Quiet down your heart and listen (this might mean something someday)
Title: Quiet down your heart and listen (this might mean something someday)
Author:
loveliesfamous
Pairing: Peter//Patrick.
Word Count: 2136.
Rating: Pg-15 for language and non-descript sex.
Summary:So he’d press right up against him -- right up, until he could swear he could feel breathing against his neck, or the hair from Patrick’s legs brushing through his jeans, or his shorts, or just…just brushing. Just there. He’d press right up against him and he’d wait. They didn’t usually speak, they didn’t usually do anything but grasp each others hands so tight they bruised.
Disclaimer: I wish.
Author Notes: It's 5am. I have no other valid excuse for what this turned into at all.
We’re desperate for despair to make something of us
and for the world to only matter when we look away
Your eyes are in love with Venus and this is anything but ordinary
I’m following in my own footsteps again {I think I know where this is going}
We’re the dead end kids with poet hearts and lips that only live through music
We’re down and out and out and out, you make me want to breathe in words.
-----
Sometimes Pete hated himself. Not quite as succinctly or anywhere near as eloquent as he would like to (that would make it too simple) but nonetheless, on those days he lived between the gossip columns and the headboard. His eyes would ache and his fingers would itch for something to make sense, but all he ever managed to write up was publicity he didn’t need. Dressed up downtown, caught on camera, but nothing to cover his heart.
He didn’t drink (so the magazines said) but his head was full of vodka thoughts and he didn’t quite know when to stop. Borrowing names. And scars. And excuses. Because, God, this was getting old. He was getting old. The same old sunburst that hadn’t made sense twenty years ago still doing nothing but causing words to freefall past his lips -- blue and green and grey and just -- fuck -- usually, they crashed. He was used it. Dead ears catching dead sounds and selling them on the street for something worthwhile. Usually they crashed right into another set and -- through no fault of physics -- he found himself falling. Because for once they meant nothing and everything just settled into a steady pace of synonyms pounding against his head as his hands shifted from one person to the next.
You’re the lightning, he’d think, shaking hands (and hips) with every potential train wreck -- and I’m the river guard, bending the stars to reach infinity for these electric kisses that make me write about you -- and his heart would tighten in his shoes. And it would hurt; long enough for eighteen songs, no more no less (providing he’d tied his nerves into a tight enough ball) and then he’d get over it. He’d start crossing on green -- (and maybe, just maybe, the red man would smile a little through the edges of the amber) -- and his hooded jackets would all become dry clean only.
He wouldn’t write during those times. He wouldn’t do anything but hide under famous covers -- although the music was always a fraction more worth it than the people underneath -- and swear this was normal. He stopped counting hours, and names, and hearts, every clock in the coach (or the hotel, or the house) turned to standby. Just in case it started to matter again and four am started to re-exist. He would swear this was normal -- and damn it, if they hadn’t tried, just…tried, words hanging as he left them, leaning between doorframes for another “Man…just. Just I gotta …this is important shit” -- he would do everything he could to just -- just prove this was normal. But sitting staring at tired eyes in a bowl of milk -- just milk, minus the cereal, which someone (Joe) had eaten the last of (or maybe Andy. Patrick only liked Fruitloops on a weekend) while he was busy being , God, being important -- just shit. He’d shake his head and leave before they all got up. This was -- this was supposed to be normal.
And he would go for a walk -- a long walk, they were quite used it, just as they were with him turning up three days later in a mess of hair and headlines -- usually it would lead nowhere, usually. Those were the days he’d be crouched against the couch with an age-old hoodie, brought out of early retirement for the glamour lines and locked doors. Drinking away his sorrows in song and getting high off the music (while steadily creeping low). Usually. Usually these were the good times, and Patrick would sit right next to him, not saying a word that couldn’t be distinguished from a shift in breathing pattern and a harsh eye hooked over by a hat -- because he couldn’t handle it right then, he really couldn’t, and he’d pull the drawstrings, and he’d keep pulling, and pulling, and pulling and -- he’d inhale sharply. Enough to sting his lungs into waking him up. And he’d sigh and drop a smile for Patrick to catch if he was quick enough (the only time he really felt athletic enough to matter).
