his thigh, and it turns the corners of his mouth up. It's a text message and even though he can't stop to look at it right this second, too busy concentrating on the playback and the mixing board and getting the levels right, he has a sneaking suspicion it's from Pete.
Patrick is in New York, he's been busy producing for the better part of a week; Pete is still in LA. They spoke two nights ago but their schedules have been hectic (and seriously, Patrick thinks they're the only band who are more busy when they're not touring). Their conversation had been really good though - like their talks before Patrick had left for the opposite coast - hopeful, and Pete had said I want to see you when you get back before they hung up, and Patrick had believed it, a glimmer of optimism fluttering in his chest. So he sort of counted on hearing from Pete again before the end of the week anyway.
He couldn't have guessed, however, not in a million years - as he came to a stopping point and took a five-minute break - exactly what the text would say.
um, our sex tape is missing ?
Patrick reads it again, stops breathing, waits for his heart to resume and - yeah, there it goes, beating wildly now from the rush of adrenaline. It takes his shaky fingers three tries to land on Pete's number in his address book while he wonders what part of Pete's text is actually meant to be a question.
Pete picks up right away, but, "I can't talk, Patrick."
"Pete - what - your text - ?" Patrick understandably can't seem to pick a sentence and go with it.
"I know, I know, I kept forgetting to tell you but seriously, I'm in the middle of an interview, I'll call you back, I promise."
Pete predictably hangs up before Patrick can respond. Patrick sinks into a chair and thinks he might pass out.
*
"Fuck," Patrick mutters under his breath, and then raises his voice into the phone. "Pete, will you be serious about this and help me fucking think?"
Patrick is back at his hotel. He'd given up on the day shortly after he'd spoken to Pete the first time, and when he'd arrived in his room he logged on to the internet with absolute dread, and a morbid certainty that he'd find clips from the video splattered everywhere; the macabre remains of his dignity, his career, and his entire life.
But no, it was just more bitching about lack of tour dates, and pondering about whether or not Pete is gay. Business as usual, then.
"I don't know what happened to it," Pete says again. "I looked everywhere, it's just not there anymore."
"How long has it been gone?"
"How the hell should I know?"
Patrick rolls his eyes. "When's the last time you knew, for sure, a hundred percent, that it was present and accounted for?"
Pete is silent for a few seconds, and Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose, at the headache forming there. "I think… Thanksgiving?" Pete says tentatively.
Patrick thinks he might cry.
"No, wait!" Pete says suddenly. "When was that weekend you went to see your mom, like, all at the last minute to surprise her?"
Patrick stares at the wall in concentration, and then the answer washes over him in sad realization. "Uh… that was… that was like, the middle of February. Like six… six weeks ago." Pete really should have known that.
"Yeah, that's it," Pete replies, his voice hushed, and Patrick knows from his tone that he's realized it now, too. "That's when."
There's a tiny flare of defiance that spurs Patrick's question. "I was gone two nights, and you…?"
"Do you really want to have this conversation right now, Patrick?"
He presses his lips together, biting the insides. "No," he replies resolutely. "I want you to spend from now until Sunday, when I get back, making a list of every person who has been in your house between the middle of February and last weekend."
"Patrick, that's like, impossible."
"Figure it out," is all Patrick says before he hangs up.
*
Patrick flies back a day early.
He's restless on the plane, jittery, weighted with the empty ache of regret and the fear of impending disaster. He's never even seen it, not all of it, just bits and pieces on two distinct occasions - the first soon after it was created, when somehow Pete managed to talk him into trying to watch it, and Patrick ended up hiding under the pillow and begging him to turn it off. The other time, Patrick was alone, but sliding the antiquated VHS tape into the player had far more to do with wallowing in his own sadness and solitude than any sincere form of sexual gratification.
As his plane begins its descent into LAX, Patrick stares out the window at the landscape and speckle-dots of swimming pools below. His mind drifts to a certain evening in early September, on Pete's back deck at four in the morning, warm under the faint Hollywood stars. There and then they had decided to be together, just like that, like suddenly choosing onion rings in place of ever-familiar french fries. At the time it had made all the sense in the world.
