[fic] correspondence course
correspondence course
pete+patrick, pg. 4,357 words.
because infinity's only as big as the places inside your head and there's no such thing as best buy in outer space.
same AU as it feels like swimming, but there's no need to have read it, this's standalone. /)__(\
patrick -
hi
xo
---
patrick -
so how big is infinity? i want to find out
im on a mission, not a mission from god but a mission from myself (some people might argue semantics)
i never learn from my mistakes so i hope this isnt one; ill see you when i find out
peterpanda
(archaic references are the only kind worth making)
---
Patrick's not really sure how to reply; the first message from Pete, he ignores because he only rarely checks his mail. Most people do vidcalls; old-fashioned text is faster to send, more reliable, but so fucking outdated when only a few second's delay can have you looking at and talking to someone anywhere in-system. Even if there's interference mucking up signals and making conversation hard, there's always prerecorded messages.
There's really only one person who writes to Patrick, ever, and that's Pete.
The thing is, Pete doesn't write that often, and Patrick doesn't know him that well. Patrick's an old-fashioned sort, likes staying on his home planet; he met Pete at a concert and has only talked to him in person twice since then, save the written correspondence, and yeah, so Patrick writes back sometimes, that doesn't mean they talk. It just means they know each other better than they would otherwise.
Patrick stares at the screen for a while, carries it with him in his head. This is the first time Pete's written in over two months, and that first message is already a week old.
He finally figures out his reply --
Hey, Pete,
How are you? Haven't heard from you in a while. Infinity's as big as the places inside your head, I'd guess.
Not saying your head is empty just that there's a lot going on in the human mind, you know, you never know how much.
hope where ever you are you're having a nice time. good luck
Look, now you've got me writing without capital letters.
---
trick!
i wouldnt have so many thoughts rattling in my head if the space was infinite. theyd spread out and give each other some room
dont you say its just because like attracts like or opposites attract or anything
my thoughts arent friends with me or themselves and none of what i'm thinking is very attractive
theres so much room out here
more than well ever know what to do with and only just enough for us to spoil - im not part of the solution and you know what that means
"im good to go" but im going nowhere fast
be glad youre not here. theres only room enough for one. empty bedrooms and unspoiled beds make for the sweetest companions you could ever want but i miss her
i dont even know who she is
xoseeyoulater
peteagator
---
patrick patrick patrick
i like to open letters with your name. can this be called a letter? youre not holding it in your hands, or if you are its not on paper. id tell you to print it out but its not quite the same.
i would send you real letters if i thought the universe was ready to deal with that
i want your hands to know what this really means. to understand something you have to feel it
some things are dead and gone for a reason
thats why im out here.
ill see you again; patrick, well see each other again
just as soon as ive figured out how far i can go
how far can i push this? when push comes to shove im not sure my arms are strong enough
youve got to lift from the knees but where should you push from? ill try with my heart
(i was watching the news and patrick how do these things happen)
p.e.t.e.r.
---
The two letters come within five minutes of each other, and Patrick's checking his mail again daily now. He doesn't have much better to do; he's taking some classes in engineering, working at a restaraunt, but he's got time for this, whatever it is. Why he's the one Pete's talking to, he's not sure. Pete seems like a popular enough guy.
Maybe it's that he doesn't know Patrick that well; Patrick's left wondering if he's more priest or therapist, here, or more just stranger on the street. Or if maybe Pete somehow thinks they're friends -- not that Patrick would deny it, but why Pete would want to be friends with him, he's really not sure.
He's actually at work when they come but he's got his little mobile comm unit with him and the screen lights up his pocket. Sometimes Pete will write and actually make sense, but apparently he's overestimating Patrick's intelligence again. All he knows is, whatever Pete's doing is probably not a good idea.
Patrick's pretty sure it takes an unsound mind to really want to spend that much time in the black, anyway; there's been psychological studies that too long out there can unbalance a person if they don't follow their reccommended medication regimens. Patrick, he's content to just stay right where he is on Wilmette. There's food enough here, and his school, and enough on-world research and industry that he won't be out of work when he graduates.
Just because he's doing work designing ship engines doesn't mean he's particularly fond of ships.
Hey, so when are you coming by?? If your parents didn't live so close I'd say you could crash at my place. Patrick figures that's the best reply, just invite Pete over and hope for the best. He's willing to play therapist for a while, even if he doesn't get it.
Pete's reply is almost instant. i dont know. im not sure where i am either location-wise or with my head. im feeling lost in all the best ways.
Patrick rolls his eyes and waits until his shift is over to reply again. He keeps it simple.
Pete,
The hell?
Patrick
---
patrick
no one else ever writes back they just try to call but i dont pick up
i just keep this up instead and i hope you'll help me carry it
as high as it'll go
she said "this time youve gone too far"
but how far is too far? iill be obvious for once: all my problems are back there
i feel too much but i cant seem to understand
ill write you a song,
p33twntz
---
This one's sent in the middle of the night, at least by Patrick's standards, and they're from the same planet so one would assume they'd be on the same schedule, but no. Of course not. That, or Pete's just awake really, really late.
