Fic: the world owes us nothing
Okay. I started this fic in JUNE OF 2007. That's right. OVER THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO. Jesus. And it's been longer than that since I've posted fic.
Disclaimer: I am no longer an active participant in bandom, but I desperately needed to get something off my hard drive. Maybe now I'll post fic more often than once every two or three years.
Title: the world owes us nothing
Rating: pg-13
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Word Count: 1,392
Warnings: potentially disturbing imagery
Author's notes: This fic makes no sense. *facepalm* I completely realize this. Idea inspired by the june 02 07 we_are_cities prompt. Mood inspired by basingstoke's brilliant dS fic Their Faces Resemble His., which is one of the few fics that's stayed with me despite the fact that I haven't read it in years. Title modified from Joyful Girl by Ani DiFranco. Unbetaed, all mistakes mine.
Also posted on AO3.
They're in L.A. when it happens.
It's 6 a.m. and Pete is sitting on the couch, watching the news, completely still. He hears footsteps behind him, but doesn't turn around.
Patrick sits tiredly next to him, and Pete can hear Patrick's breath catch when he realizes what's going on.
It's a Thursday.
***
"We should leave," Patrick says.
"Okay," Pete says, and Patrick starts rummaging through Pete's kitchen, taking out several brown paper bags and packing up non-perishables. Pete silently begins to help him. After a minute, Patrick gently grabs his wrist while he's picking up a box of mac and cheese, and Pete realizes that his hands are shaking.
"You should go pack up some things," Patrick says.
Pete thinks it'll be different this time -- this isn't a tour, this isn't a vacation -- but it's surprisingly painless to pick through all his stuff, neatly packing what he needs and discarding everything else, a habit of tour life that never really goes away.
Patrick's waiting in the foyer when Pete's done, arms folded, fingers tapping restlessly on one arm. He doesn't have any of his instruments with him, Pete realizes, not even his MacBook and that's when it really hits him.
Pete hesitates, but Patrick looks at him calmly and unwaveringly, so Pete grabs the keys to the Tahoe, which is when Patrick rolls his eyes and says, "We're taking my car."
***
They head for the nearest gas station and buy as much gas as will fit in the trunk. Patrick also rummages through the road maps and buys three: West, Central, and United States. Pete buys five boxes of Twinkies.
"You know that Twinkies aren't actually indestructible, right?" Patrick says, amused.
"Rain on my parade why don't you, Stump," Pete says, grinning. "Maybe I just like them."
Patrick smiles, and doesn't point out the fact that Pete hates Twinkies.
***
Patrick takes the first driving shift. They don't talk about where they're going. Pete unfolds the United States map, tracing the veins of interstate highways and local roads lightly with his finger.
Patrick turns on the radio and absently flips through the stations until he finds one that's broadcasting news, which isn't that hard. Most of them aren't broadcasting anything else.
They agree to stick to the highway, and they don't stop unless they're switching driving shifts.
***
The reports start to get desperate and frantic, and then finally there's nothing but static as they leave Colorado and enter Nebraska.
There's one nerve-wracking moment during one of Pete's shifts when Patrick says in his even, but completely freaked out voice, "Take the next exit and turn off the car." Pete parks on the shoulder beneath the overpass, and Patrick says, "Look at me. Don't look outside," and Pete does, Pete stares at him and sees the sky go dark dark dark around them and looks only at Patrick, whose eyes are wide and fingers are digging into Pete's shoulders. After maybe the longest minute of Pete's life, Patrick relaxes and says, "Okay."
Pete laughs shakily, and says, "You're not, like, an alien or something, are you?" He's only half-joking.
Patrick rolls his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," but he doesn't deny it, and Pete closes his eyes for a second and lets out a long breath, then starts the car and gets back on the highway.
The further they drive the fewer cars they see, until around the Iowa-Illinois border when they're the only ones on the road.
***
The sunset paints the sky incarnadine, and Pete feels vaguely sick.
***
They run out of gas five miles outside of the city, and walk the rest of the way. It's unnaturally quiet, like in those bad horror action movies that Pete used to like, but now -- not so much. It's not like he expected it would be, either. He thought that there'd be smoke or burning buildings, something more chaotic than the stillness that's oppressively surrounding them, something that was appropriate to the fucking monumentality of the situation, because everyone is gone.