These days, Patrick thinks, it's maybe more like wanting the fries back, but being stuck with potato chips.
*
Pete is not long out of bed when Patrick arrives, but he's started making the list already, the bright glow of his MacBook monitor illuminating the angles of his face under the oval frame of his hood. Patrick turns a lamp on and sits beside Pete on the couch, sneaking glances at the black letters as they pop up in the text file with the clicking of Pete's fingers on the keys.
He pauses in his typing, leans back into the sofa, and turns the machine a bit toward Patrick.
"This is just… top of my head."
Patrick's gaze lands on the name he knew would be there, expected it, and resents the fact that it stings anyhow, when he knows it's not allowed to. Especially not now. He reaches over with one hand and uses his thumb and finger to select the text Pete has typed, coating it all in light blue, then de-selects it again, letting the color fall. He repeats the action, over and over, up and down, just playing with it, pretending to read it. In actuality he can't look away from her name.
When he accidentally hits the spacebar and all of the text disappears, he draws his hand away.
"Did you think about, like, repair people? Did you have anything installed or whatever?"
"No," Pete mutters, turning the laptop back and undoing the delete, and there she is again.
Patrick doesn't know if that answer means he didn't think about it, or didn't have anything repaired, but he doesn't question it.
"What are we going to do with this list anyway?" Pete asks.
"I don't know," Patrick mutters, and shrugs a little. "Narrow it down to those who would be happy to ruin our lives?"
"I pretty much know that no one on here would do that. I wouldn't let them in the house if that were the case."
Patrick disagrees vehemently, but keeps it to himself, chewing on his thumbnail. "Maybe just … people who had direct access to where you were keeping it, then."
Pete thinks for a second. "You know where I was keeping it," he says, a little sharply.
"Yeah, so?" Patrick replies. Of course he knows. The only VCR is in the bedroom.
"Dude," Pete begins, in that scathing tone Patrick detests, "If you really want a list of who I've messed around with - "
"No," Patrick interjects, standing up. "I don't."
" - I will fucking make you one - "
"I'm leaving," Patrick declares. "That's not the point." They're talking over one another now.
" - all you have to do is fucking say so."
Patrick doesn't exactly slam the door on his way out, but he's not gentle about it either.
*
Each day when he wakes up, he expects to discover that the video has made its way to the internet. He begins almost to hope for it, just to get it over with. The apprehensive dread is crippling.
Pete had sent him a text message shortly after Patrick stormed out - im sorry, i dont think anyone took it. Patrick couldn't figure out if he was apologizing for the way he behaved or for his opinion. Ok, Patrick replied. Did it walk away on its own?
He has actual, legitimate theories to present to Pete, things he thinks of while he's not sleeping at night, like asking if he had put anything into storage lately or god forbid returned any movie rentals. But he sort of believes Pete's smart enough to have thought of those things on his own. Patrick is kind of at a loss.
He can also admit now that the list was not really a very helpful course of action. It just seemed logical, methodical, something they should do to try and figure this out. Patrick is big on process. In some alternate universe he's probably a research scientist. In this one, however, he sits at his kitchen table, chin in his arms, flipping his phone open and shut.
When he does finally call Pete, it goes to voicemail.
"Hey. I was thinking about dropping by tomorrow afternoon, picking up some more of my stuff. Just... let me know if that's a problem."
*
Patrick never moved in with Pete, not officially. He just sort of migrated over the months, didn't worry about the things he left there, bought a second toothbrush, that sort of thing. The clothes that remain in the closet are ones he probably wouldn't wear now anyway.
As he drags the empty box up the steps to let himself in, he wonders if he'll ever actually get everything out.
Pete is there when he opens the door, wandering in from the kitchen, and he smiles, genuinely, his eyes lighting up. Patrick's heart skips when he looks at him, questioning, thinking maybe he found it, maybe this is all over.
