Fic: Torn
Torn.
post-best buy. Patrick/Pete-implied. 1,171 words.
Shadows filter through the cracks in the blinds like liquid through cheesecloth, and the sun catches like pulp. If Pete doesn’t open his eyes, the heat will tear them apart, rip out his eyelashes, but he just clenches them tighter, presses so hard it aches. He can hear the roll of wheels on tiles, the clink of glasses, the whispers of the nurses and he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he is.
He does though, and open eyes are met by white walls and bleached sheets, by sallow skin and aching limbs and he can’t move properly, can’t muster enough energy to thinktalkdolive. Someone’s cut him open, ripped up skin and torn apart rib cage and Pete feels stripped bare. Feels more naked then he ever has, and he’s waiting for paparazzi, for flash photography and a microphone beneath his nose, for questions and accusations, but there’s nothing. No one.
Pete’s been left nude beneath sheets with his heart stapled to his forehead, bleeding dry and bruised and weathered. Pete’s lying with his everything (pride-dignity-selfrespect-him) left for the public eye and there’s no one there to laugh, to shit-stir or gossip and Pete doesn’t know why he feels like he‘s just woken up after a one-night stand, can‘t pinpoint which part of him feels so used.
It’ll take a few hours for him to realise that he feels less used and more used up. He didn’t want to die and it wasn’t a suicide attempt. He was just sick of living.
*
The problem - and maybe that’s not the right word, Patrick’s not sure, he isn’t the poet in this, isn’t the sculptor, the artist, isn’t the writer - is that somewhere along the line, Pete stopped trying.
*
Also a problem? So did Patrick.
*
Half an hour before Pete stops at the Best Buy, Patrick asks if Pete’s okay.
Pete laughs, but it’s hollow to the ear, echoes in the darkness. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know,” Patrick whispers after Pete’s left. “I don’t know.”
*
The facts? Ativan is a glorified sedative. It doesn’t so much treat anxiety as it does provide relief by the hour, minute, second and the effects of it are probably worse than the original cause of taking it.
The effects? Increased hostility and aggression, amnesia and suicidal tendencies.
Signs of overdose? Confusion (mental, emotional), dysarthria (kills your motor speech, you lose control of tongue, throat, lips, lungs), drowsiness, hypotonia (reduced muscle strength), hypotension, hypnotic effect, coma, cardiovascular or respiratory depression. Death.
There are a lot of results, too many to count on one hand and they’re all significant, all noteworthy pains that rape the quality of life and yeah, Pete supposes, but given the situation, he sorta thinks he got the worst of it.
After all, he survived.
*
Pete’s in hospital for a week.
Patrick doesn’t visit.
*
They fly to Europe without him, without Pete, and Patrick has never believed that one member of this band was more important than the others but now he’s not too sure. Something’s missing. Everything is, and Patrick doesn’t like to give half-assed performances and overcompensates instead, sings until his throat is raw and plays till his finger pads are numb from guitar strings and when he staggers off stage that night, he can’t look anyone in the eye.
*
When Pete joins them, somewhere between gigs and venues, weather forecasts and tourist attractions, he looks less like shit and more like, well, Patrick supposes, like someone who just tried to off themselves. He doesn’t know, just can’t stifle the relief that Pete is suddenly tangible, suddenly right in front of him and still desperate and still real and still breathing, still fucking alive and he’d hug him, press him tight if he thought he could.
He can’t though, not when Pete’s fragile and broken and Patrick can’t see the whole as much as he can see the pieces, fragments and he doesn’t know which bit to hold.
*
The shows still not easy, but it’s better without the stand-in bassist, with Pete there again, throwing himself around the stage like his body isn’t all he’s got, like he’s no sense of self-preservation (he hasn’t) and Patrick wishes he could say something, wishes he could pause enough to say take it easy, but he doesn’t and he won’t.
He can’t.
*
The clock flickers past twelve and Patrick knew he’d adopted some of Pete’s traits, but he hadn’t realised insomnia was one of them. The bus is too small tonight, tight in the wrong places, and Patrick feels claustrophobic, feels contained and too big for his skin, for his bones and muscle.
