Call it "Merry Christmas"
Title: A Pillowcase Correspondence
Authors: megyal and lesinnocents
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: R at the moment
Summary: Dear Patrick...
Disclaimer: 100% Disclaimed.
Letter One
Letter Two
Letter Three
Letter Four
Letter Five
Letter Six
Patrick,
Of course I’m the one-and-only Pete. I shudder to think what this poor planet would come to if there were two of me. If the numbers started climbing above that, God save you all, because this world would be sinking into burning stars and empty atmosphere like the fucking Titanic and no matter how hard you screamed or how many flares you sent up, not a single person would come to your rescue. You’d all be inhaling mouthfuls of black gas water and dying with outstretched hands while Mars and Jupiter pointed and laughed. ‘Good riddance,’ they’d murmur. ‘Though it’s a shame the rest of the planet had to be dragged down with him.’
Bravery isn’t the absence of fear, Patrick. It’s jumping off the end of the earth knowing damned well that all you’re gonna get in return is a long fall that leaves you with the rest of your damnable life to remember all the harm you almost caused, all of the doctors waiting with needles and thread poised to sew up the hearts and the lives they saw you set your sights on (if you’re lucky, a stray comet will get you sooner rather than later). It’s fearing the fall and dreading death and taking the leap with a running start regardless. I think that bravery’s mostly foolishness, which I’ve got in abundance, and maybe a little selflessness, which I haven’t got at all. I think that the heroes whom time will remember are the ones that acted too impulsively, who jumped without looking down, and managed to stumble into some great and noble deed completely by mistake. Mistakes I have in abundance, too. I would say that my only brave act is having the balls to wake up every morning and continue spreading my own brand of disease across the planet, but you called me emo in your letter and I’m still offended and preening feathers over that, so I’ll spare you the fodder of continuing with that particular train of thought.
Pete’s hands were hidden away beneath the fabric of Patrick’s shirt, but this time they weren’t pinching. Oh God, no, certainly not pinching. His fingertips felt like individual brands moving over Patrick’s shuddering skin, scalding and scarring as they went, burning a path of blisters over his stomach and filling his navel with steam.
Patrick was groaning, twisting under the solid weight of Pete’s thighs pressing into his. Every movement grated the coarse fabric of the couch against the exposed skin of his lower back where his shirt had ridden up. Pete’s hands retreated, abandoning Patrick’s swollen and bleeding abdomen (surely it must be, if it felt so desperately as if it were on fire) to pursue other routes. His hands snaked down the front of Patrick’s boxers and were accompanied with a sharp gasp cutting through the silent air of the early morning as they found their target and went to work on putting it to death.
Yes, that was exactly what Pete was doing. He was trying to slaughter the singer with the acute contrast of whispering fingers over pleading cocks and rough hands grabbing fistfuls of innocent expanses of thighs, digging in. He was trying to murder him with soft chuckles against the quivering flesh just above the line of his boxers and the fucking smirks he shot him each time Patrick let out a choked cry or his hips twitched from the pure agony of it all. The perfect angles of Pete’s wrists and the friction of denim against Patrick’s knees were driving him mad. He was incoherent, all of his thoughts swindled away and drawn out of him with every gasping inhalation and hoarse sigh.
“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, back arching and eyes clenched shut.
Patrick started and sat up abruptly, the hat which he’d forgotten to remove before falling asleep askew on his head and blocking vision out of his left eye and chest tripping over itself trying to keep up with the rapid pace of his panted breaths. He situated his cap properly and rubbed a hand over his sleep-swollen face, eyes heavy and aching, and looked down at his lap.
“Oh, fuck!”
After a graceless, stumbling procession to the bathroom, during which he forgot about poor Joe and stepped right on the kid’s stomach (Joe only grumbled half-heartedly and yawned before heading back to sleep, bless him), Patrick washed his face, jacked off, and fixed his rampant hair. He tried very, very hard not to think about Pete whatsoever during any of these exploits, but was fairly certain that he failed.
He stood outside of the bathroom door; a narrow section of the hallway illuminated by the light reflecting off of bleached tiles, and miserably attempted to make sense of all that had been happening recently. As if getting picked up like some forgotten newspaper by the gusting life of this band, he’d also been dragged into Pete. Pete, who was the sky, weaving and forging the storms if everything else could be considered one. Pete, who took all of the trembling thunder and broken, burning trees brought to their knees by lightning into himself.
They needed to resolve this.
So down the hallway Patrick went, up the stairs; whose groaning steps he avoided in case Mrs. Wentz was still awake watching Law and Order, and down another hallway that seemed to stretch and extend every time his foot left the ground, so that before each time the calloused soles of his feet hit the hardwood, Pete’s door skittered further and further away. He pushed open the door, but the speech that he had meticulously planned during his perilous journey up the noisy stairs fled his mind and his dry mouth the moment he looked inside the dimly-lit bedroom.