"I made tea," Pete says instead.
Patrick sets the box down, and Pete's gaze drops, his face falling a bit. Patrick turns around to push the door shut.
"If you want," Pete adds.
Patrick nods, "Yeah, okay," and follows Pete back into the kitchen.
Coffee, that's Pete's thing, and he never makes it for himself; he's always stopping to buy some on his way to wherever. Tea is what Patrick likes, and Pete never took more than a passing interest in it when Patrick used to make some, on lazy Saturday afternoons or the rare rainy morning. As he sinks into one of the kitchen chairs, hands folded around a steaming mug, he looks across at Pete and then back to his tea.
"You don't have to take your stuff away," Pete says, plainly, as if it's all that simple.
Patrick traces the mug handle with his thumb. "Guess if I wait long enough it'll go away on its own."
He means it as a joke, of course. But his intonation doesn't quite match his intent, and the second the words leave his mouth, even before the awkward silence that follows, he knows it's just not going to go over, at all. Patrick feels instantly terrible, fundamentally so, and the look on Pete's face only compounds his guilt. He didn't come here to argue, he really didn't.
Pete doesn't say anything in response, just stands up and walks to the kitchen sink, emptying his tea mug and then letting it drop. It clatters against the bottom, loudly, and Patrick sighs softly, because here it comes.
They speak at the same time.
"I'm sorry, it was --"
"How is this my fault?"
"-- a joke," Patrick finishes, and then resentment, reactionary, twists low in his stomach. "How could you just lose it?"
"I didn't lose it," Pete argues sharply as he walks past, and Patrick stands up, watching the back of his head as he goes. "I was looking for it."
Pete mutters something else as he disappears into the hallway, something Patrick can't hear. He does hear the repeated thudding of Pete's steps up the carpeted stairs though, and the distinct slam of an upstairs door, and then nothing.
*
Patrick sings Joni Mitchell in his head as he puts some books in the box.
He has to keep shifting, kneeling in front of the big bookcase, because his knees hurt if he's on them too long, and then his ankles ache if he sits on them. He runs his hand along the spines, the same four lines of "Both Sides Now" in an inescapable loop, mixing with the titles as his eyes race across them, and he wishes he could remember more of the lyrics. He goes over each row twice, sometimes three times, and leaves more than he takes, because he doesn't want to think too hard about whether or not they're really his.
He's deep in thought about the elusive third line in the second verse, the dizzy, dancing way you feel... somethingsomethingsomething real, moving up another shelf, and he's just about to rise to his feet when Pete speaks, startling him.
"I mean it, don't take your things."
Patrick hadn't even heard him come down, and as he jumps, standing up quick, he knocks several books down off the shelf; they clatter onto the carpet as they slap together. There's a silent pause as Patrick looks at Pete, and then down at the small pile, and then the newly-made void in the row begins to collapse, books teetering and threatening to follow suit. Patrick moves fast, and a bit too forcefully to catch them all, knocking a couple of them back, and they fall behind the bookshelf, between it and the wall.
When it appears as if gravity is done, Patrick backs away slowly, removing his arms. Pete is already there, at his feet, stacking the fallen ones into a pile before picking them up.
Patrick leaves Pete to contend with righting the mess on the shelf, and moves to the side of the bookcase, peering behind it, trying to determine if he can get to the ones that fell back there. The gap is small but he can see them, and he bends down, reaching in, turning his head to let his arm stretch farther, grabbing blindly. The first one is easy, and Patrick sets it aside quickly, brushing the uneven splattering of dust from the cover. When he reaches in again, his fingers close around a book-sized item, but it's plastic, and it rattles a bit as he removes it.
It takes him a second, when he looks at it, to realize the profoundness of the moment. And even then, he's not entirely sure he believes it.
"Um..." Patrick says excitedly, scrambling quickly on his knees to the front of the bookshelf, holding the tape up. "Pete? Is this...?"