But they’d worry - oh how they’d worry, expecting it or not -- tripping over his own spirits as he slumped through the door. Locking himself in the bathroom with nothing but a notebook and a full head -- and just, just fuck, they only had one when they were on the road and Joe had a weak bladder when he’d been drinking. The sink. The sink was just -- god, they’d had to make so many pit stops and that sandwich didn’t even taste like real cheese. He didn’t come out for days. He didn’t come out until every last speck of paper was covered. Just incase, he said, just incase. And his eyes would hurt, but his heart would hurt even more. Yet they’d never talk about it -- after that time when Andy, being not so much stubborn as concerned, had took him aside time and time again to try and draw it out. After drawing out a black eye and bruise of a jaw, well, just well -- they’d never talk about any of it. Patrick would ask sometimes, in silence, a hand pressing to his shoulder and a hopeful smile against his cheek (did he have to do that? Did he really have to do that? It made his fingers ache from making sure he stayed still, and his lips ache from biting down so hard on something he might end up saying) and just. And. He’d say the same thing -- he was pretty sure it was the same thing anyway, even if the word didn’t fit, he was sure -- and he would look away. And he would barely smile. And they’d know -- they’d just, they’d just know -- and it wouldn’t be mentioned again until next time. Or maybe even the time after that if the hoodies stayed unwashed (Patrick used to pray for that sometimes, wish for it, when the stars were slow and he was sure he was the only thing falling anymore). But it was -- it was Pete. Not that anyone ever really seemed to ask. But, if they happened to (out of curiosity and stories more than actual concern, he’d learnt) and if he needed to say something, just. Just it was Pete. And they’d look at him strangely, and they’d tilt their head (Patrick wasn’t even sure why, but they would always tilt their head, and always to the left) they’d wait until he looked away, uncomfortable, insecure, before nodding. Then he’d go back to Pete only to be left alone on the couch (that’s the only other time he would eat Fruitloops, the bitter taste they left on his tongue giving him something to think about other than why this bothered him so much. Pouring a full bowl -- right to the top, to be sure -- a full bowl to leave it lying on the counter after two spoonfuls -- at least Joe always picked up the rest later).
And the songs made sense, three months later, when he was back to skipping between being famous and being important (although, as Patrick rightly argued, he had always been the latter. To which he’d laugh and flip his cap before slipping between jacket arms and down the steps). And, oh God, just, oh God. Patrick wouldn’t sleep then, he couldn’t sleep then -- which, effectively, had led to Andy’s theory of not being able to read Pete’s words without becoming Pete, albeit temporarily. It had been a big joke. A big laugh over a few slices of what they would have called pizza if Joe hadn’t argued the whole time that you can’t call “vegan shit” anything but rabbit food. Patrick had laughed too. He’d laughed the loudest the first time. But as the words hit him -- and again, and again, and again, he just. He. And he was back to trying to figure any of this out while also (as ineffective and already defeated as it was) trying to think about everything but Pete. Because this just wasn’t working.
He’d turn up -- again -- between days, the clocks behind him warily as he weaved himself into a double negative. Patrick would hide in his bunk (or room, or garden, depending on where they happened to be. There was even that time, shit, the time where he’d spent three hours hiding in Pete’s closet because he’d stupidly (stupid stupid stupid) ran in the wrong direction and didn’t feel like facing him when he couldn’t even face himself. Three hours. And he left more red faced than when he started. He didn’t let himself think about that). He’d turn up. Pete would turn up. Sometimes he’d find his notebook hanging open, underlined, highlighted to hell, and sometimes he’d smile to himself. And to Patrick -- because he just knew he was around somewhere nearby, just fucking knew -- and then he’d leave again. Changing sweaters, or pants, or faces.
There’d be a sheet of neatly printed handwriting waiting for when he got back, barely legible, barely anything. Letters copied word for word. Print for print -- no matter how shit he knew it was. And he’d go to Patrick sometimes then -- only sometimes, when he hadn’t mattered enough to not feel lonely -- he’d crawl under the sheets (fully dressed, because then it wasn’t awkward, then it wasn’t weird) and he’d shift right over, all the way, until Patrick was pressed against the wall and couldn’t breathe enough to stay asleep. He’d smile when his eyes opened -- he’d even smile when he got shoved out, or punched, or kicked (although that was more common when it first started, now he just had to make sure to be cautious) and sometimes Patrick would smile back. He was wary of his temper, he knew he had to be, because grouchy Patrick could quite easily turn into violent Patrick and he didn’t like it when all he wanted was understanding. So he’d press right up against him -- right up, until he could swear he could feel breathing against his neck, or the hair from Patrick’s legs brushing through his jeans, or his shorts, or just…just brushing. Just there. He’d press right up against him and he’d wait. They didn’t usually speak, they didn’t usually do anything but grasp each others hands so tight they bruised. Cuts and creams. Nails digging against nails. And heartbeats that were too fast to make sense.