Trying to figure out what the hell Pete's talking about is kind of tiresome, and the only clues Patrick has are bad ones.
So--
Seriously, Pete, open invite. The only problems I have are with how long this stupid paper has to be. Why I thought a course in theoretical FTL concepts would be a good plan this year, I have no idea. Are my issues enough to distract you from yours, or should I give it up?
Pete's reply is instant, and Patrick really wonders how long he's been awake, seriously.
oh patrick! anythings enough to distract me for now but nothing works for long. youre my best bet but im already down a hundred grand and my hand isnt looking good.
Patrick eats breakfast before writing back, and takes a while, because he's trying to think how to reply. What he comes up with, finally, is a picture of a very confused cat on a spaceship with the gravity off, floating in front of a screen showing only space. There's something, possibly oatmeal, floating around it. Either the cat's upside down, or the photographer. The only words he bothers with are hi pete!, eschewing capital letters.
patrick,
what are you trying to say here? i thought i was the master of circumlocution but i cant figure out where youre going with this.
--
Pete,
i'll reply in your style, because apparently that's the way things are done these days. i can't ditch the apostrophes though. sorry. we're best buds.
see, pete, the cat was a metaphor. i am confused. i am also an upside down cat. and in space. two of those three statements weren't true, can you guess which?
sncrly,
ptrck
--
Dear Patrick,
I miss the capital letters, Patrick, please bring them back. Are you okay?
Sincerely,
Pete
--
Patrick rolls his eyes and sends that's what i've been trying to ask you you jerk.
Pete answers with no.
Patrick replies, okay then were making some progress.
--
Patrick,
I'm serious about the capital letters. REALLYSERIOUS. where are they?
:(
--
Patrick says, "Did you honestly just sign that letter with a sad face?"
There's a pause before Pete answers, but not too long; he can't be too far from inhabited space or it'd be longer. "No. Yes. Shut up," Pete says. He says, "You're lucky I even answered, I don't want to talk to anyone right now."
"It's really -- Pete, turn on the lights. Why are you sitting in the dark?"
"Trying to conserve fuel? I've got a sweater, too."
"Pete, thirty degrees temperature difference on board is not going to save enough fuel to make any difference. Why do you even need to -- seriously, where the fuck are you? Don't make me track your location, I don't want to do math outside of school. Not until I have a job."
"I seriously have no idea. I'm letting the ship take me wherever it takes me. We're gonna find infinity."
"Uh-huh."
"No, I'm serious. I want to find the edge of the universe. It's got to end somewhere, right? Everything does, even the best things. Even the worst things."
"No," Patrick says. "Well, yes. I don't know. I don't think a solo mission is going to accomplish much, though, Pete. Possibly there should be some measurements going on, a bit of science, you know. Maybe a ship with enough fuel that thirty degrees is not going to make or break the mission."
"I think I've got enough to get out there."
"And to get back?"
Pete closes his eyes and hums. He says, "Patrick, I wrote you a song, do you want to hear it?"
"Pete."
"Okay. I'll record it for you, don't worry."
"Pete. Seriously. Call your mom or something, I bet she wants to hear from you."
Pete kills the signal, and Patrick takes a deep, shaky breath and sets to work unraveling the date-stamp and delay on Pete's last message, checking the records for the signal strength and direction of that call. Of course Pete masks his location. Jerk. He figures Pete's mom, being his mother and all, is probably used to Pete's idiosyncrasies, and right now he doesn't feel much like talking to anyone either, so as soon as he figures out where Pete is he writes a message to her.
--
Patrick doesn't see anything about this on any of the news feeds, other than a brief sidenote on one of the public broadcast feeds, "and in better news, the pilot of the Camisado today told us a ship he picked up adrift in space was not, in fact, a derelict; the creatively named Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes, though broadcasting a signal that indicated it had no living crew aboard, boasted one survivor out of a crew of one. Said lone crew member has not chosen to release his name as he's still in hospital and has yet to regain consciousness. Meanwhile, on the other side of the system ..."
And it's pretty much the most pointless story he's ever heard, not quite enough to be a feel-good human interest story. Not quite enough to be a good disaster story. Not quite enough to be anything but disconcerting, an dull aching blip on the radar.
Patrick gets more of the story from Pete's mom, as thanks -- sort of -- for his help. So, from what Patrick can piece together from her and concerned chatter from some people who know Pete and know he knows Pete and listen to the same music he does (it's convoluted, but whatever):
It starts out with Pete flying from Wilmette to Constantine, where he does something, no one's sure what just yet, for a month. That's when the next record of his ship leaving is, and the Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes is registered with a destination of Brighton, where he never shows up. This isn't too unusual -- registering your destination is by no means mandatory, and is almost completely unreliable, so when he doesn't show up in a week no one really cares. Pete doesn't have anyone listed to be notified of his arrival anyway. So.
This happens almost two months before Pete starts writing to Patrick. The letters to Patrick cover a three-week span, and Pete's ship is picked up four days after Patrick calls him.
