Drop
Title: Drop
Author:
dirtyreflection
Rating: R for dark themes and ideas
Summary: He could burn down the house. He could end it all, taking Patrick and Hemingway with him.
Author's Notes: I love how crazy Pete is sometimes. It's charming. Completely endearing.
He held the candle in one hand. He could light the whole place on fire. He could drop the candle and let the flames creep across the carpet, devour the curtains, and lick at his feet with it's fiery tongue, lapping away at his tanned, perfectly pedicured feet. He could drop the candle and let his house be engulfed flames, burning to the ground. He could pretend it was World War II and a German aircraft had just bombarded his quaint London home. Or he's in the South during the Civil Rights Movement, and his house has been torched. Or he's in a terrible horror movie and the serial killer is trying to trap him in his own home until he burns to death. Or he was in a secret suicide cult and all the members were in the room with him right then, ready to drop their candles, ready to her them whoosh to life when they hit the carpet with a soft thunk.
But really, he's in his mom's house, just outside of Chicago and the power's gone out. He's all alone in the home, except Hemingway, who was happily petering around somewhere nearby in the dark, and Patrick, who, last he knew, was sitting on the edge of one of his twin beds in his room, just down the hall. He can hear Patrick calling something to him, saying something about hurrying. He just stares at the candle. The flame flickers, dancing for his eyes, playing games with the lighting, casting spooky shadows all around the room.
He blinked. He could drop the candle right now and burn down the house. He could burn down the fucking house. He could end it all, taking Patrick and Hemingway with him. He could only imagine the headlines in the papers the next day. People would be taking about it. How the bassist from Fall Out Boy committed suicide and took his dog and his lead singer with him. They would be known forever. Just now, hitting the peak of their career, and it would all be over. They wouldn't be remembered for their slow decline into nothingness that was sure to be the end of their career. But, rather, they'd go out with a bang. People would never stop talking about them.
Really, when someone dies, everyone only remembers the good things they did, right? Suddenly they're only the most saint-like person in the world. Only good things came from the heart of that person. And, if they did do bad things, they weren't really bad, no, just misguided and wasn't it so tragic how miserable they were? Just misguided. Everyone would sympathize and remember how wonderful they were and how tragic it was.
He could burn down the fucking house. Tear it all down. He could imagine Joe and Andy's reaction to hearing the news. Joe and Andy. They're hearts would be ripped out. Their faces would go white and perhaps they would feel like they couldn't breath. They'd think about how they were loosing their best friends. How their lives, as they knew it, were coming to an end. Everything to come would be different. Nothing would ever be the same. Joe and Andy's careers would come to a screeching halt.
And their families. Their mothers in particular. He could imagine how his mother's arms would wrap around Patrick's mother, both women weeping into the other's shoulder, shuddering uncontrollably because they knew the other women was the only person who really understood what they were feeling. Burying their sons. And Patrick's mother would secretly hate Pete for what he'd done. Burned the fucking house down. But, she wouldn't know that, secretly, his own mother felt the same way.
He could torch the place right fucking now. He could torch it. Patrick wouldn't realize until it's too late. The fire would be between Patrick and his only exit. He would be trapped.
He could end it all.
He felt a little sick to his stomach. Like the flame of the candle was in his stomach, flickering evilly, eating away at the walls of his insides, burning him.
This wasn't the same feeling he had when he swallowed all those pills. It wasn't the same feeling of hopelessness and loneliness. He didn't feel like he needed to end it all right now. He just knew he could. He could just end it all right that moment. But, really, it wouldn't really be an end. It would be an end technically, yes, but a beginning as well. Because everything really begins after you die, right? At least when you're a famous artist. Fifty years from now, people won't wonder is he still alive? They won't because they'll remember that he was the crazy one that burned the fucking house down. It was a beginning.
That's how it is for artists, right? Under appreciated when they're living, but once they've croaked it, they're geniuses, right? You have to die to be a legend. You can't be alive and really be a legend, right?
Burn it all down.
He wanted to let go. He wanted to will himself to drop the candle. He wanted to let it fall and fill the room with smoke and the smell of burnt fabric and flesh. He wanted to have the will to do it.
