He Doesn't Get It [standalone]
hey! I'm back on the internet. And I've written some Sunshine and Eye Daggers that should be up soon.
Title: He Doesn't Get It
Author:
lovelyloveleave
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: PG-13
Summary: this is me trying hard not to lick this kid
Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with FOB.
A/N: I don't even stop thinking about slash when I'm drunk and contemplating licking people I don't even know. For some reason I was convinced that arm hair or eyeballs would feel awesome. Then I wrote this in my head.
Title: He Doesn't Get It
Author:
lovelyloveleavePairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: PG-13
Summary: this is me trying hard not to lick this kid
Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with FOB.
A/N: I don't even stop thinking about slash when I'm drunk and contemplating licking people I don't even know. For some reason I was convinced that arm hair or eyeballs would feel awesome. Then I wrote this in my head.
“Pete, you okay?”
“I am absolutely fucking... absolute. Fff.”
This is me trying hard not to lick this kid.
Trying not to because I’m pretty sure Joe said he’s like 17, but, shit, he looks about 14. And because he may or may not be the answer to my life. Voice like an angel, you know. Hard because, well there’s this spot at the corner of his mouth that looks dryer than the rest, like he licked his lips (which are dark pink, by the way. I know. I know.) but missed. And maybe I could tell him or I could just do it for him.
I don’t have thoughts like this really. Actually I don’t drink really, either. I’m straightedge. But there’s something about the redness of the solo cup that was looking awfully forgiving when that girl put it in my hand. Like a Crayola crayon. That color red. Like the bright crayon I used to draw all over the walls in. Making Firetrucks and Balloons. Red like lipstick on a pin up, or his lips. Except I don’t think he’s wearing lipstick. I think they’re just like that. Maybe I could ask him.
Hello other mouth. How are you? I’m Peter’s teeth.
“Pete, are you trying to kiss me?”
He’s accusing me. With the eyes. They’re green. Kinda like a crayon as well. The crayon labeled “green.” So I say: “red.” and I’m motioning with my eyes towards his mouth, but I don’t think he gets it because actually I might just be staring at his lips again.
Which brings us back to square one, because now the side that was just in my mouth is glistening a little, satisfactorily wet, and the other half is looking dry in comparison.
“I’m going to go get Joe and see if he can take you home. Are you gunna be alright?”
Hey, don’t leave, I need to get the side I missed. “Wait, wait, wait, Angel. Angel Lips, come here. One second.”
“What is it, Pete?”
“Patrick, Angel, listen to me. Listen.”
“I can’t hear you with your hands over my ears.”
Oh right. Shoulders will do. “Patrick, you’re it.” Don’t give me those eyes. “Patrick, you’re the key. You are the answer.”
“Okay, Pete.” Still doing the eyes. “I’m going to get Joe, stay here.”
“Patrick, Patrick. You’re the answer to this. You’re gunna be my key ”
Empty room. I don’t think he gets it.
+++
“Peter, are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine.”
Actually, my butt is kinda numb from the curb and my back and neck are sore and I haven’t slept in about 57 hours. But if I say that he might sit. Then I’ll have to look at him.
This is me trying hard not to lick my singer.
Trying not to because, lo and behold, he was the key. I told you, voice like a fucking angel. And because he’s now just about the 17 years old that Joe had first told me he was. Hard because his lips are still dark pink when he’s been biting them (red, really, but dark pink sounds less devastating). And because oh hey, he’s a really cool dude, with a voice like an angel, and so much more talent then I knew, and in less than two years he’s managed to become something that I didn’t even know I needed.
He sits anyway.
“Pete, I’m fucking worried about you.” He’s accusing me with the eyes again. They’re not green today. Today they’re blue. Not like the crayon labeled “blue” but more like “I’m So Blue Without You,” like Heartache and Soul played on piano. “How long has it been since you slept?” He’s says this with a warm hand cupping my knee. (I know. I know.)
“I don’t know.” Lie. “A day?” Bullshit lie, but I just can’t take the eyes anymore.
“Dude, what’s wrong? We just started this tour, it can’t be road blues already.” His hand is a little tighter and a little hotter on my knee, which is making the rest of me feel even colder.
“I don’t know. I have no idea, Patrick.” That one’s true. He huffs and squeezes my leg before an entire arm of warmth is around my shoulders.
“Okay, Pete,” and he’s not looking at me anymore, which is good because that tone was accusing enough, “I’m all for you being the Emo Enigma if that’s what’ll float your boat, but please just don’t freeze to death. Come back into the motel. Joe and Andy are still up, so it’s not like I’m trying to force you to sleep... We can hang out. Or not, whatever. But come inside now.” He’s standing. “Or soon.”