There's no records of Pete making any purchases after leaving Constantine, and this girl he knows says that right before he left he told her that he was running low on chips, which doesn't necessarily mean anything, but implies maybe Pete didn't bother stocking up on food. Or fuel. Or anything, for that matter, other than oxygen, which could be replenished on-board anyway, and he only stocked up on because his ship was planetside and that's what ships planetside do, it's fucking programmed in. So. So.
The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes is on record as having enough fuel to get to Brighton and back twice over. Pete leaves the planet and picks a random direction and spends five days at top speed before letting the ship drift the rest of the way, to where it finally ends up in what's basically the middle of nowhere.
The ship that finds him, the Camisado, its pilot is an upstart named Ryan Ross who's apparently been making inroads in the interstellar coffee trade. Rumor has it he's also got a crop of bananas on some planet off the normal travel patterns, that he's paid to keep off the public maps. Rumor also has it that he makes a tidy profit cleaning up derelicts, and sometimes not-so-derelicts, and that he knew Pete from 'before' -- whatever that's supposed to mean -- and Pete had helped him out, so. So Pete's still alive.
This part, Patrick hears from a kid named Spencer Smith, who's communications officer and first lieutenant on Ross's ship:
They find this ship, floating, this tiny little ship with just its running lights on. Inside is only the faintest signal; Ross says even though it's small, they might as well check it out. The crew gets suited up, just in case disease took out the crew or something. The ship's almost barren, but one Brent Wilson heads to the bridge to check the ship's records, because apparently he's avoiding the rest of the crew and looking for something to do. Ross told him not to bother but Wilson's feeling ornery, so he goes, and he's checking the comm panel to check for incoming transmissions when he realises he's not alone.
The pilot's chair is occupied by a man, Wilson places him at maybe thirty eight and a half, apparently, information Spencer passes on only because he thinks it's funny how specific it is, it's off by ten years -- anyway, it's occupied by this man who's not actually thirty eight and a half who's curled up with a pillow and a blanket and asleep, and he's got this smile on his face, the sweetest smile Wilson has apparently ever seen.
So Wilson thinks, alright, he doesn't want to bother this guy, might as well just let him sleep, and he's checking the comm again and reading through some messages, weirded out that anyone's writing at all anymore, when Spencer comes and is all, "Hey, seriously, what are you doing? There's nothing worth taking, we're gonna --"
Spencer says, "Dude, is that guy alive? He's alive, shit, why didn't you say anything, this guy isn't dead, Brent."
Wilson shrugs and says, "I didn't want to wake him up. He's obviously pretty happy there."
"Dude, what the fuck, there's a guy alive here and you just," Spencer says, and he goes and gets Ross, who recognizes the guy, and wakes him up but apparently Pete can't stay awake for long, so anyway, they get him on board their ship and have their medic tend to him until they get to their next station stop, which isn't even a planet but a station, and old asteroid mining rig, and Spencer won't say what they wanted at a mining station, but. They try to get Pete medical care there but Ross says it isn't good enough even though Wilson says they should really really just leave him, not waste their time and money, and that's about it, nobody likes Wilson anymore anyway -- anyway, whatever, Wilson's still part of the crew, he's just getting weirder and should maybe have stayed planetside from the start because this whole 'business venture' thing is not doing right by him. Anyway.
So they go back into inhabited space and leave Pete in hospital on New Brunswick. He's still there now, still mostly asleep.
That's how it went down, as far as Patrick's found out.
*
The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes comes home a week before Pete does, towed in by the Camisado; Ross says he has the docking fees covered. Patrick doesn't actually talk to Ross, never has, just gets word passed to him via Spencer.
Ross says that while they're on-world he can visit the ship, if he wants. Patrick doesn't.
--
Pete shows up on Patrick's doorstep three weeks later. There's dark circles under his eyes. Patrick's not sure he remembers those being there last time. "Open invite, right?"
"Right," Patrick says, pulling the pencil from behind his ear and shoving it in a pocket. His fingers are smudged with ink. "I was studying, hi."
"You write," Pete says, face lighting up. "You use pens and pencils!"
"Well, yeah," Patrick says. "Kinetic learner. It helps me remember."
"I knew it," Pete says. He says, "So can I come in or are we going to talk in the doorway?"
"What? No, fine, okay, okay." Patrick steps aside and lets Pete in and, while Pete's fawning over his handwritten notes ("I have no idea what this is talking about but it's beautiful! Dude, I want to make out with your handwriting") and plants ("they're so green, do they let you have plants, seriously, they do? Shit!"), Patrick's making tea.
They're sitting at Patrick's desk, which is where he usually eats and is about the only open, flat surface other than the bed and kitchen counters.
Patrick's drinking his tea and letting Pete talk at him, because that seems to be what Pete needs to do, just go on about people he knows and people he hasn't met yet; expounding on the subject of missing someone he's never met and how when he travels it's just because he's trying to find somewhere where he'll feel okay. Patrick half-listens, nodding occasionally and tossing out generic questions every now and then.
"It's just, you know, no one writes anything, anything, I don't know what the hell." He says, "It's like people have forgot how. It's like science has made it obsolete or something, not to insult you, not your kind of science, medical science. There's so many people who just don't -- I don't know. Mom was born on one of the old stations near Mars, back in Earth-system, you know." He's saying, "So I don't know, maybe it's the old blood, the old stock. Even my ship wants me to take pills to fix it, but what's broken?"
