Seventh Floor (Heaven)
Title : Seventh Floor (Heaven)
Summary : A quiet drive. A Foreign Hotel Room. Patrick. Pete. Cityscape views.
Author : moi
Rating : G
Author's Notes: Okay, so first I wrote this... and then I wrote this. and to me, it felt like these fics were somehow connected. However, there was something missing, a step inbetween, a bridge between the two. So here it is... (dedicated to
lovelyloveleave just cos)
X-posted to
we_are_cities. For prompt
Feb 17 07.
Side by side in the back of a car, windows blacked out. They could see out, but no one could see in. Speeding down the streets, thousands of miles from home. London. Late night. After the show. Still wearing sweat drenched clothes, exhausted, exhilarated from the show. Pete was slumped slightly, his head on Patrick's shoulder. They had become so close, so infinitely close, over the space of the last few months. One kiss, one touch of lips, of Pete on Patrick, of Patrick on Pete. That was all it had taken. No words had been needed. Patrick had dried Pete's tears. The record was finished. And they were in Europe. They were away, four boys out on their own. Late winter (or very early spring, if one was optimistic) in a foreign land...
Patrick glanced out the window, at the buildings speeding past, the streetlights casting their orange pools on the sidewalk ("Pavement", he thought, "we're in England, so its pavement...") below. Bright, white headlights coming down the opposite side of the road ("The wrong side, its all wrong"), illuminating the inside of the car. Slicing across Pete's face, across Andy and Joe, who were sitting in front, their positions mirroring Patrick and Pete's. Joe's head. Andy's shoulder. Comfortable silence in the car, broken only by Pete's sighs, his breath ghosting along the curve of Patrick's neck, making the small hairs at the back stand on end.
The car drove on. Slowed. Pulled up at their hotel.
Then the hotel foyer, lights too bright for their eyes. Eyes darkened through lack of sleep (too much time on trans-Atlantic flights and in unfamiliar rooms). Eyes bloodshot from too much alcohol (Joe found it "helped him to sleep". Except that it didn't.) Faces pale ("Where the hell is the sun?" So used to L.A.). Swaying slightly under the weight of their bags. Key cards and room buddies. AndyandJoe. PatrickandPete. Elevators ("Lifts", Patrick thought. "Lifts."). Room numbers passing them by (701, 702, 703...). Pete shifting his bags to his left hand, grasping Patrick's wrist with his right hand. Warmth and strength of familiar fingers, gripping, caressing, sliding down wrist, palm, fingers intertwining. Perfect fit. Tan on white. Contrasting, completing.
Reaching their room, the soft click of the lock, pools of light, beds with white sheets, blankets. All soft, soft. Clean and perfect. Quiet, comfortable. But not home. Unfamiliar. The noise of traffic rumbling outside, seven floors down. ("Down the wrong side of the road... The wrong side. It's wrong. All wrong"). Curtains open on the wide window. Pete had dropped his bag, crossed the room, was standing, looking down. Down from their seventh floor heaven.
Patrick let his bag drop at the foot of one of the beds. Crossed over to the window, stood, with Pete, side by side. Silhouetted by the streetlights, together they looked down, looked at each other.
Although the streetlights created an orange haze in the night sky, Patrick swore he could still see the stars.
thoughts?
Summary : A quiet drive. A Foreign Hotel Room. Patrick. Pete. Cityscape views.
Author : moi
Rating : G
Author's Notes: Okay, so first I wrote this... and then I wrote this. and to me, it felt like these fics were somehow connected. However, there was something missing, a step inbetween, a bridge between the two. So here it is... (dedicated to
lovelyloveleave just cos)X-posted to
we_are_cities. For promptFeb 17 07.
Side by side in the back of a car, windows blacked out. They could see out, but no one could see in. Speeding down the streets, thousands of miles from home. London. Late night. After the show. Still wearing sweat drenched clothes, exhausted, exhilarated from the show. Pete was slumped slightly, his head on Patrick's shoulder. They had become so close, so infinitely close, over the space of the last few months. One kiss, one touch of lips, of Pete on Patrick, of Patrick on Pete. That was all it had taken. No words had been needed. Patrick had dried Pete's tears. The record was finished. And they were in Europe. They were away, four boys out on their own. Late winter (or very early spring, if one was optimistic) in a foreign land...
Patrick glanced out the window, at the buildings speeding past, the streetlights casting their orange pools on the sidewalk ("Pavement", he thought, "we're in England, so its pavement...") below. Bright, white headlights coming down the opposite side of the road ("The wrong side, its all wrong"), illuminating the inside of the car. Slicing across Pete's face, across Andy and Joe, who were sitting in front, their positions mirroring Patrick and Pete's. Joe's head. Andy's shoulder. Comfortable silence in the car, broken only by Pete's sighs, his breath ghosting along the curve of Patrick's neck, making the small hairs at the back stand on end.
The car drove on. Slowed. Pulled up at their hotel.
Then the hotel foyer, lights too bright for their eyes. Eyes darkened through lack of sleep (too much time on trans-Atlantic flights and in unfamiliar rooms). Eyes bloodshot from too much alcohol (Joe found it "helped him to sleep". Except that it didn't.) Faces pale ("Where the hell is the sun?" So used to L.A.). Swaying slightly under the weight of their bags. Key cards and room buddies. AndyandJoe. PatrickandPete. Elevators ("Lifts", Patrick thought. "Lifts."). Room numbers passing them by (701, 702, 703...). Pete shifting his bags to his left hand, grasping Patrick's wrist with his right hand. Warmth and strength of familiar fingers, gripping, caressing, sliding down wrist, palm, fingers intertwining. Perfect fit. Tan on white. Contrasting, completing.
Reaching their room, the soft click of the lock, pools of light, beds with white sheets, blankets. All soft, soft. Clean and perfect. Quiet, comfortable. But not home. Unfamiliar. The noise of traffic rumbling outside, seven floors down. ("Down the wrong side of the road... The wrong side. It's wrong. All wrong"). Curtains open on the wide window. Pete had dropped his bag, crossed the room, was standing, looking down. Down from their seventh floor heaven.
Patrick let his bag drop at the foot of one of the beds. Crossed over to the window, stood, with Pete, side by side. Silhouetted by the streetlights, together they looked down, looked at each other.
Although the streetlights created an orange haze in the night sky, Patrick swore he could still see the stars.
thoughts?