Brothers On a Hotel Bed
newbie with a fic alert. okay, hello. i'm no stranger to writing RPS, but this is my first foray into bandslash, so hopefully i didn't muck it up too badly.
Title: Brothers On a Hotel Bed
Author:
unloveablehand
Rating: PG
Notes/Disclaimer: this was originally meant to be part of a longer fic, but i got a little lazy. i'll probably add onto it eventually. it can still be seen as a oneshot, though. title, summary, and lyrics at the beginning from the death cab song. sadly, i don't own it or the boys.
Summary: you may tire of me as our december sun is setting/'cause i'm not who i used to be
now he lives inside someone he does not recognize
when he catches his reflection on accident
“Pete.”
The word bounces off the walls like the room doesn’t know what to do with it (something Patrick doesn’t find surprising because there’s no telling when the last time it was anything but silent in here). The lump underneath the covers shows no sign of recognition, however, and by the time his own voice echoes back to him, Patrick is already feeling the familiar twist of frustration in his stomach.
“Pete.” He says this loudly now, intentionally forgetting to mask the annoyance lacing his voice. The lump shifts, almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough for Patrick. He marches over to the dark curtains—the ones he’d joked about when Pete bought, calling them ‘emo curtains’—and flings them open, allowing the mid-afternoon sunlight to flood the room.
“Fuck off, Trick,” Pete whines, and Patrick thinks that at least it’s something. “I was asleep.”
“No,” Patrick says, almost sadly. “No, Pete, you weren’t.”
There’s a long silence, then: “No. I wasn’t.”
“I know.” Patrick sighs and lowers himself onto the bed with deliberate slowness, lifting the corner of the blanket cautiously. Pete blinks up at him with bleary eyes, and Patrick feels a dull ache spread in his chest. Despite his small stature, Pete’s personality had always caused Patrick to see him as larger than life. Now, though, Pete looks every bit as tiny and fragile as he is, and the sight makes Patrick’s fingers twitch with the desire to pull the other man to him. He settles for pushing the messy, unwashed hair away from Pete’s forehead.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
And Pete says, “Hi.”
Patrick wants badly to grab Pete by the shoulders and shake him until he’s back to the Pete he used to know. He wants to yell until Pete understands that he has a good life, that people love him, that Patrick loves him. He wants for that to be enough.
Instead he says, “You should eat something.”
“Not hungry,” Pete mumbles stubbornly.
Patrick bites down hard on his bottom lip, swallows the little bubble of anger he feels rising in his throat. This obviously isn't going anywhere, and Patrick doesn't trust himself to say anymore, so he stands to leave, only to be stopped by a hand that shoots out from the covers and grips his forearm with surprising strength. He decides he sort of hates himself when all it takes is a gentle tug on Pete’s part for him to reoccupy his briefly abandoned seat against the headboard.
“Patrick, I’m scared,” Pete admits, voice barely above a whisper, fingers digging into Patrick’s arm hard enough to bruise. His eyes are wide and his face so vulnerable that he looks about ten years younger, and Patrick thinks he feels his heart break just a little.
“Why?” Patrick asks, barely hiding a wince as he prys the fingers away from his arm, intertwining them with his own instead.
There’s no response, and when Patrick glances down he sees Pete staring at their joined hands with sad, sad eyes. The crack in his heart grows a little bigger. And, really, Patrick thinks as he gives in, sliding underneath the blankets and lying on his side so that he is facing Pete, having pride is sort of overrated anyway. He brings his free hand up to cup Pete’s cheek, and Pete closes his eyes, pursing his lips tightly like even this simple gesture is causing him physical pain.
“Patrick,” Pete’s voice sounds raspy and cracked from lack of use as he covers the hand on his cheek and inches their faces closer together. “Patrick, don’t ever leave me. Okay? You – please, just. Don’t leave. You’re everything. I – this, this is everything.”
“Stop being so melodramatic, Pete," Patrick says even as his brain is answering with a resounding never, never. "I’m not going anywhere.”
“No.” The word is infused with an air of frustration, and Patrick struggles to figure out what he said wrong (not that Pete really needs a reason to be moody these days). “No, Patrick, listen, okay? Listen.”
Patrick has been listening, but he doesn’t point that out, simply nods his acknowledgement. However, he’s caught off guard when instead of continuing that train of thought, Pete presses his lips against Patrick’s in something that could loosely be described as a kiss, but it’s a little too rough, a little too desperate. It’s over before Patrick has time to react, and now Pete is resting their foreheads together, his ragged breath fanning hotly over Patrick’s face as he says, “you have to understand, Patrick, please.”