Patrick cracks his neck and takes a long sip of tea. He closes his eyes, exhales, and when he opens them again Pete is still there waiting for an answer. Patrick says, "I don't know. Maybe nothing."
"There's no reason to be allergic to anything. You can keep your hearing and your memory and your hair and your looks and your, your happiness and emotional stability and your vision and your, you know, fucking everything, there's things so we can breathe in a goddamn nitrogen atmosphere and where are the limits?"
Patrick says, "I don't know. Why do we need limits? The human spirit can overcome, blahblahblah, all that. I don't know, Pete."
"Okay," Pete says. "Okay." He rests his elbows on the faux-wood surface of the desk, cups his head in his hands before covering his eyes. He stops talking, for a while. "Sorry I'm talking so much."
"It's okay," Patrick says, and for a while after that, sitting across the desk from each other, neither of them says anything. Patrick drinks his tea, while Pete's cup sits on the table with steam slowly rising and dissipating.
Pete says, "If my mom asks, I wasn't here," and he's on his feet and halfway to the door already.
"Bye?" Patrick says as the door opens.
"Unless you want to come with."
"I'll see you later." And Pete's gone, and Patrick shrugs and drinks Pete's cup of tea, too, because it's still half full.
--
Patrick runs into Pete at a show a few days later; Pete buys a girl a drink then doesn't talk to her. Pete throws himself into the pit like it's the only thing that matters anymore, like he's not afraid of getting hurt -- no one ever is, anymore, but with Pete it's more desperation than fearlessness. It's not that he's not afraid. It's that he doesn't care. Pete's elbows are moving at impossible angles and there's a flash of his knee, a foot in the air. He dives and is lost.
Patrick keeps his eyes closed and listens to the music, sound rushing past his ears like swift-flowing water. His shoulders fall and his jaw slackens and he wants to catch the music on his tongue, wants to taste it and feel it and swim in it and for once he doesn't care how stupid he looks. Patrick listens.
It's over too soon, and Patrick leaves without seeing Pete again.
--
patrick
there are oceans mankind has never seen full of strange wonders!
i want to find them and swim them. i want to be an explorer. i will be a textbook superstar
¡schoolchildren will sing my name into eternity!
"there is a light that never goes out" and it will be me
xo
p
--
Pete is upside down.
He bought a smallish armchair and brought it to Patrick's place -- "You need more furniture, it's creepy!" -- and now he's sitting in it, his legs hooked over the back of the chair and his neck tipped over the edge of the seat. He's holding on as best he can, grinning. "I think," he says, "I don't know, I don't even know what I think but it's bound to be amazing."
"Okay?" Patrick says.
He says, "So I'm thinking of taking another trip."
"Shit."
"No, no. It's. I don't know, what do I even need. Like, I need to check in with Mom daily, but that's cool, my mom's cool."
"How old are you?"
"Quiet. I just."
Patrick says, "My parents run a supply company. You know." He holds up a pad of paper. "I've been studying. I can help you resupply, if you know where you're going. Or at least how long you plan to be out there."
"Really?"
"Really," Patrick says. "So, I mean, we'll need to -- you'll need check-up and shit. I'm serious."
"What?"
"Optimized nutrition, Pete, optimized. Swear to god. They've been making a lot of headway lately. This isn't -- it's not really science, so much as just common sense, you know? Nothing weird. We can even keep it to nothing unnatural, if that's what you want, though the price'll be higher that way."
"You're really serious."
"Yeah. Look. I know you," Patrick says, "well, I don't know you, but I know how you do. Or." This time what Patrick says is, "You're not going alone."
"I'm not taking somebody to be my nanny."
Patrick bites his lip. "That's not what I'm talking about. Look, okay, here," and Patrick sits down to scribble down some figures, twirls in his chair to reach for his comm to input the data. "I can have a list of what you need in, okay. Okay. How much money do you have? Wait, wait, no. This is."
Patrick says, "Have you thought about hydroponics?"
Pete's eyes are strangely matte, very dry and laced with fine pink lines. He doesn't blink. "You're serious."
"Yes?" Patrick says, "I'm trying to help."
"No, I know, that's what's weird. I thought you'd be talking me out of it."
"What can I say," Patrick says with a shrug. "I like your letters."
"So I'm not going alone?"
"No, because I'm going with -- I mean, I'm not, okay, you know what. You know what." Patrick waves his hands, searching for words like he can pull them from the air. "I am inviting myself along. I won't lie. You're not leaving alone."
"But I --"
"No, because last time you ended up in a coma. You are not leaving alone. I don't even like spaceships, but."
"You're incredible," Pete says. "You're incredible, incredible, completely amazing," and pulls Patrick close into a hug. Patrick rolls his eyes and ruffles Pete's hair. "I mean it."
"Yeah, okay, sure." Patrick says, "So about the hydroponics thing, I was serious. It improves air quality and efficiency over the machine process, you know? There's just things -- I mean, science can get it optimized, but."
