Low Fidelity
Title: Low Fidelity
Author:
megyal
Rating: NC-17
Summary: ...Patrick has made up his mind and he could be the Lover but he will be the only one.
A/N: Written for a prompt byhayden
"...I always had one foot out the door, and that prevented me from doing a lot of things, like thinking about my future and... I guess it made more sense to commit to nothing, keep my options open. And that's suicide. By tiny, tiny increments."
-Rob in "High Fidelity"
"Can I come over?" Pete's voice is low and Patrick knows it's because he doesn't want Jeanae to hear, but why not? They're just friends, right? Why would they have anything to hide? Yeah.
"Can you?" Patrick asks, just as low, even slower because if Pete doesn't know that this ballgame is totally his, he's a fucking ass.
There's a long solid silence, dark and choking.
"Yeah. Sure, I can."
It's been this way for awhile. Patrick hates the phrase down low, but, would you look at that, he's down and it's pretty fucking low. Like, dirt on the bottom of one's shoes low. Or lower. When he finds an appropriate analogy, he'll be sure to catalogue it for further use.
But he bustles around his blank house like he has something to clean, like he has something to sweep out and dust away, even though Pete isn't here as yet. When Pete comes in, he'll seem to float over the ceramic tiles in the foyer. He'll come in quiet. Patrick doesn't know where this strange stillness comes from, striking in a person like Pete; but he does know that it is a massive turn-on.
The doorbell sounds in his house, bouncing off the plain white walls with a melancholy echo and he tries to feel guilty and ashamed and unhappy; but all Patrick feels is this twisting sense of triumph that he would leave her to drive twenty minutes to Patrick's house. Patrick is the Lover. He sort of likes that term; sort of. It has the word love built in there somewhere and that might be enough for now.
"Hey." Patrick answers the door with a smile that is just a shade off a smirk; Pete's answering grin is wide and hungry. He comes in and kicks the door shut, leans on it and has his head rocked back in that typical pose that has everyone jumping around.
"Hey."
Patrick stands a good four feet away from him, because in this game they're playing, Pete always has the ball. If any move is going to be made, Pete has to make it first. That's the power that Pete has. Probably, he always had it. Patrick only realised this a few months ago. When Jeanae was welcomed back.
"You look different," Pete says and Patrick tries not to scoff. Of course he looks different. He's been eating less because he hasn't been hungry, he's been sleeping less because he just can't fall off the edge of night. Not unless Pete is there.
"You saw me yesterday. How can I look different between then and now?" Patrick is still standing away from him but his body is talking to Pete's and it's saying I'm pretty much yours. Pete steps closer, his own body stating I know, I know. And I'll take what is mine. He grabs onto Patrick roughly, taking hold of him the way one might take a struggling person, his hands burning possession into Patrick's upper arms and Patrick doesn't resist, because why should he? If Pete wants to fuck him right on the cool ceramic tile in front of the front door, that's pretty much okay. More than, even. His mouth is already slightly parted and Pete's tongue is slipping inside, wet and strong and demanding, searching his mouth for all those lies he has to throw at Jeanae later; Patrick groans and wraps his hands around Pete's neck, feeling the short spiky hairs pressing inky marks on his forearms. He's canting his hips up to rut against Pete, inviting him to take everything the way he's owning Patrick's mouth; Pete can hardly leave that mouth alone to tear off his hoodie and yank at Patrick's t-shirt.
Patrick is shucking off his jeans and boxers so fast that he stumbles back a little, their mouths still hungry, devouring each other, but Pete's grip is harsh and firm. It really looks like it's going to be the floor.
"Oh, god," Patrick gasps as they tumble down, bare legs and hitching breath, Patrick's shirt half-on still, one shoulder pale against the cheerful stripes of the crushed material; he covers his own swollen mouth with the back of his hand and bites down on the tendons there as Pete slides down his dampened skin and licks at Patrick's cock, base to tip, sucking in just the head of it and swirling his tongue around. Patrick makes a choked cry and then Pete is all over him, biting his neck and grabbing onto his hips, cocks slide-slide-slide, hard and soft silky skin, sweat along curves of warmth and dark turns of phrases sung into his ear. Patrick is gasping and almost crying out of sheer need and coming out of sheer love.
He hears Pete groaning and there is wet heat on his stomach and his cock twitches in commiseration.
It's been this way for awhile.
"So. This is...okay, so you're getting back together?" Patrick says, his voice losing its low power and he sounds like a bad copy of himself, like he was recorded on the wrong channel. He sounds inaccurate...low quality. Pete is looking overly casual in one of his millions of hoodies, the Imelda Marcus of cotton sweater-wear. One of his legs are hanging off his bunk, blue-denim painted onto his skin. Pete nods.
"We're going to try make it work. She knows me. We could be...something."
