Goodbye Forever
Title : Goodbye Forever
Summary : Patrick wants to know why Pete couldn't say goodbye
Author :
robotic_monkey
Rating : PG
Author's Notes : Sorry, mods, I accidentally submitted this before I was finished typing it all out. OOPS!
There were some things Patrick just couldn't bring himself to think of. Some things he just pushed down, forced the thoughts away, to the back of his mind, just no, no, no, he didn't want to recall how he had tip-toed around his best friend, watching him spiral downwards like a crashing plane, burning out to ashes. He didn't want to dwell on how he had felt that day, when Pete's mother had called him, the tears evident in her voice, as she had choked out an explanation of exactly what Pete had done, had only just narrowly failed at doing. He didn't want to ruminate on the way he had treated Pete afterwards, alternately coddling and cold, attentive and angry, desperate and distant. He had been so confused, so mixed up in his head. It had been almost as if their roles had been reversed. Pete had seemed more coherent and social than he had been in a long time, whilst Patrick had isolated himself from the one person he had always kept close. He spent his time snapping and sniping at his best friends, his thoughts were miles away, lost in past events, trying to fathom the idea of a parked car, a pill bottle and Grace on the stereo. He had been lost in a mind maze of emotional confusion.
Even now, two years past, Patrick still had troubled blotting the events of the past from his memory. They preyed on his mind, gave him nightmares of open graves lined with blue pills, nightmares of parking lots and empty bottles, nights where he awoke, choking back tears and sweating, gasping, biting his tongue to keep from screaming out Pete's name. He had dreams of Pete falling, slipping away from him, of him holding on desperately, only to let go and watch those wide, brown eyes become even wider than usual with fear, shock. Eyes that were reproachful and accusing.
Accusing.
Because Patrick knew who was to blame.
He was. He blamed himself. He blamed himself for tip-toeing around Pete, past his open bedroom door, past that quivering lump under the blankets, hearing the sobs but only closing the door, dulling the sound, but not dealing with it. He blamed himself for immersing himself in music, busying his mind and his hands in the studio, giving voice to the words that Pete scribbled with shaking hands on scraps of paper, torn from journals and notebooks, shredded like his soul, his peace of mind. All that was left intact of Pete was his strong sense of self-loathing. All this Patrick ignored, seeing nothing but ink on paper, hearing nothing but pretty sounds and syllables. He didn't dare dissect the phrases, the stanzas and verses of poetry, of the pure poison that had contaminated his friends mind. Instead, he played and sang and made the best of it.
Patrick was ashamed, ashamed of the things he had done, the things he had not done, the things unsaid and the support he had neglected to give. He had talked about it to the press, about how it felt to know that his best friend had wanted to die (Pete says sleep, Patrick knows he means die), but he had never given a straight answer, he had been succinct and polite, short, clipped answers, revealing nothing.
It had been horrific. He had been filled with utter disbelief, desolation, fear, guilt, regret. But most of all, anger. Anger at Pete for being weak. Anger at himself for not doing anything. Anger at the fact that his best friend didn't even say goodbye before he attempted to check out forever. This fact, this thought, out of all the other, burned inside him, stung and made his guts twist. His head ached, pounded with the heavy weight of it. He had not called, he didn't write a note. Pete had always said that Patrick was the one person who understood, who got him, who cared. Pete had said he loved him, could count on him, always and forever. But not enough to say goodbye that one last time.
Try as he might, this was the one thing Patrick couldn't force away, deep down within him. He couldn't make it go back, stay locked in the dark parts of his mind, the kind that sent him technicolor horror movie nightmares. It spilled over, out, into the forefront of his mind. It kept him from sleeping, distracted him at odd points in the day, and, ultimately, led to him confronting Pete.
Why? It was all he had wanted to know. Why no note, no call, nothing. Why, Pete, Why?
Pete had lain there, in his bunk, whites of his eyes visible in the grey gloom that the moonlight had cast over the bus as it rolled on through the night. He had lain there, and Patrick had looked at his eyes as they gleamed, bright and liquid, and then he looked down, to where Pete's hands were bunched on the bedsheets, fingers curled tight, creasing the white cloth. He had clasped one of Pete's hands in his and asked again. Why?
I couldn't bring myself to say goodbye to you. It would have taken too long to say everything I wanted to, it would have taken my whole life to explain everything you mean to me, Patrick. I don't have the right words for it, there aren't enough words in existence for your goodbye. Friendship and love don't cut it anymore, they aren't enough, nothing is enough for you. You deserve so much more, so much more than I could ever have hoped to give you in one scrawled, tear-stained note. There was nothing I could say to your voice on the other end of the line, nothing that would mean anything to you, to me. I was desperate, I wanted to escape, to sleep...
Here, Pete's hand clenched painfully tight around Patrick's.
Don't worry, though Patrick. I don't want to sleep anymore.
Around them, the bus drove on through the dusky darkness of 3am. Patrick laced his fingers through Pete's and settled down, lay down in the bunk next to him, eyes closed and face pressed against the curve of Pete's collarbone. He gave a small sigh, pressed a small kiss to Pete's chest, relaxed, and breathed in and out, steady and silent. Beside him, Pete lay, wide-eyed, hand still clasped in Patrick's. He spoke to the ceiling, to the night, as Patrick dozed beside him.
I don't sleep at all anymore.
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Thoughts? I've got a lot of fics just sitting on my computer, not doing anything. This is the first of them to be posted. Do you want more?