"But who the hell needs optimized when you've got something real?"
pete+patrick, pg. 4,357 words.
because infinity's only as big as the places inside your head and there's no such thing as best buy in outer space.
same AU as it feels like swimming, but there's no need to have read it, this's standalone. /)__(\
patrick -
hi
xo
---
patrick -
so how big is infinity? i want to find out
im on a mission, not a mission from god but a mission from myself (some people might argue semantics)
i never learn from my mistakes so i hope this isnt one; ill see you when i find out
peterpanda
(archaic references are the only kind worth making)
---
Patrick's not really sure how to reply; the first message from Pete, he ignores because he only rarely checks his mail. Most people do vidcalls; old-fashioned text is faster to send, more reliable, but so fucking outdated when only a few second's delay can have you looking at and talking to someone anywhere in-system. Even if there's interference mucking up signals and making conversation hard, there's always prerecorded messages.
There's really only one person who writes to Patrick, ever, and that's Pete.
The thing is, Pete doesn't write that often, and Patrick doesn't know him that well. Patrick's an old-fashioned sort, likes staying on his home planet; he met Pete at a concert and has only talked to him in person twice since then, save the written correspondence, and yeah, so Patrick writes back sometimes, that doesn't mean they talk. It just means they know each other better than they would otherwise.
Patrick stares at the screen for a while, carries it with him in his head. This is the first time Pete's written in over two months, and that first message is already a week old.
He finally figures out his reply --
Hey, Pete,
How are you? Haven't heard from you in a while. Infinity's as big as the places inside your head, I'd guess.
Not saying your head is empty just that there's a lot going on in the human mind, you know, you never know how much.
hope where ever you are you're having a nice time. good luck
Look, now you've got me writing without capital letters.
---
trick!
i wouldnt have so many thoughts rattling in my head if the space was infinite. theyd spread out and give each other some room
dont you say its just because like attracts like or opposites attract or anything
my thoughts arent friends with me or themselves and none of what i'm thinking is very attractive
theres so much room out here
more than well ever know what to do with and only just enough for us to spoil - im not part of the solution and you know what that means
"im good to go" but im going nowhere fast
be glad youre not here. theres only room enough for one. empty bedrooms and unspoiled beds make for the sweetest companions you could ever want but i miss her
i dont even know who she is
xoseeyoulater
peteagator
---
patrick patrick patrick
i like to open letters with your name. can this be called a letter? youre not holding it in your hands, or if you are its not on paper. id tell you to print it out but its not quite the same.
i would send you real letters if i thought the universe was ready to deal with that
i want your hands to know what this really means. to understand something you have to feel it
some things are dead and gone for a reason
thats why im out here.
ill see you again; patrick, well see each other again
just as soon as ive figured out how far i can go
how far can i push this? when push comes to shove im not sure my arms are strong enough
youve got to lift from the knees but where should you push from? ill try with my heart
(i was watching the news and patrick how do these things happen)
p.e.t.e.r.
---
The two letters come within five minutes of each other, and Patrick's checking his mail again daily now. He doesn't have much better to do; he's taking some classes in engineering, working at a restaraunt, but he's got time for this, whatever it is. Why he's the one Pete's talking to, he's not sure. Pete seems like a popular enough guy.
Maybe it's that he doesn't know Patrick that well; Patrick's left wondering if he's more priest or therapist, here, or more just stranger on the street. Or if maybe Pete somehow thinks they're friends -- not that Patrick would deny it, but why Pete would want to be friends with him, he's really not sure.
He's actually at work when they come but he's got his little mobile comm unit with him and the screen lights up his pocket. Sometimes Pete will write and actually make sense, but apparently he's overestimating Patrick's intelligence again. All he knows is, whatever Pete's doing is probably not a good idea.
Patrick's pretty sure it takes an unsound mind to really want to spend that much time in the black, anyway; there's been psychological studies that too long out there can unbalance a person if they don't follow their reccommended medication regimens. Patrick, he's content to just stay right where he is on Wilmette. There's food enough here, and his school, and enough on-world research and industry that he won't be out of work when he graduates.
Just because he's doing work designing ship engines doesn't mean he's particularly fond of ships.
Hey, so when are you coming by?? If your parents didn't live so close I'd say you could crash at my place. Patrick figures that's the best reply, just invite Pete over and hope for the best. He's willing to play therapist for a while, even if he doesn't get it.
Pete's reply is almost instant. i dont know. im not sure where i am either location-wise or with my head. im feeling lost in all the best ways.
Patrick rolls his eyes and waits until his shift is over to reply again. He keeps it simple.
Pete,
The hell?
Patrick
---
patrick
no one else ever writes back they just try to call but i dont pick up
i just keep this up instead and i hope you'll help me carry it
as high as it'll go
she said "this time youve gone too far"
but how far is too far? iill be obvious for once: all my problems are back there
i feel too much but i cant seem to understand
ill write you a song,
p33twntz
---
This one's sent in the middle of the night, at least by Patrick's standards, and they're from the same planet so one would assume they'd be on the same schedule, but no. Of course not. That, or Pete's just awake really, really late.