Pete looks at him and the flash in his eyes is nearly instantaneous, followed quickly by a triumphant yell, and Pete snatches the tape from Patrick's hand and tackles him. Patrick is halfway to the floor anyhow, so he doesn't fall far, and the awkwardness doesn't set in until Pete rolls off him, flopping onto his back, clenching the tape to his chest.
"Oh shit, of course," Pete exclaims, revelation in his tone, running a hand into his hair.
Patrick sits up, looking at him quickly. Oh my god, he forgot where he hid it. Rage flares up through Patrick's body, and he has to steel himself from smacking Pete right in the mouth.
Instead he takes the tape - doesn't voice his indignation, just swipes it right from Pete's grasp and pushes up to his feet - and strides into the kitchen, determined.
"Patrick?" Pete calls after him.
He ignores it, yanking open the drawer where he knows the hammer is, and smacking the tape down on the countertop. His fingers fold around the handle of the hammer and he shoves the drawer shut, and then suddenly Pete is behind him, grabbing at his arms.
"Patrick! No!"
Pete is seriously stupid. Patrick nearly drops the hammer on them both as they struggle, and it takes several tries for Patrick to convince Pete he's conceded.
"Alright, okay, alright," he says, shrugging until Pete lets him go.
He holds the tape behind his back as he steps away, looking genuinely hurt.
"You can't just destroy it like that."
Patrick sets the hammer down before he attempts to speak. "I'm not - do you have any idea - "
"It's mine too," Pete adds quickly.
Patrick sighs, his anger dissolving a little. "I'm not going through all of this again." He folds his arms across his chest. "Ever," he stresses.
Pete chews on his lower lip, blinking, his eyebrows furrowing a bit. He fidgets with the tape in his hands, still held behind him, and Patrick keeps staring at him as it rustles.
"Okay."
Pete holds the tape out, and Patrick eyes him warily.
"Take it," Pete encourages, giving it a little shake. "If that's what you want. Just take it."
Patrick is completely confused because Pete does not do this. He doesn't just give up and give in this easily.
"But..." Patrick says hesitantly as he reaches for it, and Pete hands it over.
"It's okay. I understand," Pete says, and slides his hands into his pockets.
Patrick holds it for a moment, looking down at it. It's stopped somewhere in the middle, and it barely weighs anything, and its mere existence has thrown his entire life into a state of utter chaos over the past few days. There's really no good reason he shouldn't take a hammer to it. And yet.
"No," Patrick says decisively, holding it out again. "You're right. It's yours too."
"No, it's okay."
"Take it," Patrick insists, stepping closer.
"No," Pete reiterates, shaking his head a little, keeping his hands in his pockets.
"Pete."
"Patrick."
"Will you just take the fucking tape?" Patrick shoves it against Pete's stomach.
Pete flinches, and then laughs, trying not to, but it escapes in small bursts as he looks away. Patrick feels the corners of his mouth lifting, even though he doesn't get it, because Pete's laughter, when genuine, is totally contagious.
"What?" Patrick asks, and Pete shakes his head, practically giggling.
"Come here," Pete says, and suddenly his hands are grabbing at Patrick's elbow and forearm, pulling him into a hug.
It's a bit awkward, with one of Patrick's arms still trapped between their bodies, holding onto the tape. But Patrick closes his eyes anyway, and rests his chin on Pete's shoulder, and the longer they stay there, the more Pete's laughter fades away.
"Can't have it both ways, can we," Pete utters against Patrick's ear, more of a statement than a question.
Patrick shivers slightly, his fingers clenching a bit at the tape, but twice as hard at Pete's shirt. Pete's right, and he keeps Patrick there in the embrace, and he doesn't seem to plan on letting go.
Patrick decides, opening his eyes, that at least for now he'll hold on, too.
[fin]
p.s. Joni Mitchell - Both Sides Now if you're curious.
Backward Compatibility
Pete/Patrick, PG, 3,249 words.
