Title: Parallel
Author:
opensound
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: Patrick hates fitting them into categories, no matter how apt they are. But he hates the category he ends up in even more.
Notes: Don't own, didn't happen, &etc. First stab at writing FOB - hope I've done enough research to get this right. =)
It's really quite unlike Patrick to be nervous, or to have bad dreams. Of course he has the usual nightmares - falling, wandering around naked (and Pete trailing and laughing, cracking jokes about his dick going with his last name), and the typical performer's dream where he gets up onstage and his voice is shattered. But he doesn't have dreams. Not the kind in books, where people wake up with their eyes fuzzy, imagining all they ever desired.
Or the exact opposite. The dreams Pete used to have, where he'd wake up drenched in sweat and believe he was drowning; the kind of dream that tore ragged slashes along his heart. No, those aren't the kind of dreams Patrick usually has.
But there they are: he'll wake up and be refreshed, and go about his day as normal. And then a sudden brush of Pete's sleeve against his wrist will remind him of the hours he spent chasing monsters through his subconscious.
"Pete," he'll say, "I had the most screwed up dream ever, but seriously - "
"Fucking wuss," Pete will say, flashing him that obnoxious grin. "Let me guess, you dreamed you were a midget? Oh - wait, that wasn't a dream, my bad."
And Patrick will give his usual fuck you, I hate you, shut up, and he'll laugh and it's kind of funny, in the way Pete is never quite hilarious but usually more funny than the average guy. But then he's a little more everything. A little more flamboyant, more crazy, more attractive and tan and in-your-face-fucked-up. His smiles are that fraction bigger. When he holds up his bass onstage, licks it, his tongue is that bit more obscene.
Patrick really hates to slot them into archetypes, but that's how it's always been. Pete is that much more and Patrick is that much less, and that's how it goes. Easy as that. Patrick is balding and kind of chubby - the size of a whale, if you ask Pete. And Pete can get away with streaks of red in his hair, obscenely tight jeans, because he has the hips that Patrick could if they didn't get lost in the flesh at his waist.
It isn't even that Patrick minds the teasing. No, that's a comfort; it's all hyperbole. Exaggerated. Like every other damn thing about Pete. What he minds is the truth. The way Pete flips out at anyone who dares say the same things, because from strangers it's bold-faced and blatant, the truth. It is real and unavoidable. Patrick is just not that attractive and probably not that talented either and for twenty-one years now he's gotten by on being intelligent and sweet. Lots of people get by on less.
Except four years ago he met Pete, and they fell so perfectly into their roles, and that changed everything.
Patrick knows the impression he made: shorts (they were perfectly fine, the socks were not too high) and an argyle sweater (it was comfortable) and his big fucking geeky glasses (they let him see, for God's sake). And Pete, banging the shit out of his bass, already saying, "Hey, Pat? Can I call you Pat?" - the answer was a resounding no, but he didn't notice - "You know you're kind of shaped like a lunchbox? No, really, all short and wide and clunky. Can I call you Lunchbox?"
And of course Joe had to pick up on it, cracking jokes about it for the rest of the year. During lunch he'd ask innocently why Patrick was buying his lunch, not bringing it, just to set him off. Of course Patrick fell for it every time - looked up and asked, why? And Joe would grin and say, "Don't you have a lunchbox?" Of course Patrick would get upset, face flushed red, insisting he shut up, it's not funny. But by then his protests were just pathetic.
He fell for it, because that's what guys like him do. Set themselves up for it.
And that day, they'd played a song together, and there was that connection - the moment Pete describes as "we knew we'd be friends". But Patrick didn't know. He doesn't have that same kind of fierce belief Pete does. He believes in God, kind of, maybe as a vague power; Pete says the word revenge and gets fire in his eyes like he is God himself. How could two people like that be friends? Patrick didn't feel it. He had an idea, but it wasn't fact. They were just two entirely different people. It couldn't work.
Those archetypes, the Quiet One and the Crazy One, Patrick really hates them. Life is not a series of stereotypes. He knows this best of all - has seen Pete crying over Lifetime movies and threatening to beat the shit out of people who insult him. Has seen Pete nearly blow up his own hand with firecrackers, and then fall to pieces worrying over a scrape on his girlfriend's knee, because that's how Pete does things.