I will kill you both, Patrick very nearly says, his broken heart pressing sharp edges against his ribcage, because his heart remembers the way Pete moaned his name the night before, his heart remembers that Pete tastes better in the dark, his heart remembers all these years of touches and painful-pleasure that it will do well to forget. Patrick is tougher than he looks and he will be damned, damned right to motherfucking hell if he allows Pete to realise that he has Patrick the way no one ever will.
"Oh," is all he says, because two letters won't be enough to convey that he currently has this image of a dead Jeanae floating around his head, and it's pleasing him no end.
"Do you love me, Pete?" Patrick asks quietly as Pete hums around mouthfuls of his food, spaghetti that Patrick threw some sauce and shredded cheese on. The fork pauses on its way to Pete's mouth. Pete's eyes get large and shuttered; his smile is a tight piano wire to string around necks.
"What kind of question is that?" Pete continues to eat and he's looking Patrick in the eye but not really. His gaze has gone inward and Patrick feels like a sliver of nothing.
He gets up with his plate and goes to the sink, taking up the sponge and mindlessly squirting on the toxic-green dishwashing liquid.
"It's a yes or no question." There is a harsh sliver clatter of a fork and Patrick knows that Pete has thrown himself entirely into the act of eating, but he continues to talk, if only to let the words break out of his chest where they had been throttling him. "I'm counting the heartbeats between my question and your answer. I think I will die before you say a word."
The sudden silence dances mournfully around them both and Patrick can feel Pete's mind scrambling. He plunks the damp dish onto the plate-rack and ambles over to the garbage bin, calm and firm, because he is Patrick Motherfucking Stump and if there's one thing he is, he's the calm in the storm.
"I love you." He says casually, tying the handles of the trashbag in a severe knot. "I love you...and I'm going to take out the trash. When I come back, I want you out my fucking house."
"You don't mean that," Pete threatens but Patrick has made up his mind and he could be the Lover but he will be the only one. It's that or nothing at all. He thought this half-life would have been enough; but it is not.
He doesn't answer, because he knows that if he does, that will undermine his statement and wear down his resolve. He stands out on the curb and doesn't look when Pete's car backs out of his driveway and blurs its way back to her and the promise of white picket fences and dark-haired children.
He gets an invitation to the wedding but he tears it in half and tears those halves into halves.
On the wedding day he goes to rent some John Cusack movies and watches them until he falls asleep.
fin
Author:
megyalRating: NC-17
Summary: ...Patrick has made up his mind and he could be the Lover but he will be the only one.
A/N: Written for a prompt by
hayden"...I always had one foot out the door, and that prevented me from doing a lot of things, like thinking about my future and... I guess it made more sense to commit to nothing, keep my options open. And that's suicide. By tiny, tiny increments."
-Rob in "High Fidelity"
***
"Can I come over?" Pete's voice is low and Patrick knows it's because he doesn't want Jeanae to hear, but why not? They're just friends, right? Why would they have anything to hide? Yeah.
"Can you?" Patrick asks, just as low, even slower because if Pete doesn't know that this ballgame is totally his, he's a fucking ass.
There's a long solid silence, dark and choking.
"Yeah. Sure, I can."
It's been this way for awhile. Patrick hates the phrase down low, but, would you look at that, he's down and it's pretty fucking low. Like, dirt on the bottom of one's shoes low. Or lower. When he finds an appropriate analogy, he'll be sure to catalogue it for further use.
But he bustles around his blank house like he has something to clean, like he has something to sweep out and dust away, even though Pete isn't here as yet. When Pete comes in, he'll seem to float over the ceramic tiles in the foyer. He'll come in quiet. Patrick doesn't know where this strange stillness comes from, striking in a person like Pete; but he does know that it is a massive turn-on.
The doorbell sounds in his house, bouncing off the plain white walls with a melancholy echo and he tries to feel guilty and ashamed and unhappy; but all Patrick feels is this twisting sense of triumph that he would leave her to drive twenty minutes to Patrick's house. Patrick is the Lover. He sort of likes that term; sort of. It has the word love built in there somewhere and that might be enough for now.
"Hey." Patrick answers the door with a smile that is just a shade off a smirk; Pete's answering grin is wide and hungry. He comes in and kicks the door shut, leans on it and has his head rocked back in that typical pose that has everyone jumping around.
"Hey."
Patrick stands a good four feet away from him, because in this game they're playing, Pete always has the ball. If any move is going to be made, Pete has to make it first. That's the power that Pete has. Probably, he always had it. Patrick only realised this a few months ago. When Jeanae was welcomed back.
"You look different," Pete says and Patrick tries not to scoff. Of course he looks different. He's been eating less because he hasn't been hungry, he's been sleeping less because he just can't fall off the edge of night. Not unless Pete is there.
