togetherforever
Title: Togetherforever
Rating: PG-13 (eff-bomb)
Summary: "Pete doesn't really know why, but somewhere between LA and Phoenix he is pretty sure that he can no longer breathe."
Author: Me :)
Author's Notes: I wrote this tonight out of boredom...my second PXP
Pete doesn’t really know why, but somewhere between Los Angles and Phoenix he is pretty sure (he thinks something like 98% with room for error) that he can no longer breathe. Hood up, black strands of hair resting over one eye, Pete starts to believe that maybe, just maybe, this is the end. Between deep breathes (some shaky and lacking real air), Pete stumbles through the bus, bunks to kitchen, and grabs three napkins and a pen.
On Napkin One, Pete scribbles: The End?
Napkin Two: The Beginning of the End?
Napkin Three: The End of the Beginning?
With the napkins spread out on the kitchen table (sequential order, of course), Pete begins writing everything to nothing, yesterday to 1996, Chicago to LA, best friends to ex-friends. In the end (always the end, Pete thinks), each napkin says a lot of absolutely nothing and a little of everything (It’s always between having it all and having nothing, he thinks).
Somewhere between Los Angeles and Phoenix, Pete insists that the bus be pulled over. He stumbles out of it (napkins left forgotten on the table) and flops down into the desert sand (Cool in the early morning. How odd, Pete thinks, because it IS the desert and that just doesn’t seem right). Arms and legs stretched out (like a snow angel without the snow and very little trace of anything angelic), Pete is only thinking in terms of this must be The End, The End, The End, The End. Pete takes a deep breath (or something like a breath) and murmurs on and on about shitty dreadlocks, soccer stars, Chris, Arma, Jeanae, best friends, ex-loves, bus bunks, nude pictures, the good old day, or maybe just the old days, Andy, Joe, Patrick, Patrick, Patrick and Patrick.
The sun slowly rising over the sand dunes, drenching gold into the tan and creating a shimmer that appears to creep up on Pete, he wonders why
A) he always breaks down in the worst places
B) who wears a God damn hoodie in summer
C) who wears a God damn hoodie in the desert and
4) why the West coast never seems to be all that magical?
(Oh wait, Pete thinks, it goes A, B, C, D or 1,2,3,4. Mixing and matching is for socks or t-shirt pant combinations dumb ass. Not lists. Not thoughts. Not lists. Not thoughts.)
Sometime around close to insanity and too far gone, Patrick wakes up alone and follows Pete’s trail (one missing sock to a lonely Sidekick to Napkin One, Two, Three and on to the door, then stairs, then sand, then Pete). By the time Patrick finds Pete, Pete can’t even decide why today has to be The End. Sweating under a t-shirt (with Hemmy on it. How cute, Pete thinks) and that stupid hoodie with fur (fucking fur, he say), thoughts are so jumbled and the air is so thick that Patrick leaning over Pete looks like those dreams where an Angel appears from the sky (So fucking cliché, Pete thinks. Always am).
Pete doesn’t really know why, but somewhere between Los Angeles and Phoenix he is pretty sure that he can no longer breathe. When Patrick whispers, Hey baby, and gives a soft smile, Pete is positive (100% now. It has to be 100%) that if there was a chance he could breathe, Patrick just fucking ruined it.
Grabbing Pete’s hands, Patrick pulls him up and wraps his arms around Pete’s waist whispering that today can’t be the end because it’s the beginning really and it wouldn’t make sense any other way. Patrick then pulls Napkin One from his pocket and rips it. Napkin Two and rips it. Napkin Three and rips it.
Please, Patrick leans into Pete’s ear and begs, can I be your beginning? Pete just smiles, takes a deep breath (air actually filtering into his lungs. Finally, Pete thinks, finally) and grabs hold of Patrick’s left hand with his left hand (only slightly awkward, he thinks) and listens for the small clink that each band makes.
Somewhere between Los Angeles and Phoenix, Pete realizes that maybe there is no real end or beginning because there’s always a before and an after, a pre and a post. Pete leans in and brushes his lips against Patrick’s cheek, slowly moving them to his ear where he says that, Alright, alright, I’ve finally figured this out. Today is the end. The end of Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III and the end of Patrick Martin Stumph. Today is the beginning. Today is THE fucking beginning of PeteandPatricktogetherforever.
Pete can feel Patrick’s cheeks rise beneath his lips before Patrick lets out a small puff of air and repeats togetherforever togetherforever togetherforfuckingever.