Back on the couch, Patrick sat with his head in his hands, fingers threaded through his fine, thin hair and gripping hard enough to threaten tugging out the few precious strands he had left. It was a stupid idea, he thought, adding an extra pull that left the lingering satisfaction of a burn on his scalp, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Now, now he would never be able to delete the image from his mind. He had the terrible feeling that the sounds of Jeanae’s soft, feminine cries and pleading moans would somehow be written into every line of music that he ever came up with from that day forth. He swore that he could still hear the tell-tale creaking of Pete’s childhood bed, one that Patrick had fucking slept in, for God’s sake, seeping through the floorboards just to torture him. But, first and foremost, he had no idea how the hell he was expected to force himself to forget the sight of Pete’s thighs, thick and strong like the trunks of trees whose roots were tangled around Patrick’s shuddering heart, straining with every thrust, or the muscles of his back sliding and coiling and cavorting beneath the slick, bronzed skin, or how he imagined the rivulet of sweat would taste on his tongue if he licked it from between Pete’s taut shoulder blades.
Oh, fuck.
Patrick, we’re going to pretend like tearing up that letter never crossed your fucking mind, okay? It hurt, it hurt that you did it, and it may be a fact that I lay down my truths for you like lovers, but I can’t tell you how deeply that pain struck me. It’s not that I don’t have the ability to verbalize it, because I’m pretty sure that I could tie both of us up with a slew of words that come out poetic on their own accord if I really wanted to lend you my opinions on the matter, but I won’t. I won’t because, despite how often I seem to flay myself like desperately begging forgiveness from God, there are some hurts I’d rather not inflict upon myself. There are some things I’m much more content with when they’re folded up neatly and shoved into the back of my mind, steadily collecting dust and contracting diseases that’ll make their way to my bloodstream later, than when I have to feel them splintering my ribs just a little bit more with every breath I take. So it didn’t happen. It didn’t happen.
Don’t you ever think that I don’t trust you with my words. Remember that - that you alone get to command my lyrics and twist them into whatever design you see fit - and remember that this exchange isn’t one-sided in the slightest. Remember that I need to drink the ink off of every page that you give to me, or every malcontent thought and infected emotion simmering to the proper consistency inside of me would be the only thing I had to fill my stomach and wet my eyes and dampen my tongue for the talking. Remember that I trust you more than I trust myself, because I constantly expend more energy coveting my own successes than I do realizing my failures as they fade to sickened yellow bruises, and I can’t be trusted with anything.
Pete
Authors: megyal and lesinnocents
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: R at the moment
Summary: Dear Patrick...
Disclaimer: 100% Disclaimed.
Letter One
Letter Two
Letter Three
Letter Four
Letter Five
Letter Six
Patrick,
Of course I’m the one-and-only Pete. I shudder to think what this poor planet would come to if there were two of me. If the numbers started climbing above that, God save you all, because this world would be sinking into burning stars and empty atmosphere like the fucking Titanic and no matter how hard you screamed or how many flares you sent up, not a single person would come to your rescue. You’d all be inhaling mouthfuls of black gas water and dying with outstretched hands while Mars and Jupiter pointed and laughed. ‘Good riddance,’ they’d murmur. ‘Though it’s a shame the rest of the planet had to be dragged down with him.’
Bravery isn’t the absence of fear, Patrick. It’s jumping off the end of the earth knowing damned well that all you’re gonna get in return is a long fall that leaves you with the rest of your damnable life to remember all the harm you almost caused, all of the doctors waiting with needles and thread poised to sew up the hearts and the lives they saw you set your sights on (if you’re lucky, a stray comet will get you sooner rather than later). It’s fearing the fall and dreading death and taking the leap with a running start regardless. I think that bravery’s mostly foolishness, which I’ve got in abundance, and maybe a little selflessness, which I haven’t got at all. I think that the heroes whom time will remember are the ones that acted too impulsively, who jumped without looking down, and managed to stumble into some great and noble deed completely by mistake. Mistakes I have in abundance, too. I would say that my only brave act is having the balls to wake up every morning and continue spreading my own brand of disease across the planet, but you called me emo in your letter and I’m still offended and preening feathers over that, so I’ll spare you the fodder of continuing with that particular train of thought.
Pete’s hands were hidden away beneath the fabric of Patrick’s shirt, but this time they weren’t pinching. Oh God, no, certainly not pinching. His fingertips felt like individual brands moving over Patrick’s shuddering skin, scalding and scarring as they went, burning a path of blisters over his stomach and filling his navel with steam.
Patrick was groaning, twisting under the solid weight of Pete’s thighs pressing into his. Every movement grated the coarse fabric of the couch against the exposed skin of his lower back where his shirt had ridden up. Pete’s hands retreated, abandoning Patrick’s swollen and bleeding abdomen (surely it must be, if it felt so desperately as if it were on fire) to pursue other routes. His hands snaked down the front of Patrick’s boxers and were accompanied with a sharp gasp cutting through the silent air of the early morning as they found their target and went to work on putting it to death.
