Blur
Title: Blur
Summary: Their patchwork hearts slowly fell to pieces.
Author: Hikari
Rating: G, I think... I didn't put anything offensive, except the quality of my writing.
Disclaimer: I don't even own a good pair of pants, nonetheless any real people.
Author's Notes: I went to my first FOB concert last night.
Summary: Their patchwork hearts slowly fell to pieces.
Author: Hikari
Rating: G, I think... I didn't put anything offensive, except the quality of my writing.
Disclaimer: I don't even own a good pair of pants, nonetheless any real people.
Author's Notes: I went to my first FOB concert last night.
Inevitably, my voice is worn out and my legs are on the verge of collapse. There was jumping and fire and fireworks and glitter raining from the ceiling, and Patrick played Golden on a piano and Pete and Joe were playing on a Civic on the other side for at least one song, and there was (minor) stripping and they were beautiful. Now, my boyfriend (who is very supportive of my bandslash penchant, though doesn't seem to be into RPS himself) suddenly said to me on the drive home, "So, did you expect Patrick to confess his love for Pete on stage there?" I didn't get why he was suddenly teasing me. Then it hit me. The song.
They sung a few verses of this song, the theme of which was "nobody wants us to be together, but we will be anyway." Unless I misunderstood. So I thought about that, and then I thought about how energetic Patrick was, running and jumping around everywhere. (I had always heard that he was practically glued to the microphone stand during concerts.) The resulting speculation was a lot of fun.
So, this is my first story being posted on "the internets", and even though I wrote it exactly the way I wanted to, I know it's terrible. Also, I'm sure it's fraught with mistakes and misinformation, especially in terms of paragraphs and perspective and personality. I reused some words and phrases, which I hate doing. And my note is way too long. Please forgive me anyway. </notes>
Pete, crazy, hyper, screamcore scenemaker Pete, was smiling that gooey smile at him, and he smiled it right back. Patrick was never very good with attention, but between the Sold Out signs and the cheering kids he could see peeking out from under his hat, his heart was soaring.
Cue the powdered white ground. Pete moved in closer, but Patrick just moved to another microphone. They finished, and Patrick put his glasses back on, now seeing the full extent of Pete sulking. Pete was inconsolable for exactly three hours and twenty-seven minutes, and Patrick gave him a hug, even if he didn't know why.
Run away to city streets and playing cards. The situation was mounting, up and down, unbearable, barely noticed but felt in the shoulders. Patrick was forced to go hatless, but hey, at least Pete got to kill people, right? Cameras blurred by, and they crowded around the glow of the final cut. Happy, forgettable chatting followed the band out. As they were about to part ways, Patrick took one last courageous glance at Pete. His mouth showed cocky grin, but his eyes held crushing sadness. In that moment, Patrick's anti-Pete shield took a huge hit, because with regret and sorrow and a broken heart, he knew he wouldn't hear about those desperate tears.
"Patrick, Patrick, Patrick." The bassist slammed his hands down onto the singer's shoulders with each chant. "I wrote this whole song by myself, and I know we're recording soon, so I need you to do this for me." Patrick gave him listening eyes, ignoring the fission burning his shoulders. "Just, just, sing it, but only look at one line at a time. It has to be like that. I don't care if you change it later or scrap it or anything, please, I need this, please." Patrick couldn't find the heart to argue. The younger man gave an affectionate smile, and a bit of gooey that had been missing for months oozed back into its answer.
The studio whipped into their eyes, and the moment came. Patrick started, and he thought of Pete, and he couldn't help but pour his soul into his pitches. He drew out the end, then furrowed his brow. Putting up a friendly hand to shield from compliments, "Hold on a minute, guys, I gotta use the bathroom." As soon as the lock clicked, Patrick broke down and cried.
He came back and hid further behind his hat, now accepting comments. He changed a couple of words - letters, really; and they recorded it right. Then he gave it a mean name, to remind himself of what he fiercely believed he should never do.
Those tears would not hear the light of day for far too long.
"Hey, Patrick, listen, I need to-"
"No, Pete, just-"
"But I-"
"Don't do this, Pete."
Pete slumped down defeated. Patrick walked away.
