A Pillowcase Correspondence - Letter 3
Title: A Pillowcase Correspondence
Authors: megyal and lesinnocents
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: PG-13 at the moment
Summary: Dear Patrick...
Disclaimer: 100% Disclaimed.
A/N: Alright, so it was 6.48 EST. Sorry, Marie.
Letter One
Letter Two
Dearest Patrick (is that better?),
Gordian Knot. That’s what it’s called - the knot that was perfectly impossible to untie. Alexander took out his sword and split the knot in half, so it was declared that he was destined to rule Asia.
I’m pretty sure that the extra power eventually corrupted him and he died trying to expand his empire.
Ironic, isn’t it? Being destined to have control over the one thing that’s going to end up killing you? Maybe that’s a more accurate description of the way me and words work together - I try to master them until my fingertips are bleeding so badly that I can’t hold a pen and you can’t read what I’ve been trying to write either because the page has been turned red. They strangle me while I’m struggling to get the band-aids on. Yeah, that’s definitely a better definition than some knot.
Why do you insist upon making me out to have so much more depth than I actually do? Why do you have to string me along with metaphors? I’m certainly not as special as you think I am, kid. Just wait for the stars in your eyes to fade (every light burns out eventually, only the stars engulf all of eternity in flame, tearing everything down with them as they die, and leave a lingering blackness in their wake) and you’ll end up looking back on this and wondering what the hell you were seeing all along. Maybe it’s the glare from too much teeth that’s hurting your eyes, distorting the sights. Don’t get so enamored with badly-painted porcelain that’s chipping away towards nonexistence by the second.
Just a word of advice.
Peter was massaging his face roughly, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes and pressing until pinpricks of light bloomed across the insides of his eyelids. It was dark in his basement haven when he slowly dragged his eyes open, lashes feeling as if leaden weights marked Property of Ennui Inc. were dangling from the fragile tips of the strands. He could just barely make out the sleeping figure on his couch, opposite his current position with his back against the wall, spine shoved uncomfortably into the peeling wallpaper. The cramped window set towards the ceiling (or the floor, depending entirely upon which level of the house you found yourself on) that often served as Pete’s starlit escape route allowed just enough faint illumination filtering through dirtied glass to leave delicate streaks of light falling across Patrick’s skin, turned the color of unadulterated, blue-white milk in the ethereal shades of evening. Just beneath the curve of Patrick’s pale arm (skin so desperately smooth and whispering gentle pleas for Peter’s touch), he could see the crisp folded edge of the letter he’d slid beneath the slumbering boy’s pillow a little over an hour ago. It seemed silly, Pete mused, admiring the silver highlights lent to the fair locks of hair cascading down Patrick’s face, resting against the slope of his sharp nose and stirring lazily with every soft exhalation, to be leaving notes for a boy when he could just as easily speak the words without the interruption of a pen and grammatical errors and delayed responses.
No, he corrected himself; fingers stretching to reach yearningly for empty air before clenching into fists, repeating the process a few times over - the letters were the only way. Now that the cycle had begun, it fit perfectly, just like he was sure his thigh would, sliding comfortably between Patrick’s and resting there while he slept.
Peter bit his lip to stifle a groan and replaced his hands over his face, fingertips digging into his temples as if they were striving towards slipping in through his pores and strangling his mind.
God, I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t know where my own words come from, like… like I go into some sort of trance and when I come to, there’s a page filled with ink that was probably better off alone without me coming along and ruining how perfect it had been completely pristine. There’s a strange sort of beauty locked away in empty lines, straight straight straight and cutting across paper that’s white, only not-so-white when you look close enough, and just so simple and honest. It’s a comfort for me to finally be able to wholly understand something for once without the great mysteries of life and my imperfections being dragged into the goddamn mess. I get the tiny fibers that press together to make a sheet of paper. I get the ink. I even get the sounds of far-away chainsaws hacking away at what little’s left of our planet’s rainforests and all that bullshit. I get it. I just don’t know why I insist upon fucking up something so impeccable with words that might as well be the stains from a broken pen, since that’s all they’re worth anyways.
I guess that’s my way of trying to apologize for going off on you a couple paragraphs up, but it didn’t turn out so well. I guess that’s also something so typically me, and I’m sorry for that too. I’m sorry for a lot of things, but just the type of sorry that merits a small frown and some furrowed brows, never the kind that knots up my stomach in true remorse. I’m never sorry enough for that - call it complete lack of capacity for human emotion. Call it Pete Wentz. It’s all one in the same.