Do it.
But just as he felt he was going to let go, his mind snapped to.
"Peter."
He looked up. Patrick was leaning in the doorway, eyebrows knotted together in concern, eying Pete in the most intense way.
"Pete. Are you okay?"
Pete blinked. The candle in his hand was dripping wax everywhere. Small streams flowed over his knuckles and down into knots in the carpet. He wondered how long he'd been standing there, staring at the candle. He wondered how long he'd been telling himself to let it slip out of his fingers and onto the floor. He wasn't sure if he'd been there for five minutes or an hour. He could have been there for days and he wouldn't have been sure.
He felt the candle being taken out of his hand and arms wrap around his body, lips pressed lightly against his neck in the most reassuring way. He could feel Patrick's body against his, solid like a rock in Pete's world of unforgiving, unstable water. He felt his face pressed against Patrick's shoulder, eyes closed tight. He wasn't sure if he felt tears. But he wasn't sad, really. It wouldn't call what he felt "sad". Reflective, maybe. Contemplative, perhaps. Somber.
He clung to Patrick, who was fresh and alive and warm.
He knew Patrick had no idea he'd just contemplated killing the two of them. And Hemingway. He knew Patrick had no idea. Despite that, Pete still let Patrick lead him back to his bedroom that looked as though he wasn't a year older than seventeen. He let Patrick set the candle safely on the nightstand and he let Patrick help him undress until they were both standing their in their underwear. He let Patrick press their lips together and he let himself press back, feeling the way tongues slipped together so rhythmically in such a way that was so natural. He let Patrick lay him down on his bed and he let himself curl against Patrick's warm body.
He was glad he hadn't dropped the candle. It cast low, beautiful light in the room. Not the spooky shadows it had earlier. And it flickered to a beat, as though it could hear beautiful music that no one else could hear. It swayed it's hips back and forth and back and forth. It danced for Pete's eyes in a completely different way than it had earlier.
And Patrick's arms wrapped around him again, lips against his again. And they were so warm.
And so alive.
Author:
dirtyreflectionRating: R for dark themes and ideas
Summary: He could burn down the house. He could end it all, taking Patrick and Hemingway with him.
Author's Notes: I love how crazy Pete is sometimes. It's charming. Completely endearing.
He held the candle in one hand. He could light the whole place on fire. He could drop the candle and let the flames creep across the carpet, devour the curtains, and lick at his feet with it's fiery tongue, lapping away at his tanned, perfectly pedicured feet. He could drop the candle and let his house be engulfed flames, burning to the ground. He could pretend it was World War II and a German aircraft had just bombarded his quaint London home. Or he's in the South during the Civil Rights Movement, and his house has been torched. Or he's in a terrible horror movie and the serial killer is trying to trap him in his own home until he burns to death. Or he was in a secret suicide cult and all the members were in the room with him right then, ready to drop their candles, ready to her them whoosh to life when they hit the carpet with a soft thunk.
But really, he's in his mom's house, just outside of Chicago and the power's gone out. He's all alone in the home, except Hemingway, who was happily petering around somewhere nearby in the dark, and Patrick, who, last he knew, was sitting on the edge of one of his twin beds in his room, just down the hall. He can hear Patrick calling something to him, saying something about hurrying. He just stares at the candle. The flame flickers, dancing for his eyes, playing games with the lighting, casting spooky shadows all around the room.
He blinked. He could drop the candle right now and burn down the house. He could burn down the fucking house. He could end it all, taking Patrick and Hemingway with him. He could only imagine the headlines in the papers the next day. People would be taking about it. How the bassist from Fall Out Boy committed suicide and took his dog and his lead singer with him. They would be known forever. Just now, hitting the peak of their career, and it would all be over. They wouldn't be remembered for their slow decline into nothingness that was sure to be the end of their career. But, rather, they'd go out with a bang. People would never stop talking about them.
Really, when someone dies, everyone only remembers the good things they did, right? Suddenly they're only the most saint-like person in the world. Only good things came from the heart of that person. And, if they did do bad things, they weren't really bad, no, just misguided and wasn't it so tragic how miserable they were? Just misguided. Everyone would sympathize and remember how wonderful they were and how tragic it was.