Pete can't quite wrap his head around it. Everyone. Everyone is gone. He should feel angry or upset, but mostly he feels empty. He fumbles for Patrick's hand, and Patrick squeezes it tightly.
"You're non-freaking-out-ness is freaking me out, dude."
"I'm sorry."
"You don't look surprised," Pete says softly, and Patrick doesn't, his face only edged with sadness and a little bit of guilt, which Pete thinks he's maybe imagining.
Patrick doesn't answer, just squeezes his hand again and gently tugs Pete into the city.
***
Pete sits curled up on the deserted street, looking at the tall, empty buildings, windows broken and gaping like coffins.
Patrick says, "Okay, we're getting the fuck out of dodge," and pulls Pete to his feet. Pete follows Patrick listlessly, and watches as Patrick tries the doors to several cars, and finally finds an old rusty green pickup truck with the keys behind the sun visor. Patrick makes Pete get in the passenger seat, and then cautiously turns the car on.
They get on the highway, and head south. Pete doesn't look back.
***
Pete dozes off after a while, and wakes up disoriented and groggy. The landscape is nothing but miles and miles of grass.
***
They find an abandoned, almost decrepit cottage in the middle of nowhere. Well, Patrick finds it; Pete is sleeping when he feels the car jerk, and opens his eyes to see Patrick pulling into the dirt driveway of the small cottage.
Pete thinks it's perfect, and for the first time since leaving L.A., he relaxes.
***
"I'm going out," Patrick says. "Don't wait up for me."
Pete makes a noncommittal noise. Patrick ventures out every couple days and comes back with food or other various essentials. Pete has no idea where he gets them, and he doesn't ask.
He hears the car engine start and sits on the couch with the faded paisley print next to the living room window, and watches the clouds drift obliviously by.
***
After one of Patrick's trips, he brings back a torn, half-used notebook, a chewed-up pen, and an out-of-tune guitar.
"Where did you find these?" Pete asks.
"Oh, you know," Patrick says, "Around." He shrugs. He hands Pete the notebook and pen, then goes to his room and closes the door. Pete thinks (hopes) that maybe Patrick will start fiddling around on the guitar. He listens and listens and listens, but he hears nothing except the sound of crickets and the silence stretched between them.
***
Pete can't sleep.
It's not a new problem, but Pete is tired, of feeling nothing, of everything.
He walks as quietly as possible into Patrick's room, and climbs into bed with him.
"Pete?" Patrick mumbles groggily.
"I can't sleep," Pete whispers.
"Hngh," Patrick says, and shifts around, trying to get comfortable again. Pete lies on the bed for a moment before scooching towards Patrick. He carefully wraps his arm around Patrick, and then when Patrick does nothing, he relaxes.
He dreams of nothing.
***
Pete starts sleeping in Patrick's room more and more often. They don't talk about it.
***
Some time later (Pete had stopped keeping track days, weeks, months ago), Pete crawls into Patrick's bed. He's completely naked. Patrick notices.
"Pete?" Patrick asks.
Pete leans forward and kisses him.
"No," Patrick says, jerking back, "Pete --"
"Please," Pete whispers.
Patrick's expression breaks. "I can't."
"Please," Pete says again, barely audible. He reaches for Patrick and Patrick grabs his wrist.
"I can't," he repeats.
Pete closes his eyes for a minute, then gets up and goes to his room.
***
Pete is outside, writing in his battered notebook, when suddenly, it starts to rain. Patrick finds him like that, lying in the grass, eyes closed and feeling the water run down his face.
"You'll get hypothermia," Patrick says, and holds out a hand. Pete grabs it and heaves himself up, but he stays in Patrick's space when he's standing. Patrick is staring at his notebook, at the ink running down the pages, the words blotchy and unrecognizable.
"Patrick," Pete says, and Patrick finally looks up, and Pete knows. "How long?" he asks.
Patrick looks at him and says, "Soon enough."
Pete stares at his face, at his features, drinking them in, drowning in them.
"You are the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me," Pete says softly, and Patrick exhales against his neck, and holds on.