Trying to figure out what the hell Pete's talking about is kind of tiresome, and the only clues Patrick has are bad ones.
So--
Seriously, Pete, open invite. The only problems I have are with how long this stupid paper has to be. Why I thought a course in theoretical FTL concepts would be a good plan this year, I have no idea. Are my issues enough to distract you from yours, or should I give it up?
Pete's reply is instant, and Patrick really wonders how long he's been awake, seriously.
oh patrick! anythings enough to distract me for now but nothing works for long. youre my best bet but im already down a hundred grand and my hand isnt looking good.
Patrick eats breakfast before writing back, and takes a while, because he's trying to think how to reply. What he comes up with, finally, is a picture of a very confused cat on a spaceship with the gravity off, floating in front of a screen showing only space. There's something, possibly oatmeal, floating around it. Either the cat's upside down, or the photographer. The only words he bothers with are hi pete!, eschewing capital letters.
patrick,
what are you trying to say here? i thought i was the master of circumlocution but i cant figure out where youre going with this.
--
Pete,
i'll reply in your style, because apparently that's the way things are done these days. i can't ditch the apostrophes though. sorry. we're best buds.
see, pete, the cat was a metaphor. i am confused. i am also an upside down cat. and in space. two of those three statements weren't true, can you guess which?
sncrly,
ptrck
--
Dear Patrick,
I miss the capital letters, Patrick, please bring them back. Are you okay?
Sincerely,
Pete
--
Patrick rolls his eyes and sends that's what i've been trying to ask you you jerk.
Pete answers with no.
Patrick replies, okay then were making some progress.
--
Patrick,
I'm serious about the capital letters. REALLYSERIOUS. where are they?
:(
--
Patrick says, "Did you honestly just sign that letter with a sad face?"
There's a pause before Pete answers, but not too long; he can't be too far from inhabited space or it'd be longer. "No. Yes. Shut up," Pete says. He says, "You're lucky I even answered, I don't want to talk to anyone right now."
"It's really -- Pete, turn on the lights. Why are you sitting in the dark?"
"Trying to conserve fuel? I've got a sweater, too."
"Pete, thirty degrees temperature difference on board is not going to save enough fuel to make any difference. Why do you even need to -- seriously, where the fuck are you? Don't make me track your location, I don't want to do math outside of school. Not until I have a job."
"I seriously have no idea. I'm letting the ship take me wherever it takes me. We're gonna find infinity."
"Uh-huh."
"No, I'm serious. I want to find the edge of the universe. It's got to end somewhere, right? Everything does, even the best things. Even the worst things."
"No," Patrick says. "Well, yes. I don't know. I don't think a solo mission is going to accomplish much, though, Pete. Possibly there should be some measurements going on, a bit of science, you know. Maybe a ship with enough fuel that thirty degrees is not going to make or break the mission."
"I think I've got enough to get out there."
"And to get back?"
Pete closes his eyes and hums. He says, "Patrick, I wrote you a song, do you want to hear it?"
"Pete."
"Okay. I'll record it for you, don't worry."
"Pete. Seriously. Call your mom or something, I bet she wants to hear from you."
Pete kills the signal, and Patrick takes a deep, shaky breath and sets to work unraveling the date-stamp and delay on Pete's last message, checking the records for the signal strength and direction of that call. Of course Pete masks his location. Jerk. He figures Pete's mom, being his mother and all, is probably used to Pete's idiosyncrasies, and right now he doesn't feel much like talking to anyone either, so as soon as he figures out where Pete is he writes a message to her.
--
Patrick doesn't see anything about this on any of the news feeds, other than a brief sidenote on one of the public broadcast feeds, "and in better news, the pilot of the Camisado today told us a ship he picked up adrift in space was not, in fact, a derelict; the creatively named Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes, though broadcasting a signal that indicated it had no living crew aboard, boasted one survivor out of a crew of one. Said lone crew member has not chosen to release his name as he's still in hospital and has yet to regain consciousness. Meanwhile, on the other side of the system ..."
And it's pretty much the most pointless story he's ever heard, not quite enough to be a feel-good human interest story. Not quite enough to be a good disaster story. Not quite enough to be anything but disconcerting, an dull aching blip on the radar.
Patrick gets more of the story from Pete's mom, as thanks -- sort of -- for his help. So, from what Patrick can piece together from her and concerned chatter from some people who know Pete and know he knows Pete and listen to the same music he does (it's convoluted, but whatever):
It starts out with Pete flying from Wilmette to Constantine, where he does something, no one's sure what just yet, for a month. That's when the next record of his ship leaving is, and the Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes is registered with a destination of Brighton, where he never shows up. This isn't too unusual -- registering your destination is by no means mandatory, and is almost completely unreliable, so when he doesn't show up in a week no one really cares. Pete doesn't have anyone listed to be notified of his arrival anyway. So.
This happens almost two months before Pete starts writing to Patrick. The letters to Patrick cover a three-week span, and Pete's ship is picked up four days after Patrick calls him.