He could burn down the fucking house. Tear it all down. He could imagine Joe and Andy's reaction to hearing the news. Joe and Andy. They're hearts would be ripped out. Their faces would go white and perhaps they would feel like they couldn't breath. They'd think about how they were loosing their best friends. How their lives, as they knew it, were coming to an end. Everything to come would be different. Nothing would ever be the same. Joe and Andy's careers would come to a screeching halt.
And their families. Their mothers in particular. He could imagine how his mother's arms would wrap around Patrick's mother, both women weeping into the other's shoulder, shuddering uncontrollably because they knew the other women was the only person who really understood what they were feeling. Burying their sons. And Patrick's mother would secretly hate Pete for what he'd done. Burned the fucking house down. But, she wouldn't know that, secretly, his own mother felt the same way.
He could torch the place right fucking now. He could torch it. Patrick wouldn't realize until it's too late. The fire would be between Patrick and his only exit. He would be trapped.
He could end it all.
He felt a little sick to his stomach. Like the flame of the candle was in his stomach, flickering evilly, eating away at the walls of his insides, burning him.
This wasn't the same feeling he had when he swallowed all those pills. It wasn't the same feeling of hopelessness and loneliness. He didn't feel like he needed to end it all right now. He just knew he could. He could just end it all right that moment. But, really, it wouldn't really be an end. It would be an end technically, yes, but a beginning as well. Because everything really begins after you die, right? At least when you're a famous artist. Fifty years from now, people won't wonder is he still alive? They won't because they'll remember that he was the crazy one that burned the fucking house down. It was a beginning.
That's how it is for artists, right? Under appreciated when they're living, but once they've croaked it, they're geniuses, right? You have to die to be a legend. You can't be alive and really be a legend, right?
Burn it all down.
He wanted to let go. He wanted to will himself to drop the candle. He wanted to let it fall and fill the room with smoke and the smell of burnt fabric and flesh. He wanted to have the will to do it.
Do it.
But just as he felt he was going to let go, his mind snapped to.
"Peter."
He looked up. Patrick was leaning in the doorway, eyebrows knotted together in concern, eying Pete in the most intense way.
"Pete. Are you okay?"
Pete blinked. The candle in his hand was dripping wax everywhere. Small streams flowed over his knuckles and down into knots in the carpet. He wondered how long he'd been standing there, staring at the candle. He wondered how long he'd been telling himself to let it slip out of his fingers and onto the floor. He wasn't sure if he'd been there for five minutes or an hour. He could have been there for days and he wouldn't have been sure.
He felt the candle being taken out of his hand and arms wrap around his body, lips pressed lightly against his neck in the most reassuring way. He could feel Patrick's body against his, solid like a rock in Pete's world of unforgiving, unstable water. He felt his face pressed against Patrick's shoulder, eyes closed tight. He wasn't sure if he felt tears. But he wasn't sad, really. It wouldn't call what he felt "sad". Reflective, maybe. Contemplative, perhaps. Somber.
He clung to Patrick, who was fresh and alive and warm.
He knew Patrick had no idea he'd just contemplated killing the two of them. And Hemingway. He knew Patrick had no idea. Despite that, Pete still let Patrick lead him back to his bedroom that looked as though he wasn't a year older than seventeen. He let Patrick set the candle safely on the nightstand and he let Patrick help him undress until they were both standing their in their underwear. He let Patrick press their lips together and he let himself press back, feeling the way tongues slipped together so rhythmically in such a way that was so natural. He let Patrick lay him down on his bed and he let himself curl against Patrick's warm body.
He was glad he hadn't dropped the candle. It cast low, beautiful light in the room. Not the spooky shadows it had earlier. And it flickered to a beat, as though it could hear beautiful music that no one else could hear. It swayed it's hips back and forth and back and forth. It danced for Pete's eyes in a completely different way than it had earlier.
And Patrick's arms wrapped around him again, lips against his again. And they were so warm.
And so alive.