Thanks to ficklish for the beta. ♥
something's lost, but something's gained / in living every day
Patrick's phone vibrates in his pocket, a brief and steady buzz against his thigh, and it turns the corners of his mouth up. It's a text message and even though he can't stop to look at it right this second, too busy concentrating on the playback and the mixing board and getting the levels right, he has a sneaking suspicion it's from Pete.
Patrick is in New York, he's been busy producing for the better part of a week; Pete is still in LA. They spoke two nights ago but their schedules have been hectic (and seriously, Patrick thinks they're the only band who are more busy when they're not touring). Their conversation had been really good though - like their talks before Patrick had left for the opposite coast - hopeful, and Pete had said I want to see you when you get back before they hung up, and Patrick had believed it, a glimmer of optimism fluttering in his chest. So he sort of counted on hearing from Pete again before the end of the week anyway.
He couldn't have guessed, however, not in a million years - as he came to a stopping point and took a five-minute break - exactly what the text would say.
um, our sex tape is missing ?
Patrick reads it again, stops breathing, waits for his heart to resume and - yeah, there it goes, beating wildly now from the rush of adrenaline. It takes his shaky fingers three tries to land on Pete's number in his address book while he wonders what part of Pete's text is actually meant to be a question.
Pete picks up right away, but, "I can't talk, Patrick."
"Pete - what - your text - ?" Patrick understandably can't seem to pick a sentence and go with it.
"I know, I know, I kept forgetting to tell you but seriously, I'm in the middle of an interview, I'll call you back, I promise."
Pete predictably hangs up before Patrick can respond. Patrick sinks into a chair and thinks he might pass out.
*
"Fuck," Patrick mutters under his breath, and then raises his voice into the phone. "Pete, will you be serious about this and help me fucking think?"
Patrick is back at his hotel. He'd given up on the day shortly after he'd spoken to Pete the first time, and when he'd arrived in his room he logged on to the internet with absolute dread, and a morbid certainty that he'd find clips from the video splattered everywhere; the macabre remains of his dignity, his career, and his entire life.
But no, it was just more bitching about lack of tour dates, and pondering about whether or not Pete is gay. Business as usual, then.
"I don't know what happened to it," Pete says again. "I looked everywhere, it's just not there anymore."
"How long has it been gone?"
"How the hell should I know?"
Patrick rolls his eyes. "When's the last time you knew, for sure, a hundred percent, that it was present and accounted for?"
Pete is silent for a few seconds, and Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose, at the headache forming there. "I think… Thanksgiving?" Pete says tentatively.
Patrick thinks he might cry.
"No, wait!" Pete says suddenly. "When was that weekend you went to see your mom, like, all at the last minute to surprise her?"
Patrick stares at the wall in concentration, and then the answer washes over him in sad realization. "Uh… that was… that was like, the middle of February. Like six… six weeks ago." Pete really should have known that.
"Yeah, that's it," Pete replies, his voice hushed, and Patrick knows from his tone that he's realized it now, too. "That's when."
There's a tiny flare of defiance that spurs Patrick's question. "I was gone two nights, and you…?"
"Do you really want to have this conversation right now, Patrick?"
He presses his lips together, biting the insides. "No," he replies resolutely. "I want you to spend from now until Sunday, when I get back, making a list of every person who has been in your house between the middle of February and last weekend."
"Patrick, that's like, impossible."
"Figure it out," is all Patrick says before he hangs up.
*
Patrick flies back a day early.
He's restless on the plane, jittery, weighted with the empty ache of regret and the fear of impending disaster. He's never even seen it, not all of it, just bits and pieces on two distinct occasions - the first soon after it was created, when somehow Pete managed to talk him into trying to watch it, and Patrick ended up hiding under the pillow and begging him to turn it off. The other time, Patrick was alone, but sliding the antiquated VHS tape into the player had far more to do with wallowing in his own sadness and solitude than any sincere form of sexual gratification.
