(no subject)
Title: Music&&lyrics
Pairing: Pete/Patrick.
Summary: Patrick has always had music inside his head, Pete is the only one who can stop it long enough for it to make sense.
He'd always had music inside his head, ever since he picked up his first guitar. His fingers had slipped down onto the neck every other note, nervously, and the chords and the tune and melody all pounded like a fitful headache between his ears. It had been a mess, it had sounded like a complete mess, but to him it had been the most beautiful mess he'd ever heard. And he hadn't stopped since.
Sometimes, when he sat backstage, cramped up against wall corners or with his back pressing painfully into the edge of the sofa, he would sit and talk to people who he didn't think ever got it. They would compliment him, compliment them, and he'd nod along whilst they talked so passionately about something they barely knew. The way they tapped out a drumbeat against the table as they spoke made his throat tighten and his fingers clench. They would talk to Pete and Andy and Joe and they'd laugh, look at him, but still laugh as though it was the best joke in the world.
It made him think then, it made him realise, and pity, and fear; they didn't hear the echo of rhythm in everything they did, or the low bass tones in heavy breathing. He wondered how people lived without it, and smiled as he realised how lucky he was.
The music had come first, the brilliant backbeat whispering between every thought. He'd been out for coffee with his mom when the thick whirring of the cappucino machine had struck him like off-key drums. The voices always followed, but stuck in the background, because the words never fit. And then he met Pete, with a voice that rolled right over top of the melodies, slotted behind the frantic guitar and made sense.
Whenever anyone else spoke and Pete was in the room, he never heard a word.
"You're in love with him," Andy had said to him one day, and it was like a whimper clouding his eyes, "You're in love with him."
They were in the breakfast hall of an old motel, just off the highway. Joe was helping himself to eggs and Pete had been up, tearing himself apart, until the sunlight chased the shadows across the floor and he'd collapsed in a sea full of deep blue pills and scattered blankets.
Patrick bit his lip and stared aimlessly past Andy's shoulder.
"It's not him," he hissed, under his breath, like it was a great secret, "It's --"
"You're in love with him." Andy repeated, more firmly and he sighed.
It was spinning around inside him, the brazen lullaby that was so overpowering he couldn't think sometimes. It drowned him, it pulled him under, and conversation always took a backseat then. The music was always louder when Pete wasn't around to hush it with all the wrong answers in the right places. And he could never think of what to say to explain it away.
"It's the music," he whispered over top of a glass of orange juice, "It won't stop."
Andy lowered his glasses and nodded. He folded his arms steadily against the table and Joe slammed a stumbling plate beside them.
He never saw Pete until they were back on the road and a hand pressed into his shoulder quietly. A long strip of trees and dirt and sign posts caught the flicker of movement outside the window, if he pushed the curtains back just enough. The rain was barely there and the way it hit the ground and roared beneath the engine made his chest ache.
"You okay?" Pete asked as they jumbled past a service station.
He thought about just saying yes and letting them carry on but the side of his jaw barely hit Pete's fingers and he smiled.
"The music --" he murmured and they were closer then, knees knocking together like the clatter of a cynlinder in a smoky club.
Neither of them said anything again until Pete's lips were pressed right against his ear. And his breath knotted itself tightly around him like static.
"Inside your head?" Pete whispered and their eyes locked; his lips curved at the corners into a gentle quip and he nodded, "Me too."
The wheels jutted them forward over speed bumps and screams of indignation glared through the door from the other room. But when Pete's lips met his like silhouettes against the ground, it all stopped. And for a moment, just a moment, he wondered if that was the best music of all.
{"Still there?" Pete asked. And Patrick stilled against him, his elbows sharp against the most awkward angles.
"You make it stop." he breathed into his neck.
But Pete shook his head.
"I just give it a voice."}
Pairing: Pete/Patrick.
Summary: Patrick has always had music inside his head, Pete is the only one who can stop it long enough for it to make sense.
He'd always had music inside his head, ever since he picked up his first guitar. His fingers had slipped down onto the neck every other note, nervously, and the chords and the tune and melody all pounded like a fitful headache between his ears. It had been a mess, it had sounded like a complete mess, but to him it had been the most beautiful mess he'd ever heard. And he hadn't stopped since.
Sometimes, when he sat backstage, cramped up against wall corners or with his back pressing painfully into the edge of the sofa, he would sit and talk to people who he didn't think ever got it. They would compliment him, compliment them, and he'd nod along whilst they talked so passionately about something they barely knew. The way they tapped out a drumbeat against the table as they spoke made his throat tighten and his fingers clench. They would talk to Pete and Andy and Joe and they'd laugh, look at him, but still laugh as though it was the best joke in the world.
It made him think then, it made him realise, and pity, and fear; they didn't hear the echo of rhythm in everything they did, or the low bass tones in heavy breathing. He wondered how people lived without it, and smiled as he realised how lucky he was.
The music had come first, the brilliant backbeat whispering between every thought. He'd been out for coffee with his mom when the thick whirring of the cappucino machine had struck him like off-key drums. The voices always followed, but stuck in the background, because the words never fit. And then he met Pete, with a voice that rolled right over top of the melodies, slotted behind the frantic guitar and made sense.
Whenever anyone else spoke and Pete was in the room, he never heard a word.
"You're in love with him," Andy had said to him one day, and it was like a whimper clouding his eyes, "You're in love with him."
They were in the breakfast hall of an old motel, just off the highway. Joe was helping himself to eggs and Pete had been up, tearing himself apart, until the sunlight chased the shadows across the floor and he'd collapsed in a sea full of deep blue pills and scattered blankets.
Patrick bit his lip and stared aimlessly past Andy's shoulder.
"It's not him," he hissed, under his breath, like it was a great secret, "It's --"
"You're in love with him." Andy repeated, more firmly and he sighed.
It was spinning around inside him, the brazen lullaby that was so overpowering he couldn't think sometimes. It drowned him, it pulled him under, and conversation always took a backseat then. The music was always louder when Pete wasn't around to hush it with all the wrong answers in the right places. And he could never think of what to say to explain it away.
"It's the music," he whispered over top of a glass of orange juice, "It won't stop."
Andy lowered his glasses and nodded. He folded his arms steadily against the table and Joe slammed a stumbling plate beside them.
He never saw Pete until they were back on the road and a hand pressed into his shoulder quietly. A long strip of trees and dirt and sign posts caught the flicker of movement outside the window, if he pushed the curtains back just enough. The rain was barely there and the way it hit the ground and roared beneath the engine made his chest ache.
"You okay?" Pete asked as they jumbled past a service station.
He thought about just saying yes and letting them carry on but the side of his jaw barely hit Pete's fingers and he smiled.
"The music --" he murmured and they were closer then, knees knocking together like the clatter of a cynlinder in a smoky club.
Neither of them said anything again until Pete's lips were pressed right against his ear. And his breath knotted itself tightly around him like static.
"Inside your head?" Pete whispered and their eyes locked; his lips curved at the corners into a gentle quip and he nodded, "Me too."
The wheels jutted them forward over speed bumps and screams of indignation glared through the door from the other room. But when Pete's lips met his like silhouettes against the ground, it all stopped. And for a moment, just a moment, he wondered if that was the best music of all.
{"Still there?" Pete asked. And Patrick stilled against him, his elbows sharp against the most awkward angles.
"You make it stop." he breathed into his neck.
But Pete shook his head.
"I just give it a voice."}