“Patrick” he would say -- he would always say, usually somewhere between his jacket and Patrick’s pants -- “Patrick. I…just...can’t we…” and Patrick would shake his head, and grip him tighter -- so tight he couldn’t let go and it would hurt, but it was a good hurt, he thought it was a good hurt. And he’d sigh. And he’d let Patrick press their hands (sometimes both, sometimes one, it depended how dark it was and how far they were from home) just their hands -- so close they could barely move -- and his zip would be down. Just down, just enough. And they’d make sense.
“I…I…” Pete would try, and Patrick would do nothing but shake his head again. And he’d give in. And he’d be quiet (and sometimes he wouldn’t care, sometimes he’d bite so hard on his lip that it hurt so much more than this. Sometimes he just wouldn’t ask in the first place, and they’d just lie there until something felt wrong again). Calluses would rub against him, sharp, hard calluses just to the left of -- oh my mother fucking God -- and he’d press his knee against Patrick’s thigh and -- and, and, oh, oh shit “no, not there. No, Pete, this-- wait. I can’t-- oh god…” -- and Patrick would press his palm against Pete’s chest, stretching their nails into tattoos. And they’d just -- “just no, not…but…we can’t…with….yes….we’ll wake the…oh ohh this is…we…hot…” -- they’d just let it work.
And an hour later, when Pete was pressing himself between doorways and sheets, Patrick would make another perfect copy of every word he ever wrote before falling asleep (usually with them pressed between his fingers still) and Pete’s hoodies would be at the dry cleaners. Again. And staring down into his bowl of fruit loops -- Patrick would realise sometimes he hated himself too.
------
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
quiet down your heart
youre my infinity - if youre closer ill have nothing left to fall apart to. were stars in opium and i need to dissect us for this to mean something.
Posted by xo at 5:08 am.
Author:
loveliesfamousPairing: Peter//Patrick.
Word Count: 2136.
Rating: Pg-15 for language and non-descript sex.
Summary:So he’d press right up against him -- right up, until he could swear he could feel breathing against his neck, or the hair from Patrick’s legs brushing through his jeans, or his shorts, or just…just brushing. Just there. He’d press right up against him and he’d wait. They didn’t usually speak, they didn’t usually do anything but grasp each others hands so tight they bruised.
Disclaimer: I wish.
Author Notes: It's 5am. I have no other valid excuse for what this turned into at all.
We’re desperate for despair to make something of us
and for the world to only matter when we look away
Your eyes are in love with Venus and this is anything but ordinary
I’m following in my own footsteps again {I think I know where this is going}
We’re the dead end kids with poet hearts and lips that only live through music
We’re down and out and out and out, you make me want to breathe in words.
-----
Sometimes Pete hated himself. Not quite as succinctly or anywhere near as eloquent as he would like to (that would make it too simple) but nonetheless, on those days he lived between the gossip columns and the headboard. His eyes would ache and his fingers would itch for something to make sense, but all he ever managed to write up was publicity he didn’t need. Dressed up downtown, caught on camera, but nothing to cover his heart.
He didn’t drink (so the magazines said) but his head was full of vodka thoughts and he didn’t quite know when to stop. Borrowing names. And scars. And excuses. Because, God, this was getting old. He was getting old. The same old sunburst that hadn’t made sense twenty years ago still doing nothing but causing words to freefall past his lips -- blue and green and grey and just -- fuck -- usually, they crashed. He was used it. Dead ears catching dead sounds and selling them on the street for something worthwhile. Usually they crashed right into another set and -- through no fault of physics -- he found himself falling. Because for once they meant nothing and everything just settled into a steady pace of synonyms pounding against his head as his hands shifted from one person to the next.