They hit bigger success and richer notes, and the tension was pushed far into the background, a joke on the wall in the music video of their lives. They laughed, they did interviews, they covered up any chance for happiness. It's too weird, we're just messing around, we have some crazy fans. Their patchwork hearts slowly fell to pieces.
Years and tours passed, and they were both finally alone. Patrick sat reading a magazine, and Pete sat watching him. His sideward glances turned to steely resolve, and he crept up to the oblivious younger man.
Pete kissed Patrick.
The singer pulled back and looked up, furrowing his brow.
"Still?"
"Always."
They sung a few verses of this song, the theme of which was "nobody wants us to be together, but we will be anyway." Unless I misunderstood. So I thought about that, and then I thought about how energetic Patrick was, running and jumping around everywhere. (I had always heard that he was practically glued to the microphone stand during concerts.) The resulting speculation was a lot of fun.
So, this is my first story being posted on "the internets", and even though I wrote it exactly the way I wanted to, I know it's terrible. Also, I'm sure it's fraught with mistakes and misinformation, especially in terms of paragraphs and perspective and personality. I reused some words and phrases, which I hate doing. And my note is way too long. Please forgive me anyway. </notes>
Pete, crazy, hyper, screamcore scenemaker Pete, was smiling that gooey smile at him, and he smiled it right back. Patrick was never very good with attention, but between the Sold Out signs and the cheering kids he could see peeking out from under his hat, his heart was soaring.
Cue the powdered white ground. Pete moved in closer, but Patrick just moved to another microphone. They finished, and Patrick put his glasses back on, now seeing the full extent of Pete sulking. Pete was inconsolable for exactly three hours and twenty-seven minutes, and Patrick gave him a hug, even if he didn't know why.
Run away to city streets and playing cards. The situation was mounting, up and down, unbearable, barely noticed but felt in the shoulders. Patrick was forced to go hatless, but hey, at least Pete got to kill people, right? Cameras blurred by, and they crowded around the glow of the final cut. Happy, forgettable chatting followed the band out. As they were about to part ways, Patrick took one last courageous glance at Pete. His mouth showed cocky grin, but his eyes held crushing sadness. In that moment, Patrick's anti-Pete shield took a huge hit, because with regret and sorrow and a broken heart, he knew he wouldn't hear about those desperate tears.
"Patrick, Patrick, Patrick." The bassist slammed his hands down onto the singer's shoulders with each chant. "I wrote this whole song by myself, and I know we're recording soon, so I need you to do this for me." Patrick gave him listening eyes, ignoring the fission burning his shoulders. "Just, just, sing it, but only look at one line at a time. It has to be like that. I don't care if you change it later or scrap it or anything, please, I need this, please." Patrick couldn't find the heart to argue. The younger man gave an affectionate smile, and a bit of gooey that had been missing for months oozed back into its answer.
The studio whipped into their eyes, and the moment came. Patrick started, and he thought of Pete, and he couldn't help but pour his soul into his pitches. He drew out the end, then furrowed his brow. Putting up a friendly hand to shield from compliments, "Hold on a minute, guys, I gotta use the bathroom." As soon as the lock clicked, Patrick broke down and cried.
He came back and hid further behind his hat, now accepting comments. He changed a couple of words - letters, really; and they recorded it right. Then he gave it a mean name, to remind himself of what he fiercely believed he should never do.
Those tears would not hear the light of day for far too long.
"Hey, Patrick, listen, I need to-"
"No, Pete, just-"
"But I-"
"Don't do this, Pete."
Pete slumped down defeated. Patrick walked away.
They hit bigger success and richer notes, and the tension was pushed far into the background, a joke on the wall in the music video of their lives. They laughed, they did interviews, they covered up any chance for happiness. It's too weird, we're just messing around, we have some crazy fans. Their patchwork hearts slowly fell to pieces.
Years and tours passed, and they were both finally alone. Patrick sat reading a magazine, and Pete sat watching him. His sideward glances turned to steely resolve, and he crept up to the oblivious younger man.
Pete kissed Patrick.
The singer pulled back and looked up, furrowing his brow.
"Still?"
"Always."