There are noises though, a clatter, a stifled grunt, and the curtain to his bed is drawn open, pulled apart like it’s opening night at the theatre, only it’s not a waiting audience, it’s Pete, with sallow skin and bags beneath his eyes that look like they’ve been drawn on with charcoal.
“No,” Patrick says. “No, you can’t just--you can’t, I-”
“Shut up,” Pete responds, and he nudges Patrick over and the contact sparks something in Patrick that feels too much like life. “Please. I just need, I need to, I need you, right now and just.”
He stops short, stares instead, wide eyes and parted lips and it’s all Patrick needs to roll over, to move into the corner and let Pete crawl in. “I won’t talk about it,” Pete whispers, “so please don’t push it.”
“You’re not in any position to be making demands,” because he’s not, and this, fuck off, but it hurts and Patrick, he wants, needs to talk about this.
“Probably not,” Pete says, and he rolls over so his back is to Patrick, so his face is looking out of the bunk. “But you’ll listen anyway.”
All Patrick can see is Pete’s tiny frame, the slope of his shoulders and the curve of his spine. He can see every inhale, heartbeat, blood pulse beneath skin and muscle and Pete could do anything right now and Patrick isn‘t sure he‘d care so long as he keeps breathing.
“I don’t forgive you,” he says though, and he doesn’t, because Patrick doesn’t give a shit if it was only for a moment, because for the few seconds it took him to OD, it took him a few seconds to think that there was something he couldn’t talk to Patrick about.
“But you will?” and it comes off as a question, a hitch in Pete’s breathing and the words are soft, get lost in the air by Pete’s face and he’s lucky that Patrick caught them, grasped them in his fingers before they could slip through.
“I will,” Patrick says, and he wraps an arm around Pete’s waist, leaves it heavy and he doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to Pete’s head beneath his chin and Pete solid and thin and warm in his arms and right now, that’s all Patrick needs.
post-best buy. Patrick/Pete-implied. 1,171 words.
Shadows filter through the cracks in the blinds like liquid through cheesecloth, and the sun catches like pulp. If Pete doesn’t open his eyes, the heat will tear them apart, rip out his eyelashes, but he just clenches them tighter, presses so hard it aches. He can hear the roll of wheels on tiles, the clink of glasses, the whispers of the nurses and he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he is.
He does though, and open eyes are met by white walls and bleached sheets, by sallow skin and aching limbs and he can’t move properly, can’t muster enough energy to thinktalkdolive. Someone’s cut him open, ripped up skin and torn apart rib cage and Pete feels stripped bare. Feels more naked then he ever has, and he’s waiting for paparazzi, for flash photography and a microphone beneath his nose, for questions and accusations, but there’s nothing. No one.
Pete’s been left nude beneath sheets with his heart stapled to his forehead, bleeding dry and bruised and weathered. Pete’s lying with his everything (pride-dignity-selfrespect-him) left for the public eye and there’s no one there to laugh, to shit-stir or gossip and Pete doesn’t know why he feels like he‘s just woken up after a one-night stand, can‘t pinpoint which part of him feels so used.
It’ll take a few hours for him to realise that he feels less used and more used up. He didn’t want to die and it wasn’t a suicide attempt. He was just sick of living.
*
The problem - and maybe that’s not the right word, Patrick’s not sure, he isn’t the poet in this, isn’t the sculptor, the artist, isn’t the writer - is that somewhere along the line, Pete stopped trying.
*
Also a problem? So did Patrick.
*
Half an hour before Pete stops at the Best Buy, Patrick asks if Pete’s okay.
Pete laughs, but it’s hollow to the ear, echoes in the darkness. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know,” Patrick whispers after Pete’s left. “I don’t know.”
*
The facts? Ativan is a glorified sedative. It doesn’t so much treat anxiety as it does provide relief by the hour, minute, second and the effects of it are probably worse than the original cause of taking it.