You’re the lightning, he’d think, shaking hands (and hips) with every potential train wreck -- and I’m the river guard, bending the stars to reach infinity for these electric kisses that make me write about you -- and his heart would tighten in his shoes. And it would hurt; long enough for eighteen songs, no more no less (providing he’d tied his nerves into a tight enough ball) and then he’d get over it. He’d start crossing on green -- (and maybe, just maybe, the red man would smile a little through the edges of the amber) -- and his hooded jackets would all become dry clean only.
He wouldn’t write during those times. He wouldn’t do anything but hide under famous covers -- although the music was always a fraction more worth it than the people underneath -- and swear this was normal. He stopped counting hours, and names, and hearts, every clock in the coach (or the hotel, or the house) turned to standby. Just in case it started to matter again and four am started to re-exist. He would swear this was normal -- and damn it, if they hadn’t tried, just…tried, words hanging as he left them, leaning between doorframes for another “Man…just. Just I gotta …this is important shit” -- he would do everything he could to just -- just prove this was normal. But sitting staring at tired eyes in a bowl of milk -- just milk, minus the cereal, which someone (Joe) had eaten the last of (or maybe Andy. Patrick only liked Fruitloops on a weekend) while he was busy being , God, being important -- just shit. He’d shake his head and leave before they all got up. This was -- this was supposed to be normal.
And he would go for a walk -- a long walk, they were quite used it, just as they were with him turning up three days later in a mess of hair and headlines -- usually it would lead nowhere, usually. Those were the days he’d be crouched against the couch with an age-old hoodie, brought out of early retirement for the glamour lines and locked doors. Drinking away his sorrows in song and getting high off the music (while steadily creeping low). Usually. Usually these were the good times, and Patrick would sit right next to him, not saying a word that couldn’t be distinguished from a shift in breathing pattern and a harsh eye hooked over by a hat -- because he couldn’t handle it right then, he really couldn’t, and he’d pull the drawstrings, and he’d keep pulling, and pulling, and pulling and -- he’d inhale sharply. Enough to sting his lungs into waking him up. And he’d sigh and drop a smile for Patrick to catch if he was quick enough (the only time he really felt athletic enough to matter).
But they’d worry - oh how they’d worry, expecting it or not -- tripping over his own spirits as he slumped through the door. Locking himself in the bathroom with nothing but a notebook and a full head -- and just, just fuck, they only had one when they were on the road and Joe had a weak bladder when he’d been drinking. The sink. The sink was just -- god, they’d had to make so many pit stops and that sandwich didn’t even taste like real cheese. He didn’t come out for days. He didn’t come out until every last speck of paper was covered. Just incase, he said, just incase. And his eyes would hurt, but his heart would hurt even more. Yet they’d never talk about it -- after that time when Andy, being not so much stubborn as concerned, had took him aside time and time again to try and draw it out. After drawing out a black eye and bruise of a jaw, well, just well -- they’d never talk about any of it. Patrick would ask sometimes, in silence, a hand pressing to his shoulder and a hopeful smile against his cheek (did he have to do that? Did he really have to do that? It made his fingers ache from making sure he stayed still, and his lips ache from biting down so hard on something he might end up saying) and just. And. He’d say the same thing -- he was pretty sure it was the same thing anyway, even if the word didn’t fit, he was sure -- and he would look away. And he would barely smile. And they’d know -- they’d just, they’d just know -- and it wouldn’t be mentioned again until next time. Or maybe even the time after that if the hoodies stayed unwashed (Patrick used to pray for that sometimes, wish for it, when the stars were slow and he was sure he was the only thing falling anymore). But it was -- it was Pete. Not that anyone ever really seemed to ask. But, if they happened to (out of curiosity and stories more than actual concern, he’d learnt) and if he needed to say something, just. Just it was Pete. And they’d look at him strangely, and they’d tilt their head (Patrick wasn’t even sure why, but they would always tilt their head, and always to the left) they’d wait until he looked away, uncomfortable, insecure, before nodding. Then he’d go back to Pete only to be left alone on the couch (that’s the only other time he would eat Fruitloops, the bitter taste they left on his tongue giving him something to think about other than why this bothered him so much. Pouring a full bowl -- right to the top, to be sure -- a full bowl to leave it lying on the counter after two spoonfuls -- at least Joe always picked up the rest later).
