Analogue
Title: Analogue
Author:
pookiechick
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Fake
Summary: Pete and Patrick were never more than best friends.
Pete and Patrick were never more than best friends. They were stationery stores with half-price sales and an “I miss you” written on a post-marked postcard (April 17, 1951 – Dearest Nora, You remind me of a tangerine tree – always blossoming. Yours, Hank) and they were partners in crime – open movie theatre doors and windy Saturday matinees. Late night forays to playgrounds and parking lots with windows down and eyes wide and a barely audible “Tell me this is forever, Patrick.” “Forever, Pete. Forever.”
“Do you ever think that maybe I’m overreacting?” Pete asks, with a hint of absurdity in the back of his throat.
“Oh, Pete – Pete,” is all Patrick can reply before they laugh into the musty fabric of the front seats. “Your life is one huge understated catastrophe.”
They were midnight diner runs and second-hand smoke-stained thrift-store sweaters. Ink-splattered napkins (My dear idealist, Don’t look now – the Bolsheviks are coalescing behind you, rifles in hand. This was not a set up), smudged eyeliner and countless failed attempts at recreating an impossible surreptitiousness. “When do we become who we’ve always feared?” “When everything we love inconveniently echoes as constant failure.”
“Are you going to finish that?” Pete asks in anxious, broken words.
“What’s mine is yours, Pete. Always,” Patrick says, their wrists brushing in the center of a mystical, erratically-concocted universe.
They were late-night sunsets and cloud-covered constellations and empty beds. Holding hands on the damp grass until their skin was soaked and soaking up the cry of the grasshoppers (“The morning always arrives too soon - with such cowardice”) and Pete and Patrick were never more than a frustrated “Goddammit, my shirt is soaking through to my lungs,” and an “Oh, you’re so insufferably melodramatic.”
“What happens after this?” Pete asks, with a solemn solidarity in the palm of his hand.
“We wait for what is rightfully ours,” Patrick replies, the words mournfully echoing against white-washed picket fences.
Smoldering corn fields and lights on docks casting moonlight across deserted bays and haunting songs in D minor. A hushed proclamation of philosophical ideas into cotton sheets (“The stars are crashing at an alarming rate – guard your heart and your senses”) and they were never more than “Disillusioned, at best,” and “Inconsequential, at worst.”
“The world is ending tonight,” Pete says with disheveled eyes and calloused hands.
“Every night, over and over again,” Patrick replies with a palm furiously disintegrating his corneas.
Red-eye flights to Los Angeles and Hollywood Boulevard and intentions clouded by smog and flash photography. Five steps behind with California poppies and false illusions of propriety and dignity, and Pete is the “The lights aren’t so blinding if you stare directly into them,” to Patrick’s “There’s nothing I’d rather do for you.”
“What is it, Patrick?” Pete asks, buried beneath cotton and canopy.
“Oh, nothing - I thought I loved you, but it was just how you looked in the light.”
Author:
pookiechickPairing: Patrick/Pete
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Fake
Summary: Pete and Patrick were never more than best friends.
Pete and Patrick were never more than best friends. They were stationery stores with half-price sales and an “I miss you” written on a post-marked postcard (April 17, 1951 – Dearest Nora, You remind me of a tangerine tree – always blossoming. Yours, Hank) and they were partners in crime – open movie theatre doors and windy Saturday matinees. Late night forays to playgrounds and parking lots with windows down and eyes wide and a barely audible “Tell me this is forever, Patrick.” “Forever, Pete. Forever.”
“Do you ever think that maybe I’m overreacting?” Pete asks, with a hint of absurdity in the back of his throat.
“Oh, Pete – Pete,” is all Patrick can reply before they laugh into the musty fabric of the front seats. “Your life is one huge understated catastrophe.”
They were midnight diner runs and second-hand smoke-stained thrift-store sweaters. Ink-splattered napkins (My dear idealist, Don’t look now – the Bolsheviks are coalescing behind you, rifles in hand. This was not a set up), smudged eyeliner and countless failed attempts at recreating an impossible surreptitiousness. “When do we become who we’ve always feared?” “When everything we love inconveniently echoes as constant failure.”
“Are you going to finish that?” Pete asks in anxious, broken words.
“What’s mine is yours, Pete. Always,” Patrick says, their wrists brushing in the center of a mystical, erratically-concocted universe.
They were late-night sunsets and cloud-covered constellations and empty beds. Holding hands on the damp grass until their skin was soaked and soaking up the cry of the grasshoppers (“The morning always arrives too soon - with such cowardice”) and Pete and Patrick were never more than a frustrated “Goddammit, my shirt is soaking through to my lungs,” and an “Oh, you’re so insufferably melodramatic.”
“What happens after this?” Pete asks, with a solemn solidarity in the palm of his hand.
“We wait for what is rightfully ours,” Patrick replies, the words mournfully echoing against white-washed picket fences.
Smoldering corn fields and lights on docks casting moonlight across deserted bays and haunting songs in D minor. A hushed proclamation of philosophical ideas into cotton sheets (“The stars are crashing at an alarming rate – guard your heart and your senses”) and they were never more than “Disillusioned, at best,” and “Inconsequential, at worst.”
“The world is ending tonight,” Pete says with disheveled eyes and calloused hands.
“Every night, over and over again,” Patrick replies with a palm furiously disintegrating his corneas.
Red-eye flights to Los Angeles and Hollywood Boulevard and intentions clouded by smog and flash photography. Five steps behind with California poppies and false illusions of propriety and dignity, and Pete is the “The lights aren’t so blinding if you stare directly into them,” to Patrick’s “There’s nothing I’d rather do for you.”
“What is it, Patrick?” Pete asks, buried beneath cotton and canopy.
“Oh, nothing - I thought I loved you, but it was just how you looked in the light.”