Hey, don’t leave, that arm was keeping me warm. “Wait a sec, Patrick.”
“You coming now?”
“Yeah, just come here, one second.” I want to put my hands on his face, touch his skin, but I guess shoulders will do. “I was right about you Patrick. You’re the answer. The key.”
“Answer to what?”
To me. “To everything!”
“Kay, Pete.”
And I follow him inside now, but I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t get it.
“I am absolutely fucking... absolute. Fff.”
This is me trying hard not to lick this kid.
Trying not to because I’m pretty sure Joe said he’s like 17, but, shit, he looks about 14. And because he may or may not be the answer to my life. Voice like an angel, you know. Hard because, well there’s this spot at the corner of his mouth that looks dryer than the rest, like he licked his lips (which are dark pink, by the way. I know. I know.) but missed. And maybe I could tell him or I could just do it for him.
I don’t have thoughts like this really. Actually I don’t drink really, either. I’m straightedge. But there’s something about the redness of the solo cup that was looking awfully forgiving when that girl put it in my hand. Like a Crayola crayon. That color red. Like the bright crayon I used to draw all over the walls in. Making Firetrucks and Balloons. Red like lipstick on a pin up, or his lips. Except I don’t think he’s wearing lipstick. I think they’re just like that. Maybe I could ask him.
Hello other mouth. How are you? I’m Peter’s teeth.
“Pete, are you trying to kiss me?”
He’s accusing me. With the eyes. They’re green. Kinda like a crayon as well. The crayon labeled “green.” So I say: “red.” and I’m motioning with my eyes towards his mouth, but I don’t think he gets it because actually I might just be staring at his lips again.
Which brings us back to square one, because now the side that was just in my mouth is glistening a little, satisfactorily wet, and the other half is looking dry in comparison.
“I’m going to go get Joe and see if he can take you home. Are you gunna be alright?”
Hey, don’t leave, I need to get the side I missed. “Wait, wait, wait, Angel. Angel Lips, come here. One second.”
“What is it, Pete?”
“Patrick, Angel, listen to me. Listen.”
“I can’t hear you with your hands over my ears.”
Oh right. Shoulders will do. “Patrick, you’re it.” Don’t give me those eyes. “Patrick, you’re the key. You are the answer.”
“Okay, Pete.” Still doing the eyes. “I’m going to get Joe, stay here.”
“Patrick, Patrick. You’re the answer to this. You’re gunna be my key ”
Empty room. I don’t think he gets it.
+++
“Peter, are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine.”
Actually, my butt is kinda numb from the curb and my back and neck are sore and I haven’t slept in about 57 hours. But if I say that he might sit. Then I’ll have to look at him.
This is me trying hard not to lick my singer.
Trying not to because, lo and behold, he was the key. I told you, voice like a fucking angel. And because he’s now just about the 17 years old that Joe had first told me he was. Hard because his lips are still dark pink when he’s been biting them (red, really, but dark pink sounds less devastating). And because oh hey, he’s a really cool dude, with a voice like an angel, and so much more talent then I knew, and in less than two years he’s managed to become something that I didn’t even know I needed.
He sits anyway.
“Pete, I’m fucking worried about you.” He’s accusing me with the eyes again. They’re not green today. Today they’re blue. Not like the crayon labeled “blue” but more like “I’m So Blue Without You,” like Heartache and Soul played on piano. “How long has it been since you slept?” He’s says this with a warm hand cupping my knee. (I know. I know.)
“I don’t know.” Lie. “A day?” Bullshit lie, but I just can’t take the eyes anymore.
“Dude, what’s wrong? We just started this tour, it can’t be road blues already.” His hand is a little tighter and a little hotter on my knee, which is making the rest of me feel even colder.
“I don’t know. I have no idea, Patrick.” That one’s true. He huffs and squeezes my leg before an entire arm of warmth is around my shoulders.
“Okay, Pete,” and he’s not looking at me anymore, which is good because that tone was accusing enough, “I’m all for you being the Emo Enigma if that’s what’ll float your boat, but please just don’t freeze to death. Come back into the motel. Joe and Andy are still up, so it’s not like I’m trying to force you to sleep... We can hang out. Or not, whatever. But come inside now.” He’s standing. “Or soon.”
Hey, don’t leave, that arm was keeping me warm. “Wait a sec, Patrick.”
“You coming now?”
“Yeah, just come here, one second.” I want to put my hands on his face, touch his skin, but I guess shoulders will do. “I was right about you Patrick. You’re the answer. The key.”
“Answer to what?”
To me. “To everything!”
“Kay, Pete.”
And I follow him inside now, but I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t get it.