Yes, that was exactly what Pete was doing. He was trying to slaughter the singer with the acute contrast of whispering fingers over pleading cocks and rough hands grabbing fistfuls of innocent expanses of thighs, digging in. He was trying to murder him with soft chuckles against the quivering flesh just above the line of his boxers and the fucking smirks he shot him each time Patrick let out a choked cry or his hips twitched from the pure agony of it all. The perfect angles of Pete’s wrists and the friction of denim against Patrick’s knees were driving him mad. He was incoherent, all of his thoughts swindled away and drawn out of him with every gasping inhalation and hoarse sigh.
“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, back arching and eyes clenched shut.
Patrick started and sat up abruptly, the hat which he’d forgotten to remove before falling asleep askew on his head and blocking vision out of his left eye and chest tripping over itself trying to keep up with the rapid pace of his panted breaths. He situated his cap properly and rubbed a hand over his sleep-swollen face, eyes heavy and aching, and looked down at his lap.
“Oh, fuck!”
After a graceless, stumbling procession to the bathroom, during which he forgot about poor Joe and stepped right on the kid’s stomach (Joe only grumbled half-heartedly and yawned before heading back to sleep, bless him), Patrick washed his face, jacked off, and fixed his rampant hair. He tried very, very hard not to think about Pete whatsoever during any of these exploits, but was fairly certain that he failed.
He stood outside of the bathroom door; a narrow section of the hallway illuminated by the light reflecting off of bleached tiles, and miserably attempted to make sense of all that had been happening recently. As if getting picked up like some forgotten newspaper by the gusting life of this band, he’d also been dragged into Pete. Pete, who was the sky, weaving and forging the storms if everything else could be considered one. Pete, who took all of the trembling thunder and broken, burning trees brought to their knees by lightning into himself.
They needed to resolve this.
So down the hallway Patrick went, up the stairs; whose groaning steps he avoided in case Mrs. Wentz was still awake watching Law and Order, and down another hallway that seemed to stretch and extend every time his foot left the ground, so that before each time the calloused soles of his feet hit the hardwood, Pete’s door skittered further and further away. He pushed open the door, but the speech that he had meticulously planned during his perilous journey up the noisy stairs fled his mind and his dry mouth the moment he looked inside the dimly-lit bedroom.
Back on the couch, Patrick sat with his head in his hands, fingers threaded through his fine, thin hair and gripping hard enough to threaten tugging out the few precious strands he had left. It was a stupid idea, he thought, adding an extra pull that left the lingering satisfaction of a burn on his scalp, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Now, now he would never be able to delete the image from his mind. He had the terrible feeling that the sounds of Jeanae’s soft, feminine cries and pleading moans would somehow be written into every line of music that he ever came up with from that day forth. He swore that he could still hear the tell-tale creaking of Pete’s childhood bed, one that Patrick had fucking slept in, for God’s sake, seeping through the floorboards just to torture him. But, first and foremost, he had no idea how the hell he was expected to force himself to forget the sight of Pete’s thighs, thick and strong like the trunks of trees whose roots were tangled around Patrick’s shuddering heart, straining with every thrust, or the muscles of his back sliding and coiling and cavorting beneath the slick, bronzed skin, or how he imagined the rivulet of sweat would taste on his tongue if he licked it from between Pete’s taut shoulder blades.
Oh, fuck.
Patrick, we’re going to pretend like tearing up that letter never crossed your fucking mind, okay? It hurt, it hurt that you did it, and it may be a fact that I lay down my truths for you like lovers, but I can’t tell you how deeply that pain struck me. It’s not that I don’t have the ability to verbalize it, because I’m pretty sure that I could tie both of us up with a slew of words that come out poetic on their own accord if I really wanted to lend you my opinions on the matter, but I won’t. I won’t because, despite how often I seem to flay myself like desperately begging forgiveness from God, there are some hurts I’d rather not inflict upon myself. There are some things I’m much more content with when they’re folded up neatly and shoved into the back of my mind, steadily collecting dust and contracting diseases that’ll make their way to my bloodstream later, than when I have to feel them splintering my ribs just a little bit more with every breath I take. So it didn’t happen. It didn’t happen.
Don’t you ever think that I don’t trust you with my words. Remember that - that you alone get to command my lyrics and twist them into whatever design you see fit - and remember that this exchange isn’t one-sided in the slightest. Remember that I need to drink the ink off of every page that you give to me, or every malcontent thought and infected emotion simmering to the proper consistency inside of me would be the only thing I had to fill my stomach and wet my eyes and dampen my tongue for the talking. Remember that I trust you more than I trust myself, because I constantly expend more energy coveting my own successes than I do realizing my failures as they fade to sickened yellow bruises, and I can’t be trusted with anything.
Pete