"You saw me yesterday. How can I look different between then and now?" Patrick is still standing away from him but his body is talking to Pete's and it's saying I'm pretty much yours. Pete steps closer, his own body stating I know, I know. And I'll take what is mine. He grabs onto Patrick roughly, taking hold of him the way one might take a struggling person, his hands burning possession into Patrick's upper arms and Patrick doesn't resist, because why should he? If Pete wants to fuck him right on the cool ceramic tile in front of the front door, that's pretty much okay. More than, even. His mouth is already slightly parted and Pete's tongue is slipping inside, wet and strong and demanding, searching his mouth for all those lies he has to throw at Jeanae later; Patrick groans and wraps his hands around Pete's neck, feeling the short spiky hairs pressing inky marks on his forearms. He's canting his hips up to rut against Pete, inviting him to take everything the way he's owning Patrick's mouth; Pete can hardly leave that mouth alone to tear off his hoodie and yank at Patrick's t-shirt.
Patrick is shucking off his jeans and boxers so fast that he stumbles back a little, their mouths still hungry, devouring each other, but Pete's grip is harsh and firm. It really looks like it's going to be the floor.
"Oh, god," Patrick gasps as they tumble down, bare legs and hitching breath, Patrick's shirt half-on still, one shoulder pale against the cheerful stripes of the crushed material; he covers his own swollen mouth with the back of his hand and bites down on the tendons there as Pete slides down his dampened skin and licks at Patrick's cock, base to tip, sucking in just the head of it and swirling his tongue around. Patrick makes a choked cry and then Pete is all over him, biting his neck and grabbing onto his hips, cocks slide-slide-slide, hard and soft silky skin, sweat along curves of warmth and dark turns of phrases sung into his ear. Patrick is gasping and almost crying out of sheer need and coming out of sheer love.
He hears Pete groaning and there is wet heat on his stomach and his cock twitches in commiseration.
It's been this way for awhile.
"So. This is...okay, so you're getting back together?" Patrick says, his voice losing its low power and he sounds like a bad copy of himself, like he was recorded on the wrong channel. He sounds inaccurate...low quality. Pete is looking overly casual in one of his millions of hoodies, the Imelda Marcus of cotton sweater-wear. One of his legs are hanging off his bunk, blue-denim painted onto his skin. Pete nods.
"We're going to try make it work. She knows me. We could be...something."
I will kill you both, Patrick very nearly says, his broken heart pressing sharp edges against his ribcage, because his heart remembers the way Pete moaned his name the night before, his heart remembers that Pete tastes better in the dark, his heart remembers all these years of touches and painful-pleasure that it will do well to forget. Patrick is tougher than he looks and he will be damned, damned right to motherfucking hell if he allows Pete to realise that he has Patrick the way no one ever will.
"Oh," is all he says, because two letters won't be enough to convey that he currently has this image of a dead Jeanae floating around his head, and it's pleasing him no end.
"Do you love me, Pete?" Patrick asks quietly as Pete hums around mouthfuls of his food, spaghetti that Patrick threw some sauce and shredded cheese on. The fork pauses on its way to Pete's mouth. Pete's eyes get large and shuttered; his smile is a tight piano wire to string around necks.
"What kind of question is that?" Pete continues to eat and he's looking Patrick in the eye but not really. His gaze has gone inward and Patrick feels like a sliver of nothing.
He gets up with his plate and goes to the sink, taking up the sponge and mindlessly squirting on the toxic-green dishwashing liquid.
"It's a yes or no question." There is a harsh sliver clatter of a fork and Patrick knows that Pete has thrown himself entirely into the act of eating, but he continues to talk, if only to let the words break out of his chest where they had been throttling him. "I'm counting the heartbeats between my question and your answer. I think I will die before you say a word."
The sudden silence dances mournfully around them both and Patrick can feel Pete's mind scrambling. He plunks the damp dish onto the plate-rack and ambles over to the garbage bin, calm and firm, because he is Patrick Motherfucking Stump and if there's one thing he is, he's the calm in the storm.
"I love you." He says casually, tying the handles of the trashbag in a severe knot. "I love you...and I'm going to take out the trash. When I come back, I want you out my fucking house."
"You don't mean that," Pete threatens but Patrick has made up his mind and he could be the Lover but he will be the only one. It's that or nothing at all. He thought this half-life would have been enough; but it is not.
He doesn't answer, because he knows that if he does, that will undermine his statement and wear down his resolve. He stands out on the curb and doesn't look when Pete's car backs out of his driveway and blurs its way back to her and the promise of white picket fences and dark-haired children.
He gets an invitation to the wedding but he tears it in half and tears those halves into halves.
On the wedding day he goes to rent some John Cusack movies and watches them until he falls asleep.
fin