Sorry.
Pete.
Authors: megyal and lesinnocents
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: PG-13 at the moment
Summary: Dear Patrick...
Disclaimer: 100% Disclaimed.
A/N: Alright, so it was 6.48 EST. Sorry, Marie.
Letter One
Letter Two
Dearest Patrick (is that better?),
Gordian Knot. That’s what it’s called - the knot that was perfectly impossible to untie. Alexander took out his sword and split the knot in half, so it was declared that he was destined to rule Asia.
I’m pretty sure that the extra power eventually corrupted him and he died trying to expand his empire.
Ironic, isn’t it? Being destined to have control over the one thing that’s going to end up killing you? Maybe that’s a more accurate description of the way me and words work together - I try to master them until my fingertips are bleeding so badly that I can’t hold a pen and you can’t read what I’ve been trying to write either because the page has been turned red. They strangle me while I’m struggling to get the band-aids on. Yeah, that’s definitely a better definition than some knot.
Why do you insist upon making me out to have so much more depth than I actually do? Why do you have to string me along with metaphors? I’m certainly not as special as you think I am, kid. Just wait for the stars in your eyes to fade (every light burns out eventually, only the stars engulf all of eternity in flame, tearing everything down with them as they die, and leave a lingering blackness in their wake) and you’ll end up looking back on this and wondering what the hell you were seeing all along. Maybe it’s the glare from too much teeth that’s hurting your eyes, distorting the sights. Don’t get so enamored with badly-painted porcelain that’s chipping away towards nonexistence by the second.
Just a word of advice.
Peter was massaging his face roughly, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes and pressing until pinpricks of light bloomed across the insides of his eyelids. It was dark in his basement haven when he slowly dragged his eyes open, lashes feeling as if leaden weights marked Property of Ennui Inc. were dangling from the fragile tips of the strands. He could just barely make out the sleeping figure on his couch, opposite his current position with his back against the wall, spine shoved uncomfortably into the peeling wallpaper. The cramped window set towards the ceiling (or the floor, depending entirely upon which level of the house you found yourself on) that often served as Pete’s starlit escape route allowed just enough faint illumination filtering through dirtied glass to leave delicate streaks of light falling across Patrick’s skin, turned the color of unadulterated, blue-white milk in the ethereal shades of evening. Just beneath the curve of Patrick’s pale arm (skin so desperately smooth and whispering gentle pleas for Peter’s touch), he could see the crisp folded edge of the letter he’d slid beneath the slumbering boy’s pillow a little over an hour ago. It seemed silly, Pete mused, admiring the silver highlights lent to the fair locks of hair cascading down Patrick’s face, resting against the slope of his sharp nose and stirring lazily with every soft exhalation, to be leaving notes for a boy when he could just as easily speak the words without the interruption of a pen and grammatical errors and delayed responses.
No, he corrected himself; fingers stretching to reach yearningly for empty air before clenching into fists, repeating the process a few times over - the letters were the only way. Now that the cycle had begun, it fit perfectly, just like he was sure his thigh would, sliding comfortably between Patrick’s and resting there while he slept.
Peter bit his lip to stifle a groan and replaced his hands over his face, fingertips digging into his temples as if they were striving towards slipping in through his pores and strangling his mind.
God, I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t know where my own words come from, like… like I go into some sort of trance and when I come to, there’s a page filled with ink that was probably better off alone without me coming along and ruining how perfect it had been completely pristine. There’s a strange sort of beauty locked away in empty lines, straight straight straight and cutting across paper that’s white, only not-so-white when you look close enough, and just so simple and honest. It’s a comfort for me to finally be able to wholly understand something for once without the great mysteries of life and my imperfections being dragged into the goddamn mess. I get the tiny fibers that press together to make a sheet of paper. I get the ink. I even get the sounds of far-away chainsaws hacking away at what little’s left of our planet’s rainforests and all that bullshit. I get it. I just don’t know why I insist upon fucking up something so impeccable with words that might as well be the stains from a broken pen, since that’s all they’re worth anyways.
I guess that’s my way of trying to apologize for going off on you a couple paragraphs up, but it didn’t turn out so well. I guess that’s also something so typically me, and I’m sorry for that too. I’m sorry for a lot of things, but just the type of sorry that merits a small frown and some furrowed brows, never the kind that knots up my stomach in true remorse. I’m never sorry enough for that - call it complete lack of capacity for human emotion. Call it Pete Wentz. It’s all one in the same.
Sorry.
Pete.