As his plane begins its descent into LAX, Patrick stares out the window at the landscape and speckle-dots of swimming pools below. His mind drifts to a certain evening in early September, on Pete's back deck at four in the morning, warm under the faint Hollywood stars. There and then they had decided to be together, just like that, like suddenly choosing onion rings in place of ever-familiar french fries. At the time it had made all the sense in the world.
These days, Patrick thinks, it's maybe more like wanting the fries back, but being stuck with potato chips.
*
Pete is not long out of bed when Patrick arrives, but he's started making the list already, the bright glow of his MacBook monitor illuminating the angles of his face under the oval frame of his hood. Patrick turns a lamp on and sits beside Pete on the couch, sneaking glances at the black letters as they pop up in the text file with the clicking of Pete's fingers on the keys.
He pauses in his typing, leans back into the sofa, and turns the machine a bit toward Patrick.
"This is just… top of my head."
Patrick's gaze lands on the name he knew would be there, expected it, and resents the fact that it stings anyhow, when he knows it's not allowed to. Especially not now. He reaches over with one hand and uses his thumb and finger to select the text Pete has typed, coating it all in light blue, then de-selects it again, letting the color fall. He repeats the action, over and over, up and down, just playing with it, pretending to read it. In actuality he can't look away from her name.
When he accidentally hits the spacebar and all of the text disappears, he draws his hand away.
"Did you think about, like, repair people? Did you have anything installed or whatever?"
"No," Pete mutters, turning the laptop back and undoing the delete, and there she is again.
Patrick doesn't know if that answer means he didn't think about it, or didn't have anything repaired, but he doesn't question it.
"What are we going to do with this list anyway?" Pete asks.
"I don't know," Patrick mutters, and shrugs a little. "Narrow it down to those who would be happy to ruin our lives?"
"I pretty much know that no one on here would do that. I wouldn't let them in the house if that were the case."
Patrick disagrees vehemently, but keeps it to himself, chewing on his thumbnail. "Maybe just … people who had direct access to where you were keeping it, then."
Pete thinks for a second. "You know where I was keeping it," he says, a little sharply.
"Yeah, so?" Patrick replies. Of course he knows. The only VCR is in the bedroom.
"Dude," Pete begins, in that scathing tone Patrick detests, "If you really want a list of who I've messed around with - "
"No," Patrick interjects, standing up. "I don't."
" - I will fucking make you one - "
"I'm leaving," Patrick declares. "That's not the point." They're talking over one another now.
" - all you have to do is fucking say so."
Patrick doesn't exactly slam the door on his way out, but he's not gentle about it either.
*
Each day when he wakes up, he expects to discover that the video has made its way to the internet. He begins almost to hope for it, just to get it over with. The apprehensive dread is crippling.
Pete had sent him a text message shortly after Patrick stormed out - im sorry, i dont think anyone took it. Patrick couldn't figure out if he was apologizing for the way he behaved or for his opinion. Ok, Patrick replied. Did it walk away on its own?
He has actual, legitimate theories to present to Pete, things he thinks of while he's not sleeping at night, like asking if he had put anything into storage lately or god forbid returned any movie rentals. But he sort of believes Pete's smart enough to have thought of those things on his own. Patrick is kind of at a loss.
He can also admit now that the list was not really a very helpful course of action. It just seemed logical, methodical, something they should do to try and figure this out. Patrick is big on process. In some alternate universe he's probably a research scientist. In this one, however, he sits at his kitchen table, chin in his arms, flipping his phone open and shut.
When he does finally call Pete, it goes to voicemail.
"Hey. I was thinking about dropping by tomorrow afternoon, picking up some more of my stuff. Just... let me know if that's a problem."
*
Patrick never moved in with Pete, not officially. He just sort of migrated over the months, didn't worry about the things he left there, bought a second toothbrush, that sort of thing. The clothes that remain in the closet are ones he probably wouldn't wear now anyway.
As he drags the empty box up the steps to let himself in, he wonders if he'll ever actually get everything out.