Patrick could maybe say something about how Pete really lives, and Patrick just goes on by, but that's too cliche. Or too close to the truth. Either one works.
And anyway, it's not like he wants to live the way Pete does - all fireworks and drama, one big event after another. That'd just be so much energy. When Pete says he's done something immensely stupid - he once turned a hotel hallway into a giant water slide - it just confuses Patrick. Why put all that time into it? It's dangerous and could get them in serious trouble and who the fuck would want to do that, just for a few minutes of mild fun? It's so much easier to just watch bad TV all night, go to sleep at ten or eleven.
And with all this piling up behind them, there's no reason they should even be friends anymore. But they are.
Patrick thinks sometimes it's the way Pete always asks if he wants to join in anyway - just in case. The way he tugs Patrick's hand and gives him that same fucking cheesy grin, eyebrows raised hopefully. And no matter how many times Patrick says, "You're a complete moron," Pete... just doesn't stop asking. It's like a fragment of a tape played on loop, his eyes always exactly the same.
Stupid as it is, sometimes Patrick even wants to say yes.
And that's how those archetypes work, isn't it? The wild one pulls the quiet one out of his shell, and the quiet one calms the wild one. Or something like that. But Patrick's still short and overweight and Pete still tells him to stop being such a damn pussy. And it's not like Patrick can offer any comfort. Not like he can begin to imagine the colorful, sharp-fanged monsters living in the corridors of Pete's brain. Any words he says will only become fodder for Pete's jokes, and nothing more; no real empathy will hide behind the stuttered phrases. Not in a way Pete can understand.
But Pete calms him, in his own way. Before their first TV show, it was Pete who stole his hat, saying, "Hey, lunchbox, feel like showing off your bald spots?"
Patrick chased him around backstage, tripping over wires and sound equipment. They blew through the dressing rooms, Pete whooping and holding it in his outstretched arm. Patrick nearly cried in frustration - a fact Pete picked up on in seconds - but just before they went on, Pete slapped the hat back on him. He winked and held his fingers like a gun, shooting Patrick in the heart, and when they went out Patrick still wanted to throw up. But he didn't and that was more than enough.
That's how it's always been. If Patrick had real dreams more often - the kind where he sees something beautiful and wakes up sobbing because it isn't there - he'd be dreaming of Pete comforting him. That one moment when he picked up a kernel of love, dropped on the ground behind Pete, and it rested in the palm of his hand shining gold.
It was when they first suggested Patrick start playing guitar too, along with singing; it had been almost spur-of-the-moment. Patrick was lying on Andy's couch and Joe dropped a spare guitar on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him; Pete fell down laughing, one hand clutched over his stomach. Like he was feeling sympathy pains - but of course he wasn't.
"Come on," Joe said, "We're really going to need this."
"I don't - I mean - I can't, you know. Play. I'm really not good. At all." Patrick turned towards the couch, tugging the brim of his hat over his face.
The guitar was lifted away from him, and a moment later, Pete came hurtling onto him - landing on his side, making Patrick suck in his breath. "C'mon!" He tugged Patrick's hat away, beaming stupidly. "Do it, Stump. Do it or I'll fucking smash your face in." He was straddling Patrick's waist and laughing, and Patrick could feel it echo down into his guts, tugging at them like fishing wire wrapped around in a knot.
"I barely know any chords - "
"We'll teach you, asshole! It's like you don't know anything." Pete's voice was raucous, and when he leaned down to punch Patrick's neck, he could feel his breath. He tried to shove Pete off but it was a miserable failure of an effort. "Come on. Say you'll do it."
"I really don't think I can learn, get off, I really really hate you."
"You can so do it," Pete said, and he wrapped his hands around Patrick's throat like he'd choke him. But he didn't and there it was, in Patrick's hands: love. And it was probably the stupidest feeling he'd ever felt, just a split second of insanity and wanting and all the things that ricochet through Pete a thousand times a minute.
But for a second it wasn't just Pete's, and that's what Patrick wants to dream about.