This entry was originally posted at http://unfinishedidea.dreamwidth.org/140721.html.
Disclaimer: I am no longer an active participant in bandom, but I desperately needed to get something off my hard drive. Maybe now I'll post fic more often than once every two or three years.
Title: the world owes us nothing
Rating: pg-13
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Word Count: 1,392
Warnings: potentially disturbing imagery
Author's notes: This fic makes no sense. *facepalm* I completely realize this. Idea inspired by the june 02 07 we_are_cities prompt. Mood inspired by basingstoke's brilliant dS fic Their Faces Resemble His., which is one of the few fics that's stayed with me despite the fact that I haven't read it in years. Title modified from Joyful Girl by Ani DiFranco. Unbetaed, all mistakes mine.
Also posted on AO3.
They're in L.A. when it happens.
It's 6 a.m. and Pete is sitting on the couch, watching the news, completely still. He hears footsteps behind him, but doesn't turn around.
Patrick sits tiredly next to him, and Pete can hear Patrick's breath catch when he realizes what's going on.
It's a Thursday.
***
"We should leave," Patrick says.
"Okay," Pete says, and Patrick starts rummaging through Pete's kitchen, taking out several brown paper bags and packing up non-perishables. Pete silently begins to help him. After a minute, Patrick gently grabs his wrist while he's picking up a box of mac and cheese, and Pete realizes that his hands are shaking.
"You should go pack up some things," Patrick says.
Pete thinks it'll be different this time -- this isn't a tour, this isn't a vacation -- but it's surprisingly painless to pick through all his stuff, neatly packing what he needs and discarding everything else, a habit of tour life that never really goes away.
Patrick's waiting in the foyer when Pete's done, arms folded, fingers tapping restlessly on one arm. He doesn't have any of his instruments with him, Pete realizes, not even his MacBook and that's when it really hits him.
Pete hesitates, but Patrick looks at him calmly and unwaveringly, so Pete grabs the keys to the Tahoe, which is when Patrick rolls his eyes and says, "We're taking my car."
***
They head for the nearest gas station and buy as much gas as will fit in the trunk. Patrick also rummages through the road maps and buys three: West, Central, and United States. Pete buys five boxes of Twinkies.
"You know that Twinkies aren't actually indestructible, right?" Patrick says, amused.
"Rain on my parade why don't you, Stump," Pete says, grinning. "Maybe I just like them."
Patrick smiles, and doesn't point out the fact that Pete hates Twinkies.
***
Patrick takes the first driving shift. They don't talk about where they're going. Pete unfolds the United States map, tracing the veins of interstate highways and local roads lightly with his finger.
Patrick turns on the radio and absently flips through the stations until he finds one that's broadcasting news, which isn't that hard. Most of them aren't broadcasting anything else.
They agree to stick to the highway, and they don't stop unless they're switching driving shifts.
***
The reports start to get desperate and frantic, and then finally there's nothing but static as they leave Colorado and enter Nebraska.
There's one nerve-wracking moment during one of Pete's shifts when Patrick says in his even, but completely freaked out voice, "Take the next exit and turn off the car." Pete parks on the shoulder beneath the overpass, and Patrick says, "Look at me. Don't look outside," and Pete does, Pete stares at him and sees the sky go dark dark dark around them and looks only at Patrick, whose eyes are wide and fingers are digging into Pete's shoulders. After maybe the longest minute of Pete's life, Patrick relaxes and says, "Okay."
Pete laughs shakily, and says, "You're not, like, an alien or something, are you?" He's only half-joking.
Patrick rolls his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," but he doesn't deny it, and Pete closes his eyes for a second and lets out a long breath, then starts the car and gets back on the highway.
The further they drive the fewer cars they see, until around the Iowa-Illinois border when they're the only ones on the road.
***
The sunset paints the sky incarnadine, and Pete feels vaguely sick.
***
They run out of gas five miles outside of the city, and walk the rest of the way. It's unnaturally quiet, like in those bad horror action movies that Pete used to like, but now -- not so much. It's not like he expected it would be, either. He thought that there'd be smoke or burning buildings, something more chaotic than the stillness that's oppressively surrounding them, something that was appropriate to the fucking monumentality of the situation, because everyone is gone.