There's no records of Pete making any purchases after leaving Constantine, and this girl he knows says that right before he left he told her that he was running low on chips, which doesn't necessarily mean anything, but implies maybe Pete didn't bother stocking up on food. Or fuel. Or anything, for that matter, other than oxygen, which could be replenished on-board anyway, and he only stocked up on because his ship was planetside and that's what ships planetside do, it's fucking programmed in. So. So.
The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes is on record as having enough fuel to get to Brighton and back twice over. Pete leaves the planet and picks a random direction and spends five days at top speed before letting the ship drift the rest of the way, to where it finally ends up in what's basically the middle of nowhere.
The ship that finds him, the Camisado, its pilot is an upstart named Ryan Ross who's apparently been making inroads in the interstellar coffee trade. Rumor has it he's also got a crop of bananas on some planet off the normal travel patterns, that he's paid to keep off the public maps. Rumor also has it that he makes a tidy profit cleaning up derelicts, and sometimes not-so-derelicts, and that he knew Pete from 'before' -- whatever that's supposed to mean -- and Pete had helped him out, so. So Pete's still alive.
This part, Patrick hears from a kid named Spencer Smith, who's communications officer and first lieutenant on Ross's ship:
They find this ship, floating, this tiny little ship with just its running lights on. Inside is only the faintest signal; Ross says even though it's small, they might as well check it out. The crew gets suited up, just in case disease took out the crew or something. The ship's almost barren, but one Brent Wilson heads to the bridge to check the ship's records, because apparently he's avoiding the rest of the crew and looking for something to do. Ross told him not to bother but Wilson's feeling ornery, so he goes, and he's checking the comm panel to check for incoming transmissions when he realises he's not alone.
The pilot's chair is occupied by a man, Wilson places him at maybe thirty eight and a half, apparently, information Spencer passes on only because he thinks it's funny how specific it is, it's off by ten years -- anyway, it's occupied by this man who's not actually thirty eight and a half who's curled up with a pillow and a blanket and asleep, and he's got this smile on his face, the sweetest smile Wilson has apparently ever seen.
So Wilson thinks, alright, he doesn't want to bother this guy, might as well just let him sleep, and he's checking the comm again and reading through some messages, weirded out that anyone's writing at all anymore, when Spencer comes and is all, "Hey, seriously, what are you doing? There's nothing worth taking, we're gonna --"
Spencer says, "Dude, is that guy alive? He's alive, shit, why didn't you say anything, this guy isn't dead, Brent."
Wilson shrugs and says, "I didn't want to wake him up. He's obviously pretty happy there."
"Dude, what the fuck, there's a guy alive here and you just," Spencer says, and he goes and gets Ross, who recognizes the guy, and wakes him up but apparently Pete can't stay awake for long, so anyway, they get him on board their ship and have their medic tend to him until they get to their next station stop, which isn't even a planet but a station, and old asteroid mining rig, and Spencer won't say what they wanted at a mining station, but. They try to get Pete medical care there but Ross says it isn't good enough even though Wilson says they should really really just leave him, not waste their time and money, and that's about it, nobody likes Wilson anymore anyway -- anyway, whatever, Wilson's still part of the crew, he's just getting weirder and should maybe have stayed planetside from the start because this whole 'business venture' thing is not doing right by him. Anyway.
So they go back into inhabited space and leave Pete in hospital on New Brunswick. He's still there now, still mostly asleep.
That's how it went down, as far as Patrick's found out.
*
The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes comes home a week before Pete does, towed in by the Camisado; Ross says he has the docking fees covered. Patrick doesn't actually talk to Ross, never has, just gets word passed to him via Spencer.
Ross says that while they're on-world he can visit the ship, if he wants. Patrick doesn't.
--
Pete shows up on Patrick's doorstep three weeks later. There's dark circles under his eyes. Patrick's not sure he remembers those being there last time. "Open invite, right?"
"Right," Patrick says, pulling the pencil from behind his ear and shoving it in a pocket. His fingers are smudged with ink. "I was studying, hi."
"You write," Pete says, face lighting up. "You use pens and pencils!"
"Well, yeah," Patrick says. "Kinetic learner. It helps me remember."
"I knew it," Pete says. He says, "So can I come in or are we going to talk in the doorway?"
"What? No, fine, okay, okay." Patrick steps aside and lets Pete in and, while Pete's fawning over his handwritten notes ("I have no idea what this is talking about but it's beautiful! Dude, I want to make out with your handwriting") and plants ("they're so green, do they let you have plants, seriously, they do? Shit!"), Patrick's making tea.
They're sitting at Patrick's desk, which is where he usually eats and is about the only open, flat surface other than the bed and kitchen counters.
Patrick's drinking his tea and letting Pete talk at him, because that seems to be what Pete needs to do, just go on about people he knows and people he hasn't met yet; expounding on the subject of missing someone he's never met and how when he travels it's just because he's trying to find somewhere where he'll feel okay. Patrick half-listens, nodding occasionally and tossing out generic questions every now and then.
"It's just, you know, no one writes anything, anything, I don't know what the hell." He says, "It's like people have forgot how. It's like science has made it obsolete or something, not to insult you, not your kind of science, medical science. There's so many people who just don't -- I don't know. Mom was born on one of the old stations near Mars, back in Earth-system, you know." He's saying, "So I don't know, maybe it's the old blood, the old stock. Even my ship wants me to take pills to fix it, but what's broken?"