Author:
opensoundRating: PG-13 for language
Summary: Patrick hates fitting them into categories, no matter how apt they are. But he hates the category he ends up in even more.
Notes: Don't own, didn't happen, &etc. First stab at writing FOB - hope I've done enough research to get this right. =)
It's really quite unlike Patrick to be nervous, or to have bad dreams. Of course he has the usual nightmares - falling, wandering around naked (and Pete trailing and laughing, cracking jokes about his dick going with his last name), and the typical performer's dream where he gets up onstage and his voice is shattered. But he doesn't have dreams. Not the kind in books, where people wake up with their eyes fuzzy, imagining all they ever desired.
Or the exact opposite. The dreams Pete used to have, where he'd wake up drenched in sweat and believe he was drowning; the kind of dream that tore ragged slashes along his heart. No, those aren't the kind of dreams Patrick usually has.
But there they are: he'll wake up and be refreshed, and go about his day as normal. And then a sudden brush of Pete's sleeve against his wrist will remind him of the hours he spent chasing monsters through his subconscious.
"Pete," he'll say, "I had the most screwed up dream ever, but seriously - "
"Fucking wuss," Pete will say, flashing him that obnoxious grin. "Let me guess, you dreamed you were a midget? Oh - wait, that wasn't a dream, my bad."
And Patrick will give his usual fuck you, I hate you, shut up, and he'll laugh and it's kind of funny, in the way Pete is never quite hilarious but usually more funny than the average guy. But then he's a little more everything. A little more flamboyant, more crazy, more attractive and tan and in-your-face-fucked-up. His smiles are that fraction bigger. When he holds up his bass onstage, licks it, his tongue is that bit more obscene.
Patrick really hates to slot them into archetypes, but that's how it's always been. Pete is that much more and Patrick is that much less, and that's how it goes. Easy as that. Patrick is balding and kind of chubby - the size of a whale, if you ask Pete. And Pete can get away with streaks of red in his hair, obscenely tight jeans, because he has the hips that Patrick could if they didn't get lost in the flesh at his waist.
It isn't even that Patrick minds the teasing. No, that's a comfort; it's all hyperbole. Exaggerated. Like every other damn thing about Pete. What he minds is the truth. The way Pete flips out at anyone who dares say the same things, because from strangers it's bold-faced and blatant, the truth. It is real and unavoidable. Patrick is just not that attractive and probably not that talented either and for twenty-one years now he's gotten by on being intelligent and sweet. Lots of people get by on less.
Except four years ago he met Pete, and they fell so perfectly into their roles, and that changed everything.
Patrick knows the impression he made: shorts (they were perfectly fine, the socks were not too high) and an argyle sweater (it was comfortable) and his big fucking geeky glasses (they let him see, for God's sake). And Pete, banging the shit out of his bass, already saying, "Hey, Pat? Can I call you Pat?" - the answer was a resounding no, but he didn't notice - "You know you're kind of shaped like a lunchbox? No, really, all short and wide and clunky. Can I call you Lunchbox?"
And of course Joe had to pick up on it, cracking jokes about it for the rest of the year. During lunch he'd ask innocently why Patrick was buying his lunch, not bringing it, just to set him off. Of course Patrick fell for it every time - looked up and asked, why? And Joe would grin and say, "Don't you have a lunchbox?" Of course Patrick would get upset, face flushed red, insisting he shut up, it's not funny. But by then his protests were just pathetic.
He fell for it, because that's what guys like him do. Set themselves up for it.
And that day, they'd played a song together, and there was that connection - the moment Pete describes as "we knew we'd be friends". But Patrick didn't know. He doesn't have that same kind of fierce belief Pete does. He believes in God, kind of, maybe as a vague power; Pete says the word revenge and gets fire in his eyes like he is God himself. How could two people like that be friends? Patrick didn't feel it. He had an idea, but it wasn't fact. They were just two entirely different people. It couldn't work.
Those archetypes, the Quiet One and the Crazy One, Patrick really hates them. Life is not a series of stereotypes. He knows this best of all - has seen Pete crying over Lifetime movies and threatening to beat the shit out of people who insult him. Has seen Pete nearly blow up his own hand with firecrackers, and then fall to pieces worrying over a scrape on his girlfriend's knee, because that's how Pete does things.