Rating: PG-13 (eff-bomb)
Summary: "Pete doesn't really know why, but somewhere between LA and Phoenix he is pretty sure that he can no longer breathe."
Author: Me :)
Author's Notes: I wrote this tonight out of boredom...my second PXP
Pete doesn’t really know why, but somewhere between Los Angles and Phoenix he is pretty sure (he thinks something like 98% with room for error) that he can no longer breathe. Hood up, black strands of hair resting over one eye, Pete starts to believe that maybe, just maybe, this is the end. Between deep breathes (some shaky and lacking real air), Pete stumbles through the bus, bunks to kitchen, and grabs three napkins and a pen.
On Napkin One, Pete scribbles: The End?
Napkin Two: The Beginning of the End?
Napkin Three: The End of the Beginning?
With the napkins spread out on the kitchen table (sequential order, of course), Pete begins writing everything to nothing, yesterday to 1996, Chicago to LA, best friends to ex-friends. In the end (always the end, Pete thinks), each napkin says a lot of absolutely nothing and a little of everything (It’s always between having it all and having nothing, he thinks).
Somewhere between Los Angeles and Phoenix, Pete insists that the bus be pulled over. He stumbles out of it (napkins left forgotten on the table) and flops down into the desert sand (Cool in the early morning. How odd, Pete thinks, because it IS the desert and that just doesn’t seem right). Arms and legs stretched out (like a snow angel without the snow and very little trace of anything angelic), Pete is only thinking in terms of this must be The End, The End, The End, The End. Pete takes a deep breath (or something like a breath) and murmurs on and on about shitty dreadlocks, soccer stars, Chris, Arma, Jeanae, best friends, ex-loves, bus bunks, nude pictures, the good old day, or maybe just the old days, Andy, Joe, Patrick, Patrick, Patrick and Patrick.
The sun slowly rising over the sand dunes, drenching gold into the tan and creating a shimmer that appears to creep up on Pete, he wonders why
A) he always breaks down in the worst places
B) who wears a God damn hoodie in summer
C) who wears a God damn hoodie in the desert and
4) why the West coast never seems to be all that magical?
(Oh wait, Pete thinks, it goes A, B, C, D or 1,2,3,4. Mixing and matching is for socks or t-shirt pant combinations dumb ass. Not lists. Not thoughts. Not lists. Not thoughts.)
Sometime around close to insanity and too far gone, Patrick wakes up alone and follows Pete’s trail (one missing sock to a lonely Sidekick to Napkin One, Two, Three and on to the door, then stairs, then sand, then Pete). By the time Patrick finds Pete, Pete can’t even decide why today has to be The End. Sweating under a t-shirt (with Hemmy on it. How cute, Pete thinks) and that stupid hoodie with fur (fucking fur, he say), thoughts are so jumbled and the air is so thick that Patrick leaning over Pete looks like those dreams where an Angel appears from the sky (So fucking cliché, Pete thinks. Always am).
Pete doesn’t really know why, but somewhere between Los Angeles and Phoenix he is pretty sure that he can no longer breathe. When Patrick whispers, Hey baby, and gives a soft smile, Pete is positive (100% now. It has to be 100%) that if there was a chance he could breathe, Patrick just fucking ruined it.
Grabbing Pete’s hands, Patrick pulls him up and wraps his arms around Pete’s waist whispering that today can’t be the end because it’s the beginning really and it wouldn’t make sense any other way. Patrick then pulls Napkin One from his pocket and rips it. Napkin Two and rips it. Napkin Three and rips it.
Please, Patrick leans into Pete’s ear and begs, can I be your beginning? Pete just smiles, takes a deep breath (air actually filtering into his lungs. Finally, Pete thinks, finally) and grabs hold of Patrick’s left hand with his left hand (only slightly awkward, he thinks) and listens for the small clink that each band makes.
Somewhere between Los Angeles and Phoenix, Pete realizes that maybe there is no real end or beginning because there’s always a before and an after, a pre and a post. Pete leans in and brushes his lips against Patrick’s cheek, slowly moving them to his ear where he says that, Alright, alright, I’ve finally figured this out. Today is the end. The end of Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III and the end of Patrick Martin Stumph. Today is the beginning. Today is THE fucking beginning of PeteandPatricktogetherforever.
Pete can feel Patrick’s cheeks rise beneath his lips before Patrick lets out a small puff of air and repeats togetherforever togetherforever togetherforfuckingever.