Pete is there when he opens the door, wandering in from the kitchen, and he smiles, genuinely, his eyes lighting up. Patrick's heart skips when he looks at him, questioning, thinking maybe he found it, maybe this is all over.
"I made tea," Pete says instead.
Patrick sets the box down, and Pete's gaze drops, his face falling a bit. Patrick turns around to push the door shut.
"If you want," Pete adds.
Patrick nods, "Yeah, okay," and follows Pete back into the kitchen.
Coffee, that's Pete's thing, and he never makes it for himself; he's always stopping to buy some on his way to wherever. Tea is what Patrick likes, and Pete never took more than a passing interest in it when Patrick used to make some, on lazy Saturday afternoons or the rare rainy morning. As he sinks into one of the kitchen chairs, hands folded around a steaming mug, he looks across at Pete and then back to his tea.
"You don't have to take your stuff away," Pete says, plainly, as if it's all that simple.
Patrick traces the mug handle with his thumb. "Guess if I wait long enough it'll go away on its own."
He means it as a joke, of course. But his intonation doesn't quite match his intent, and the second the words leave his mouth, even before the awkward silence that follows, he knows it's just not going to go over, at all. Patrick feels instantly terrible, fundamentally so, and the look on Pete's face only compounds his guilt. He didn't come here to argue, he really didn't.
Pete doesn't say anything in response, just stands up and walks to the kitchen sink, emptying his tea mug and then letting it drop. It clatters against the bottom, loudly, and Patrick sighs softly, because here it comes.
They speak at the same time.
"I'm sorry, it was --"
"How is this my fault?"
"-- a joke," Patrick finishes, and then resentment, reactionary, twists low in his stomach. "How could you just lose it?"
"I didn't lose it," Pete argues sharply as he walks past, and Patrick stands up, watching the back of his head as he goes. "I was looking for it."
Pete mutters something else as he disappears into the hallway, something Patrick can't hear. He does hear the repeated thudding of Pete's steps up the carpeted stairs though, and the distinct slam of an upstairs door, and then nothing.
*
Patrick sings Joni Mitchell in his head as he puts some books in the box.
He has to keep shifting, kneeling in front of the big bookcase, because his knees hurt if he's on them too long, and then his ankles ache if he sits on them. He runs his hand along the spines, the same four lines of "Both Sides Now" in an inescapable loop, mixing with the titles as his eyes race across them, and he wishes he could remember more of the lyrics. He goes over each row twice, sometimes three times, and leaves more than he takes, because he doesn't want to think too hard about whether or not they're really his.
He's deep in thought about the elusive third line in the second verse, the dizzy, dancing way you feel... somethingsomethingsomething real, moving up another shelf, and he's just about to rise to his feet when Pete speaks, startling him.
"I mean it, don't take your things."
Patrick hadn't even heard him come down, and as he jumps, standing up quick, he knocks several books down off the shelf; they clatter onto the carpet as they slap together. There's a silent pause as Patrick looks at Pete, and then down at the small pile, and then the newly-made void in the row begins to collapse, books teetering and threatening to follow suit. Patrick moves fast, and a bit too forcefully to catch them all, knocking a couple of them back, and they fall behind the bookshelf, between it and the wall.
When it appears as if gravity is done, Patrick backs away slowly, removing his arms. Pete is already there, at his feet, stacking the fallen ones into a pile before picking them up.
Patrick leaves Pete to contend with righting the mess on the shelf, and moves to the side of the bookcase, peering behind it, trying to determine if he can get to the ones that fell back there. The gap is small but he can see them, and he bends down, reaching in, turning his head to let his arm stretch farther, grabbing blindly. The first one is easy, and Patrick sets it aside quickly, brushing the uneven splattering of dust from the cover. When he reaches in again, his fingers close around a book-sized item, but it's plastic, and it rattles a bit as he removes it.
It takes him a second, when he looks at it, to realize the profoundness of the moment. And even then, he's not entirely sure he believes it.