Patrick could maybe say something about how Pete really lives, and Patrick just goes on by, but that's too cliche. Or too close to the truth. Either one works.
And anyway, it's not like he wants to live the way Pete does - all fireworks and drama, one big event after another. That'd just be so much energy. When Pete says he's done something immensely stupid - he once turned a hotel hallway into a giant water slide - it just confuses Patrick. Why put all that time into it? It's dangerous and could get them in serious trouble and who the fuck would want to do that, just for a few minutes of mild fun? It's so much easier to just watch bad TV all night, go to sleep at ten or eleven.
And with all this piling up behind them, there's no reason they should even be friends anymore. But they are.
Patrick thinks sometimes it's the way Pete always asks if he wants to join in anyway - just in case. The way he tugs Patrick's hand and gives him that same fucking cheesy grin, eyebrows raised hopefully. And no matter how many times Patrick says, "You're a complete moron," Pete... just doesn't stop asking. It's like a fragment of a tape played on loop, his eyes always exactly the same.
Stupid as it is, sometimes Patrick even wants to say yes.
And that's how those archetypes work, isn't it? The wild one pulls the quiet one out of his shell, and the quiet one calms the wild one. Or something like that. But Patrick's still short and overweight and Pete still tells him to stop being such a damn pussy. And it's not like Patrick can offer any comfort. Not like he can begin to imagine the colorful, sharp-fanged monsters living in the corridors of Pete's brain. Any words he says will only become fodder for Pete's jokes, and nothing more; no real empathy will hide behind the stuttered phrases. Not in a way Pete can understand.
But Pete calms him, in his own way. Before their first TV show, it was Pete who stole his hat, saying, "Hey, lunchbox, feel like showing off your bald spots?"
Patrick chased him around backstage, tripping over wires and sound equipment. They blew through the dressing rooms, Pete whooping and holding it in his outstretched arm. Patrick nearly cried in frustration - a fact Pete picked up on in seconds - but just before they went on, Pete slapped the hat back on him. He winked and held his fingers like a gun, shooting Patrick in the heart, and when they went out Patrick still wanted to throw up. But he didn't and that was more than enough.
That's how it's always been. If Patrick had real dreams more often - the kind where he sees something beautiful and wakes up sobbing because it isn't there - he'd be dreaming of Pete comforting him. That one moment when he picked up a kernel of love, dropped on the ground behind Pete, and it rested in the palm of his hand shining gold.
It was when they first suggested Patrick start playing guitar too, along with singing; it had been almost spur-of-the-moment. Patrick was lying on Andy's couch and Joe dropped a spare guitar on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him; Pete fell down laughing, one hand clutched over his stomach. Like he was feeling sympathy pains - but of course he wasn't.
"Come on," Joe said, "We're really going to need this."
"I don't - I mean - I can't, you know. Play. I'm really not good. At all." Patrick turned towards the couch, tugging the brim of his hat over his face.
The guitar was lifted away from him, and a moment later, Pete came hurtling onto him - landing on his side, making Patrick suck in his breath. "C'mon!" He tugged Patrick's hat away, beaming stupidly. "Do it, Stump. Do it or I'll fucking smash your face in." He was straddling Patrick's waist and laughing, and Patrick could feel it echo down into his guts, tugging at them like fishing wire wrapped around in a knot.
"I barely know any chords - "
"We'll teach you, asshole! It's like you don't know anything." Pete's voice was raucous, and when he leaned down to punch Patrick's neck, he could feel his breath. He tried to shove Pete off but it was a miserable failure of an effort. "Come on. Say you'll do it."
"I really don't think I can learn, get off, I really really hate you."
"You can so do it," Pete said, and he wrapped his hands around Patrick's throat like he'd choke him. But he didn't and there it was, in Patrick's hands: love. And it was probably the stupidest feeling he'd ever felt, just a split second of insanity and wanting and all the things that ricochet through Pete a thousand times a minute.
But for a second it wasn't just Pete's, and that's what Patrick wants to dream about.