The effects? Increased hostility and aggression, amnesia and suicidal tendencies.
Signs of overdose? Confusion (mental, emotional), dysarthria (kills your motor speech, you lose control of tongue, throat, lips, lungs), drowsiness, hypotonia (reduced muscle strength), hypotension, hypnotic effect, coma, cardiovascular or respiratory depression. Death.
There are a lot of results, too many to count on one hand and they’re all significant, all noteworthy pains that rape the quality of life and yeah, Pete supposes, but given the situation, he sorta thinks he got the worst of it.
After all, he survived.
*
Pete’s in hospital for a week.
Patrick doesn’t visit.
*
They fly to Europe without him, without Pete, and Patrick has never believed that one member of this band was more important than the others but now he’s not too sure. Something’s missing. Everything is, and Patrick doesn’t like to give half-assed performances and overcompensates instead, sings until his throat is raw and plays till his finger pads are numb from guitar strings and when he staggers off stage that night, he can’t look anyone in the eye.
*
When Pete joins them, somewhere between gigs and venues, weather forecasts and tourist attractions, he looks less like shit and more like, well, Patrick supposes, like someone who just tried to off themselves. He doesn’t know, just can’t stifle the relief that Pete is suddenly tangible, suddenly right in front of him and still desperate and still real and still breathing, still fucking alive and he’d hug him, press him tight if he thought he could.
He can’t though, not when Pete’s fragile and broken and Patrick can’t see the whole as much as he can see the pieces, fragments and he doesn’t know which bit to hold.
*
The shows still not easy, but it’s better without the stand-in bassist, with Pete there again, throwing himself around the stage like his body isn’t all he’s got, like he’s no sense of self-preservation (he hasn’t) and Patrick wishes he could say something, wishes he could pause enough to say take it easy, but he doesn’t and he won’t.
He can’t.
*
The clock flickers past twelve and Patrick knew he’d adopted some of Pete’s traits, but he hadn’t realised insomnia was one of them. The bus is too small tonight, tight in the wrong places, and Patrick feels claustrophobic, feels contained and too big for his skin, for his bones and muscle.
There are noises though, a clatter, a stifled grunt, and the curtain to his bed is drawn open, pulled apart like it’s opening night at the theatre, only it’s not a waiting audience, it’s Pete, with sallow skin and bags beneath his eyes that look like they’ve been drawn on with charcoal.
“No,” Patrick says. “No, you can’t just--you can’t, I-”
“Shut up,” Pete responds, and he nudges Patrick over and the contact sparks something in Patrick that feels too much like life. “Please. I just need, I need to, I need you, right now and just.”
He stops short, stares instead, wide eyes and parted lips and it’s all Patrick needs to roll over, to move into the corner and let Pete crawl in. “I won’t talk about it,” Pete whispers, “so please don’t push it.”
“You’re not in any position to be making demands,” because he’s not, and this, fuck off, but it hurts and Patrick, he wants, needs to talk about this.
“Probably not,” Pete says, and he rolls over so his back is to Patrick, so his face is looking out of the bunk. “But you’ll listen anyway.”
All Patrick can see is Pete’s tiny frame, the slope of his shoulders and the curve of his spine. He can see every inhale, heartbeat, blood pulse beneath skin and muscle and Pete could do anything right now and Patrick isn‘t sure he‘d care so long as he keeps breathing.
“I don’t forgive you,” he says though, and he doesn’t, because Patrick doesn’t give a shit if it was only for a moment, because for the few seconds it took him to OD, it took him a few seconds to think that there was something he couldn’t talk to Patrick about.
“But you will?” and it comes off as a question, a hitch in Pete’s breathing and the words are soft, get lost in the air by Pete’s face and he’s lucky that Patrick caught them, grasped them in his fingers before they could slip through.
“I will,” Patrick says, and he wraps an arm around Pete’s waist, leaves it heavy and he doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to Pete’s head beneath his chin and Pete solid and thin and warm in his arms and right now, that’s all Patrick needs.