Pete can't quite wrap his head around it. Everyone. Everyone is gone. He should feel angry or upset, but mostly he feels empty. He fumbles for Patrick's hand, and Patrick squeezes it tightly.
"You're non-freaking-out-ness is freaking me out, dude."
"I'm sorry."
"You don't look surprised," Pete says softly, and Patrick doesn't, his face only edged with sadness and a little bit of guilt, which Pete thinks he's maybe imagining.
Patrick doesn't answer, just squeezes his hand again and gently tugs Pete into the city.
***
Pete sits curled up on the deserted street, looking at the tall, empty buildings, windows broken and gaping like coffins.
Patrick says, "Okay, we're getting the fuck out of dodge," and pulls Pete to his feet. Pete follows Patrick listlessly, and watches as Patrick tries the doors to several cars, and finally finds an old rusty green pickup truck with the keys behind the sun visor. Patrick makes Pete get in the passenger seat, and then cautiously turns the car on.
They get on the highway, and head south. Pete doesn't look back.
***
Pete dozes off after a while, and wakes up disoriented and groggy. The landscape is nothing but miles and miles of grass.
***
They find an abandoned, almost decrepit cottage in the middle of nowhere. Well, Patrick finds it; Pete is sleeping when he feels the car jerk, and opens his eyes to see Patrick pulling into the dirt driveway of the small cottage.
Pete thinks it's perfect, and for the first time since leaving L.A., he relaxes.
***
"I'm going out," Patrick says. "Don't wait up for me."
Pete makes a noncommittal noise. Patrick ventures out every couple days and comes back with food or other various essentials. Pete has no idea where he gets them, and he doesn't ask.
He hears the car engine start and sits on the couch with the faded paisley print next to the living room window, and watches the clouds drift obliviously by.
***
After one of Patrick's trips, he brings back a torn, half-used notebook, a chewed-up pen, and an out-of-tune guitar.
"Where did you find these?" Pete asks.
"Oh, you know," Patrick says, "Around." He shrugs. He hands Pete the notebook and pen, then goes to his room and closes the door. Pete thinks (hopes) that maybe Patrick will start fiddling around on the guitar. He listens and listens and listens, but he hears nothing except the sound of crickets and the silence stretched between them.
***
Pete can't sleep.
It's not a new problem, but Pete is tired, of feeling nothing, of everything.
He walks as quietly as possible into Patrick's room, and climbs into bed with him.
"Pete?" Patrick mumbles groggily.
"I can't sleep," Pete whispers.
"Hngh," Patrick says, and shifts around, trying to get comfortable again. Pete lies on the bed for a moment before scooching towards Patrick. He carefully wraps his arm around Patrick, and then when Patrick does nothing, he relaxes.
He dreams of nothing.
***
Pete starts sleeping in Patrick's room more and more often. They don't talk about it.
***
Some time later (Pete had stopped keeping track days, weeks, months ago), Pete crawls into Patrick's bed. He's completely naked. Patrick notices.
"Pete?" Patrick asks.
Pete leans forward and kisses him.
"No," Patrick says, jerking back, "Pete --"
"Please," Pete whispers.
Patrick's expression breaks. "I can't."
"Please," Pete says again, barely audible. He reaches for Patrick and Patrick grabs his wrist.
"I can't," he repeats.
Pete closes his eyes for a minute, then gets up and goes to his room.
***
Pete is outside, writing in his battered notebook, when suddenly, it starts to rain. Patrick finds him like that, lying in the grass, eyes closed and feeling the water run down his face.
"You'll get hypothermia," Patrick says, and holds out a hand. Pete grabs it and heaves himself up, but he stays in Patrick's space when he's standing. Patrick is staring at his notebook, at the ink running down the pages, the words blotchy and unrecognizable.
"Patrick," Pete says, and Patrick finally looks up, and Pete knows. "How long?" he asks.
Patrick looks at him and says, "Soon enough."
Pete stares at his face, at his features, drinking them in, drowning in them.
"You are the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me," Pete says softly, and Patrick exhales against his neck, and holds on.
This entry was originally posted at http://unfinishedidea.dreamwidth.org/140721.html.