Finding The Words
Title : Finding The Words
Summary : Pete could write for the rest of his life, trying to tell the world about Patrick.
Author :
robotic_monkey
Rating : G
Author's Notes : Another of the fics that've just been languishing on my hard-drive. Written over a month ago.
He was all late nights these days. Words scribbled into a notebook or typed laboriously on his sidekick, tiny keyboard clicking away. He was all red, purple, black eyes these days. A combination of said late nights, too much crying, too much eyeliner, his effort at covering up the other colours, trying to black out the red and purple (blood and royalty... except his blood was blue, for he was the reigning king of the losers, misfits and loners, icon of disillusioned, young suburbanites everywhere). He was all sentences typed in lower case, bad grammar and poor punctuation. He was paragraphs and poetry, stanza after stanza of buses, bunks and hotels. Trying to find the right words to capture the way the stage lights hit the curve of Patrick's neck and shoulders, how his best friend looked, gilded golden in the spotlights, the way the streetlights pooled on black roads and reflected off of white lines at 3am in middle England (another night, another country, but some things never change). The way that Patrick's sleepy smile looked, peering round the door at Pete, alone in the lounge, as he watched the road speeding by the dark window. The way Patrick's fingers felt laced in his, the way Patrick's head felt resting on his shoulder, the way Patrick's eyelashes looked as they fluttered, his eyes closed. The way Patrick's lips pouted and parted with his gentle breathing as he slept. The way Patrick would wake, a few hours later, and admonish Pete for letting him sleep.
Pete was trying to find the right words to sum up the look in Patrick's eyes, glancing over his coffee mug at breakfast, warm and gentle and soft and there. Pete was thinking of synonyms for everything about Patrick that he loved (which really was everything). He spent long nights thinking of a million ways to wax lyrical about the way Patrick's hair curled oh-so-delicately over his collar, how it was not-quite-auburn-not-quite-blonde-but-oh-s
He wanted to sum it up, nicely, neatly, succinctly. The calm and peace that came, from being with this one person, this one man (boy, really, he was such a wonderful boy), the way that he made everything seem quieter, so much easier for Pete to deal with. The way Patrick made Pete's head stop spinning in the bad way, made it spin in the good way. He wanted to drink, breathe, take in the very essence of this boy, wanted to be a part of him, to be always there, lying side by side with him (touching all the way down), breathing on his neck, in unison with his own, their lungs as one (their hearts, bodies, minds, souls as one). He wanted to tell the world, tell everyone (tell Patrick) how he felt, every moment they were awake (or one awake, one asleep) and together. How he felt when they were apart, how the anxiety and mental torment, the storm that raged inside him would threaten to bend, to break him. How he was shattered, physically and mentally, every night spent in the same four walls, alone (oh, god so alone. Hemingway's breathing and body warmth was not the same, no, could never be the same...) and miserable, counting the minutes as they ticked by, picking up the phone only to put it down, indecisive... He wanted to let it all out, the need he had, for this one boy, this one, young, cherubic little boy, that he had fallen for completely in a suburban basement, fallen in love to the soundtrack of an acoustic guitar and this voice, this wonderful, angelic voice... And how it hadn't hurt to fall, hard and fast, how it had stopped the hurt so completely, how Patrick had always stopped Pete's heart from hurting too badly. Pete wanted to put this down in words, to preserve it, in a epic poem, a song, a novel, the greatest (love) story ever told.
Pete could look for the right phrases, the most beautiful paragraphs, the similes and metaphors, he could think and muse and ponder, late into the night, but really, in the end, it boiled down to a few simple words. Love. Friendship. Understanding. Acceptance. Perfection.
Patrick. It was really all he needed (all that mattered).
Summary : Pete could write for the rest of his life, trying to tell the world about Patrick.
Author :
robotic_monkeyRating : G
Author's Notes : Another of the fics that've just been languishing on my hard-drive. Written over a month ago.
He was all late nights these days. Words scribbled into a notebook or typed laboriously on his sidekick, tiny keyboard clicking away. He was all red, purple, black eyes these days. A combination of said late nights, too much crying, too much eyeliner, his effort at covering up the other colours, trying to black out the red and purple (blood and royalty... except his blood was blue, for he was the reigning king of the losers, misfits and loners, icon of disillusioned, young suburbanites everywhere). He was all sentences typed in lower case, bad grammar and poor punctuation. He was paragraphs and poetry, stanza after stanza of buses, bunks and hotels. Trying to find the right words to capture the way the stage lights hit the curve of Patrick's neck and shoulders, how his best friend looked, gilded golden in the spotlights, the way the streetlights pooled on black roads and reflected off of white lines at 3am in middle England (another night, another country, but some things never change). The way that Patrick's sleepy smile looked, peering round the door at Pete, alone in the lounge, as he watched the road speeding by the dark window. The way Patrick's fingers felt laced in his, the way Patrick's head felt resting on his shoulder, the way Patrick's eyelashes looked as they fluttered, his eyes closed. The way Patrick's lips pouted and parted with his gentle breathing as he slept. The way Patrick would wake, a few hours later, and admonish Pete for letting him sleep.
Pete was trying to find the right words to sum up the look in Patrick's eyes, glancing over his coffee mug at breakfast, warm and gentle and soft and there. Pete was thinking of synonyms for everything about Patrick that he loved (which really was everything). He spent long nights thinking of a million ways to wax lyrical about the way Patrick's hair curled oh-so-delicately over his collar, how it was not-quite-auburn-not-quite-blonde-but-oh-s
He wanted to sum it up, nicely, neatly, succinctly. The calm and peace that came, from being with this one person, this one man (boy, really, he was such a wonderful boy), the way that he made everything seem quieter, so much easier for Pete to deal with. The way Patrick made Pete's head stop spinning in the bad way, made it spin in the good way. He wanted to drink, breathe, take in the very essence of this boy, wanted to be a part of him, to be always there, lying side by side with him (touching all the way down), breathing on his neck, in unison with his own, their lungs as one (their hearts, bodies, minds, souls as one). He wanted to tell the world, tell everyone (tell Patrick) how he felt, every moment they were awake (or one awake, one asleep) and together. How he felt when they were apart, how the anxiety and mental torment, the storm that raged inside him would threaten to bend, to break him. How he was shattered, physically and mentally, every night spent in the same four walls, alone (oh, god so alone. Hemingway's breathing and body warmth was not the same, no, could never be the same...) and miserable, counting the minutes as they ticked by, picking up the phone only to put it down, indecisive... He wanted to let it all out, the need he had, for this one boy, this one, young, cherubic little boy, that he had fallen for completely in a suburban basement, fallen in love to the soundtrack of an acoustic guitar and this voice, this wonderful, angelic voice... And how it hadn't hurt to fall, hard and fast, how it had stopped the hurt so completely, how Patrick had always stopped Pete's heart from hurting too badly. Pete wanted to put this down in words, to preserve it, in a epic poem, a song, a novel, the greatest (love) story ever told.
Pete could look for the right phrases, the most beautiful paragraphs, the similes and metaphors, he could think and muse and ponder, late into the night, but really, in the end, it boiled down to a few simple words. Love. Friendship. Understanding. Acceptance. Perfection.
Patrick. It was really all he needed (all that mattered).