Patrick cracks his neck and takes a long sip of tea. He closes his eyes, exhales, and when he opens them again Pete is still there waiting for an answer. Patrick says, "I don't know. Maybe nothing."
"There's no reason to be allergic to anything. You can keep your hearing and your memory and your hair and your looks and your, your happiness and emotional stability and your vision and your, you know, fucking everything, there's things so we can breathe in a goddamn nitrogen atmosphere and where are the limits?"
Patrick says, "I don't know. Why do we need limits? The human spirit can overcome, blahblahblah, all that. I don't know, Pete."
"Okay," Pete says. "Okay." He rests his elbows on the faux-wood surface of the desk, cups his head in his hands before covering his eyes. He stops talking, for a while. "Sorry I'm talking so much."
"It's okay," Patrick says, and for a while after that, sitting across the desk from each other, neither of them says anything. Patrick drinks his tea, while Pete's cup sits on the table with steam slowly rising and dissipating.
Pete says, "If my mom asks, I wasn't here," and he's on his feet and halfway to the door already.
"Bye?" Patrick says as the door opens.
"Unless you want to come with."
"I'll see you later." And Pete's gone, and Patrick shrugs and drinks Pete's cup of tea, too, because it's still half full.
--
Patrick runs into Pete at a show a few days later; Pete buys a girl a drink then doesn't talk to her. Pete throws himself into the pit like it's the only thing that matters anymore, like he's not afraid of getting hurt -- no one ever is, anymore, but with Pete it's more desperation than fearlessness. It's not that he's not afraid. It's that he doesn't care. Pete's elbows are moving at impossible angles and there's a flash of his knee, a foot in the air. He dives and is lost.
Patrick keeps his eyes closed and listens to the music, sound rushing past his ears like swift-flowing water. His shoulders fall and his jaw slackens and he wants to catch the music on his tongue, wants to taste it and feel it and swim in it and for once he doesn't care how stupid he looks. Patrick listens.
It's over too soon, and Patrick leaves without seeing Pete again.
--
patrick
there are oceans mankind has never seen full of strange wonders!
i want to find them and swim them. i want to be an explorer. i will be a textbook superstar
¡schoolchildren will sing my name into eternity!
"there is a light that never goes out" and it will be me
xo
p
--
Pete is upside down.
He bought a smallish armchair and brought it to Patrick's place -- "You need more furniture, it's creepy!" -- and now he's sitting in it, his legs hooked over the back of the chair and his neck tipped over the edge of the seat. He's holding on as best he can, grinning. "I think," he says, "I don't know, I don't even know what I think but it's bound to be amazing."
"Okay?" Patrick says.
He says, "So I'm thinking of taking another trip."
"Shit."
"No, no. It's. I don't know, what do I even need. Like, I need to check in with Mom daily, but that's cool, my mom's cool."
"How old are you?"
"Quiet. I just."
Patrick says, "My parents run a supply company. You know." He holds up a pad of paper. "I've been studying. I can help you resupply, if you know where you're going. Or at least how long you plan to be out there."
"Really?"
"Really," Patrick says. "So, I mean, we'll need to -- you'll need check-up and shit. I'm serious."
"What?"
"Optimized nutrition, Pete, optimized. Swear to god. They've been making a lot of headway lately. This isn't -- it's not really science, so much as just common sense, you know? Nothing weird. We can even keep it to nothing unnatural, if that's what you want, though the price'll be higher that way."
"You're really serious."
"Yeah. Look. I know you," Patrick says, "well, I don't know you, but I know how you do. Or." This time what Patrick says is, "You're not going alone."
"I'm not taking somebody to be my nanny."
Patrick bites his lip. "That's not what I'm talking about. Look, okay, here," and Patrick sits down to scribble down some figures, twirls in his chair to reach for his comm to input the data. "I can have a list of what you need in, okay. Okay. How much money do you have? Wait, wait, no. This is."
Patrick says, "Have you thought about hydroponics?"
Pete's eyes are strangely matte, very dry and laced with fine pink lines. He doesn't blink. "You're serious."
"Yes?" Patrick says, "I'm trying to help."
"No, I know, that's what's weird. I thought you'd be talking me out of it."
"What can I say," Patrick says with a shrug. "I like your letters."
"So I'm not going alone?"
"No, because I'm going with -- I mean, I'm not, okay, you know what. You know what." Patrick waves his hands, searching for words like he can pull them from the air. "I am inviting myself along. I won't lie. You're not leaving alone."
"But I --"
"No, because last time you ended up in a coma. You are not leaving alone. I don't even like spaceships, but."
"You're incredible," Pete says. "You're incredible, incredible, completely amazing," and pulls Patrick close into a hug. Patrick rolls his eyes and ruffles Pete's hair. "I mean it."
"Yeah, okay, sure." Patrick says, "So about the hydroponics thing, I was serious. It improves air quality and efficiency over the machine process, you know? There's just things -- I mean, science can get it optimized, but."
"But who the hell needs optimized when you've got something real?"