"Um..." Patrick says excitedly, scrambling quickly on his knees to the front of the bookshelf, holding the tape up. "Pete? Is this...?"
Pete looks at him and the flash in his eyes is nearly instantaneous, followed quickly by a triumphant yell, and Pete snatches the tape from Patrick's hand and tackles him. Patrick is halfway to the floor anyhow, so he doesn't fall far, and the awkwardness doesn't set in until Pete rolls off him, flopping onto his back, clenching the tape to his chest.
"Oh shit, of course," Pete exclaims, revelation in his tone, running a hand into his hair.
Patrick sits up, looking at him quickly. Oh my god, he forgot where he hid it. Rage flares up through Patrick's body, and he has to steel himself from smacking Pete right in the mouth.
Instead he takes the tape - doesn't voice his indignation, just swipes it right from Pete's grasp and pushes up to his feet - and strides into the kitchen, determined.
"Patrick?" Pete calls after him.
He ignores it, yanking open the drawer where he knows the hammer is, and smacking the tape down on the countertop. His fingers fold around the handle of the hammer and he shoves the drawer shut, and then suddenly Pete is behind him, grabbing at his arms.
"Patrick! No!"
Pete is seriously stupid. Patrick nearly drops the hammer on them both as they struggle, and it takes several tries for Patrick to convince Pete he's conceded.
"Alright, okay, alright," he says, shrugging until Pete lets him go.
He holds the tape behind his back as he steps away, looking genuinely hurt.
"You can't just destroy it like that."
Patrick sets the hammer down before he attempts to speak. "I'm not - do you have any idea - "
"It's mine too," Pete adds quickly.
Patrick sighs, his anger dissolving a little. "I'm not going through all of this again." He folds his arms across his chest. "Ever," he stresses.
Pete chews on his lower lip, blinking, his eyebrows furrowing a bit. He fidgets with the tape in his hands, still held behind him, and Patrick keeps staring at him as it rustles.
"Okay."
Pete holds the tape out, and Patrick eyes him warily.
"Take it," Pete encourages, giving it a little shake. "If that's what you want. Just take it."
Patrick is completely confused because Pete does not do this. He doesn't just give up and give in this easily.
"But..." Patrick says hesitantly as he reaches for it, and Pete hands it over.
"It's okay. I understand," Pete says, and slides his hands into his pockets.
Patrick holds it for a moment, looking down at it. It's stopped somewhere in the middle, and it barely weighs anything, and its mere existence has thrown his entire life into a state of utter chaos over the past few days. There's really no good reason he shouldn't take a hammer to it. And yet.
"No," Patrick says decisively, holding it out again. "You're right. It's yours too."
"No, it's okay."
"Take it," Patrick insists, stepping closer.
"No," Pete reiterates, shaking his head a little, keeping his hands in his pockets.
"Pete."
"Patrick."
"Will you just take the fucking tape?" Patrick shoves it against Pete's stomach.
Pete flinches, and then laughs, trying not to, but it escapes in small bursts as he looks away. Patrick feels the corners of his mouth lifting, even though he doesn't get it, because Pete's laughter, when genuine, is totally contagious.
"What?" Patrick asks, and Pete shakes his head, practically giggling.
"Come here," Pete says, and suddenly his hands are grabbing at Patrick's elbow and forearm, pulling him into a hug.
It's a bit awkward, with one of Patrick's arms still trapped between their bodies, holding onto the tape. But Patrick closes his eyes anyway, and rests his chin on Pete's shoulder, and the longer they stay there, the more Pete's laughter fades away.
"Can't have it both ways, can we," Pete utters against Patrick's ear, more of a statement than a question.
Patrick shivers slightly, his fingers clenching a bit at the tape, but twice as hard at Pete's shirt. Pete's right, and he keeps Patrick there in the embrace, and he doesn't seem to plan on letting go.
Patrick decides, opening his eyes, that at least for now he'll hold on, too.
[fin]
p.s. Joni Mitchell - Both Sides Now if you're curious.