Summary : Patrick wants to know why Pete couldn't say goodbye
Author :
robotic_monkeyRating : PG
Author's Notes : Sorry, mods, I accidentally submitted this before I was finished typing it all out. OOPS!
There were some things Patrick just couldn't bring himself to think of. Some things he just pushed down, forced the thoughts away, to the back of his mind, just no, no, no, he didn't want to recall how he had tip-toed around his best friend, watching him spiral downwards like a crashing plane, burning out to ashes. He didn't want to dwell on how he had felt that day, when Pete's mother had called him, the tears evident in her voice, as she had choked out an explanation of exactly what Pete had done, had only just narrowly failed at doing. He didn't want to ruminate on the way he had treated Pete afterwards, alternately coddling and cold, attentive and angry, desperate and distant. He had been so confused, so mixed up in his head. It had been almost as if their roles had been reversed. Pete had seemed more coherent and social than he had been in a long time, whilst Patrick had isolated himself from the one person he had always kept close. He spent his time snapping and sniping at his best friends, his thoughts were miles away, lost in past events, trying to fathom the idea of a parked car, a pill bottle and Grace on the stereo. He had been lost in a mind maze of emotional confusion.
Even now, two years past, Patrick still had troubled blotting the events of the past from his memory. They preyed on his mind, gave him nightmares of open graves lined with blue pills, nightmares of parking lots and empty bottles, nights where he awoke, choking back tears and sweating, gasping, biting his tongue to keep from screaming out Pete's name. He had dreams of Pete falling, slipping away from him, of him holding on desperately, only to let go and watch those wide, brown eyes become even wider than usual with fear, shock. Eyes that were reproachful and accusing.
Accusing.
Because Patrick knew who was to blame.
He was. He blamed himself. He blamed himself for tip-toeing around Pete, past his open bedroom door, past that quivering lump under the blankets, hearing the sobs but only closing the door, dulling the sound, but not dealing with it. He blamed himself for immersing himself in music, busying his mind and his hands in the studio, giving voice to the words that Pete scribbled with shaking hands on scraps of paper, torn from journals and notebooks, shredded like his soul, his peace of mind. All that was left intact of Pete was his strong sense of self-loathing. All this Patrick ignored, seeing nothing but ink on paper, hearing nothing but pretty sounds and syllables. He didn't dare dissect the phrases, the stanzas and verses of poetry, of the pure poison that had contaminated his friends mind. Instead, he played and sang and made the best of it.
Patrick was ashamed, ashamed of the things he had done, the things he had not done, the things unsaid and the support he had neglected to give. He had talked about it to the press, about how it felt to know that his best friend had wanted to die (Pete says sleep, Patrick knows he means die), but he had never given a straight answer, he had been succinct and polite, short, clipped answers, revealing nothing.
It had been horrific. He had been filled with utter disbelief, desolation, fear, guilt, regret. But most of all, anger. Anger at Pete for being weak. Anger at himself for not doing anything. Anger at the fact that his best friend didn't even say goodbye before he attempted to check out forever. This fact, this thought, out of all the other, burned inside him, stung and made his guts twist. His head ached, pounded with the heavy weight of it. He had not called, he didn't write a note. Pete had always said that Patrick was the one person who understood, who got him, who cared. Pete had said he loved him, could count on him, always and forever. But not enough to say goodbye that one last time.
Try as he might, this was the one thing Patrick couldn't force away, deep down within him. He couldn't make it go back, stay locked in the dark parts of his mind, the kind that sent him technicolor horror movie nightmares. It spilled over, out, into the forefront of his mind. It kept him from sleeping, distracted him at odd points in the day, and, ultimately, led to him confronting Pete.
Why? It was all he had wanted to know. Why no note, no call, nothing. Why, Pete, Why?
Pete had lain there, in his bunk, whites of his eyes visible in the grey gloom that the moonlight had cast over the bus as it rolled on through the night. He had lain there, and Patrick had looked at his eyes as they gleamed, bright and liquid, and then he looked down, to where Pete's hands were bunched on the bedsheets, fingers curled tight, creasing the white cloth. He had clasped one of Pete's hands in his and asked again. Why?
I couldn't bring myself to say goodbye to you. It would have taken too long to say everything I wanted to, it would have taken my whole life to explain everything you mean to me, Patrick. I don't have the right words for it, there aren't enough words in existence for your goodbye. Friendship and love don't cut it anymore, they aren't enough, nothing is enough for you. You deserve so much more, so much more than I could ever have hoped to give you in one scrawled, tear-stained note. There was nothing I could say to your voice on the other end of the line, nothing that would mean anything to you, to me. I was desperate, I wanted to escape, to sleep...
Here, Pete's hand clenched painfully tight around Patrick's.
Don't worry, though Patrick. I don't want to sleep anymore.
Around them, the bus drove on through the dusky darkness of 3am. Patrick laced his fingers through Pete's and settled down, lay down in the bunk next to him, eyes closed and face pressed against the curve of Pete's collarbone. He gave a small sigh, pressed a small kiss to Pete's chest, relaxed, and breathed in and out, steady and silent. Beside him, Pete lay, wide-eyed, hand still clasped in Patrick's. He spoke to the ceiling, to the night, as Patrick dozed beside him.
I don't sleep at all anymore.
----------------------------------------
Thoughts? I've got a lot of fics just sitting on my computer, not doing anything. This is the first of them to be posted. Do you want more?