And the songs made sense, three months later, when he was back to skipping between being famous and being important (although, as Patrick rightly argued, he had always been the latter. To which he’d laugh and flip his cap before slipping between jacket arms and down the steps). And, oh God, just, oh God. Patrick wouldn’t sleep then, he couldn’t sleep then -- which, effectively, had led to Andy’s theory of not being able to read Pete’s words without becoming Pete, albeit temporarily. It had been a big joke. A big laugh over a few slices of what they would have called pizza if Joe hadn’t argued the whole time that you can’t call “vegan shit” anything but rabbit food. Patrick had laughed too. He’d laughed the loudest the first time. But as the words hit him -- and again, and again, and again, he just. He. And he was back to trying to figure any of this out while also (as ineffective and already defeated as it was) trying to think about everything but Pete. Because this just wasn’t working.
He’d turn up -- again -- between days, the clocks behind him warily as he weaved himself into a double negative. Patrick would hide in his bunk (or room, or garden, depending on where they happened to be. There was even that time, shit, the time where he’d spent three hours hiding in Pete’s closet because he’d stupidly (stupid stupid stupid) ran in the wrong direction and didn’t feel like facing him when he couldn’t even face himself. Three hours. And he left more red faced than when he started. He didn’t let himself think about that). He’d turn up. Pete would turn up. Sometimes he’d find his notebook hanging open, underlined, highlighted to hell, and sometimes he’d smile to himself. And to Patrick -- because he just knew he was around somewhere nearby, just fucking knew -- and then he’d leave again. Changing sweaters, or pants, or faces.
There’d be a sheet of neatly printed handwriting waiting for when he got back, barely legible, barely anything. Letters copied word for word. Print for print -- no matter how shit he knew it was. And he’d go to Patrick sometimes then -- only sometimes, when he hadn’t mattered enough to not feel lonely -- he’d crawl under the sheets (fully dressed, because then it wasn’t awkward, then it wasn’t weird) and he’d shift right over, all the way, until Patrick was pressed against the wall and couldn’t breathe enough to stay asleep. He’d smile when his eyes opened -- he’d even smile when he got shoved out, or punched, or kicked (although that was more common when it first started, now he just had to make sure to be cautious) and sometimes Patrick would smile back. He was wary of his temper, he knew he had to be, because grouchy Patrick could quite easily turn into violent Patrick and he didn’t like it when all he wanted was understanding. So he’d press right up against him -- right up, until he could swear he could feel breathing against his neck, or the hair from Patrick’s legs brushing through his jeans, or his shorts, or just…just brushing. Just there. He’d press right up against him and he’d wait. They didn’t usually speak, they didn’t usually do anything but grasp each others hands so tight they bruised. Cuts and creams. Nails digging against nails. And heartbeats that were too fast to make sense.
“Patrick” he would say -- he would always say, usually somewhere between his jacket and Patrick’s pants -- “Patrick. I…just...can’t we…” and Patrick would shake his head, and grip him tighter -- so tight he couldn’t let go and it would hurt, but it was a good hurt, he thought it was a good hurt. And he’d sigh. And he’d let Patrick press their hands (sometimes both, sometimes one, it depended how dark it was and how far they were from home) just their hands -- so close they could barely move -- and his zip would be down. Just down, just enough. And they’d make sense.
“I…I…” Pete would try, and Patrick would do nothing but shake his head again. And he’d give in. And he’d be quiet (and sometimes he wouldn’t care, sometimes he’d bite so hard on his lip that it hurt so much more than this. Sometimes he just wouldn’t ask in the first place, and they’d just lie there until something felt wrong again). Calluses would rub against him, sharp, hard calluses just to the left of -- oh my mother fucking God -- and he’d press his knee against Patrick’s thigh and -- and, and, oh, oh shit “no, not there. No, Pete, this-- wait. I can’t-- oh god…” -- and Patrick would press his palm against Pete’s chest, stretching their nails into tattoos. And they’d just -- “just no, not…but…we can’t…with….yes….we’ll wake the…oh ohh this is…we…hot…” -- they’d just let it work.
And an hour later, when Pete was pressing himself between doorways and sheets, Patrick would make another perfect copy of every word he ever wrote before falling asleep (usually with them pressed between his fingers still) and Pete’s hoodies would be at the dry cleaners. Again. And staring down into his bowl of fruit loops -- Patrick would realise sometimes he hated himself too.
------
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
quiet down your heart
youre my infinity - if youre closer ill have nothing left to fall apart to. were stars in opium and i need to dissect us for this to mean something.
Posted by xo at 5:08 am.