And even though he’s not sure he does, Patrick says, “I understand, Pete.”
Title: Brothers On a Hotel Bed
Author:
unloveablehandRating: PG
Notes/Disclaimer: this was originally meant to be part of a longer fic, but i got a little lazy. i'll probably add onto it eventually. it can still be seen as a oneshot, though. title, summary, and lyrics at the beginning from the death cab song. sadly, i don't own it or the boys.
Summary: you may tire of me as our december sun is setting/'cause i'm not who i used to be
when he catches his reflection on accident
“Pete.”
The word bounces off the walls like the room doesn’t know what to do with it (something Patrick doesn’t find surprising because there’s no telling when the last time it was anything but silent in here). The lump underneath the covers shows no sign of recognition, however, and by the time his own voice echoes back to him, Patrick is already feeling the familiar twist of frustration in his stomach.
“Pete.” He says this loudly now, intentionally forgetting to mask the annoyance lacing his voice. The lump shifts, almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough for Patrick. He marches over to the dark curtains—the ones he’d joked about when Pete bought, calling them ‘emo curtains’—and flings them open, allowing the mid-afternoon sunlight to flood the room.
“Fuck off, Trick,” Pete whines, and Patrick thinks that at least it’s something. “I was asleep.”
“No,” Patrick says, almost sadly. “No, Pete, you weren’t.”
There’s a long silence, then: “No. I wasn’t.”
“I know.” Patrick sighs and lowers himself onto the bed with deliberate slowness, lifting the corner of the blanket cautiously. Pete blinks up at him with bleary eyes, and Patrick feels a dull ache spread in his chest. Despite his small stature, Pete’s personality had always caused Patrick to see him as larger than life. Now, though, Pete looks every bit as tiny and fragile as he is, and the sight makes Patrick’s fingers twitch with the desire to pull the other man to him. He settles for pushing the messy, unwashed hair away from Pete’s forehead.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
And Pete says, “Hi.”
Patrick wants badly to grab Pete by the shoulders and shake him until he’s back to the Pete he used to know. He wants to yell until Pete understands that he has a good life, that people love him, that Patrick loves him. He wants for that to be enough.
Instead he says, “You should eat something.”
“Not hungry,” Pete mumbles stubbornly.
Patrick bites down hard on his bottom lip, swallows the little bubble of anger he feels rising in his throat. This obviously isn't going anywhere, and Patrick doesn't trust himself to say anymore, so he stands to leave, only to be stopped by a hand that shoots out from the covers and grips his forearm with surprising strength. He decides he sort of hates himself when all it takes is a gentle tug on Pete’s part for him to reoccupy his briefly abandoned seat against the headboard.
“Patrick, I’m scared,” Pete admits, voice barely above a whisper, fingers digging into Patrick’s arm hard enough to bruise. His eyes are wide and his face so vulnerable that he looks about ten years younger, and Patrick thinks he feels his heart break just a little.
“Why?” Patrick asks, barely hiding a wince as he prys the fingers away from his arm, intertwining them with his own instead.
There’s no response, and when Patrick glances down he sees Pete staring at their joined hands with sad, sad eyes. The crack in his heart grows a little bigger. And, really, Patrick thinks as he gives in, sliding underneath the blankets and lying on his side so that he is facing Pete, having pride is sort of overrated anyway. He brings his free hand up to cup Pete’s cheek, and Pete closes his eyes, pursing his lips tightly like even this simple gesture is causing him physical pain.
“Patrick,” Pete’s voice sounds raspy and cracked from lack of use as he covers the hand on his cheek and inches their faces closer together. “Patrick, don’t ever leave me. Okay? You – please, just. Don’t leave. You’re everything. I – this, this is everything.”
“Stop being so melodramatic, Pete," Patrick says even as his brain is answering with a resounding never, never. "I’m not going anywhere.”
“No.” The word is infused with an air of frustration, and Patrick struggles to figure out what he said wrong (not that Pete really needs a reason to be moody these days). “No, Patrick, listen, okay? Listen.”
Patrick has been listening, but he doesn’t point that out, simply nods his acknowledgement. However, he’s caught off guard when instead of continuing that train of thought, Pete presses his lips against Patrick’s in something that could loosely be described as a kiss, but it’s a little too rough, a little too desperate. It’s over before Patrick has time to react, and now Pete is resting their foreheads together, his ragged breath fanning hotly over Patrick’s face as he says, “you have to understand, Patrick, please.”
And even though he’s not sure he does, Patrick says, “I understand, Pete.”