A Pillowcase Correspondence, Letter 10
Title: A Pillowcase Correspondence, Letter 10
Authors:
megyal and lesinnocents
Rating: R at the moment
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Summary: Dear Pete...
Disclaimer: 100% Unreal.
AN: I apologize for the break. The time-frame in these tend to jump around, not in the letters themselves, but in the live-action parts. I thought you might want to note that. And I just wanted a chance to use the phrase 'live-action'.
||Letter 1||Letter 2||Letter 3||Letter 4||Letter 5||Letter 6||Letter 7||Letter 8||Letter 9||
Dear Peter,
So this is what is called a tour. It’s crazy. I mean, when last have I changed this shirt? I can't remember. I called my mother from that payphone near that gas-station last night and she was like 'Patrick, where are you?" and I couldn't recall where I was. I had to reassure her that I was ok, that I was eating properly and that you weren't a bad influence on me.
That last one, I may have had to lie. Just a little.
I can't get over the reaction we've been getting. It's cool. We will probably never get to the level of people screaming our names in stadiums, but seriously, this is the most fun I've ever had in my life. Maybe the most fun I ever will. You may have noticed, but I love music. I grew up around it. I think I want to be made of whole notes and have my heart beat in four-four time. I want to breathe in the right pitch.
If possible, I'd do this for the rest of my life, earn a little money and I'd be content.
The drunken roar of the small crowd continued to reverberate in Patrick's head as he tugged the material of his t-shirt away from his skin, grimacing. The heat of the night pressed heavily against his bare head and he wondered where his hat had gotten to; it had been knocked off by the whirling dervish called Wentz during the second song, taking the attention away from Patrick's unsure, wavering voice. The wall he was now leaning on was cool in its support, the hard lines of the brick-work pressing into the soft planes of his back and he breathed deep, trying to catch back his breath. It had been incredibly nerve-wracking, going in front of that crowd, facing their hard, mocking eyes. The kids in this scene were made of entirely of brazen thorns and Pete had plunged right into them, absorbing their derisive yells and flinging them right back. Patrick sighed and pressed the back of his head against the wall. He was younger than nearly everyone there and he was sure they could smell the nervousness on him, like feral wolves happening on defenseless prey.
He glanced at Pete striding off the tiny stage, smiling lightly at the yells of the patrons as the main act went on from the other side. Patrick quelled a sliver of annoyed admiration: Pete looked as if he was merely taking stroll in the fresh autumn breeze; sweaty, yes, but not running in rivulets like Patrick. He gave Patrick a quick glance as he passed so close to him, bumping the bass guitar against his own thigh.
"You did good," Pete offered, still walking down the dim hallway, now looking back at Patrick over his shoulder. "I mean, you went kinda flat in the bridge, but yeah. Good."
Patrick pushed himself off the wall and followed, feeling like a lost puppy. He hated that feeling. Pete had given him the chance of a lifetime, this opportunity he'd been dreaming of since he was a little kid, and all he could do after each loud show was trail behind Wentz like...like some project. He wasn't that blind. Chris had explained to him what sort of person Pete was. He took fiery interest in someone new, burning them up with long smoldering looks until the person gave up, their skin aflame. "Watch him," Chris had warned. "He's my friend and I love him, seriously. But watch him."
That's what everyone said: Watch him. So Patrick watched. It wasn't hard to focus on someone like Pete; he was like a black hole, grasping insidiously onto everything in his vicinity, draining and assimilating it until it became all his, permanently. At times, Patrick thought it would be nice to become a part of that which belonged to Pete, to feel his consideration settle heavily on him, those brown eyes twinkling between hilarity and dark cynicism. Most times, however, Patrick's natural obstinacy took over and he resisted whatever strange pull Pete was imposing on him. He was aware that this intrigued Pete, maybe too much. The more he dug his heels in, struggling against whatever it was Pete was doing (he didn't quite understand it, himself), the more Pete felt the need to drag him in.
One day, something is going to give, Patrick thought to himself, watching Pete's spiky hair being lit up intermittently by the buzzing fluorescent lights. He thought that it would be himself that would surrender first. Pete was older after all; he had the benefit of experience.
The black t-shirt still clung to him as they exited into the dusty parking lot, the air, even out here, was redolent with the smell of cigarettes and beer, sharp fumes sewn into his shirt and jeans, even into his skin. Andy had been especially displeased, but had been placated with a few hurried words from Pete. Patrick walked over to where he was now packing some parts of the drum-kit into his car, leaving the rest to be stuffed into the other vehicle that Joe had borrowed from his parents. He picked up one of the crash-cymbals and helped stow it away, then struggled with the bass-drum into the larger trunk of Joe's car.
"Next gig is...?" Andy was exhausted, his speech low and careful. Patrick carefully stuck the drumsticks into the side pocket of Andy’s driver-side door, listening to Pete bicker with Andy about staying in the basement for the night. Andy's refusal was curt, as only Andy could do; classes in the morning, lecturers to argue with, grades to get.
"I have classes too," Pete said mockingly and Andy simply rolled his eyes. "Fine. See you in another week. Let's go," he now said to Patrick, not sounding tired at all. Patrick didn't know where he got the energy from, seemingly unending. "You staying over by me?"
Patrick hesitated, watching Joe and Chris struggle with the last of the wires and instruments. He almost said yes, knowing that Pete would find some way to snuggle up next to him wherever they might lie down in the basement, his breath warm against the crook of Patrick's neck, keeping him awake. He almost said yes without thinking about any of the ramifications at all, automatically giving a response just because Pete had looked had him with intent.
"No," he managed. "My mom...she said--"
"I remember what she said." Pete's smile was hard at the edges. He raised his voice a little, going up an octave. "'Make sure he gets home, his dad is coming by tomorrow and I don't need to hear anything about Patrick not being in the house.'"
"My mother doesn't sound like that," Patrick retorted, climbing into the car as Joe started it. He was more than glad when Pete chose to sit in front and Chris curled his taller frame into Patrick's side, muttering companionably about beer. Pete turned and regarded them, his gaze flickering to where Chris was resting his head on Patrick's shoulder, almost fully asleep. His eyes slid back up to meet Patrick's, the smiling mockery in them tinged with an odd gleam that Patrick couldn't get to read, before Pete turned back around and snapped on the radio.
Chris' weight was surprisingly consoling and Patrick didn't realize he had dozed off until his door popped open and he was being dragged bodily out into the warm night. Chris' sleepy complaint was muffled as the car-door slammed and Patrick felt an arm slip around his waist, supporting him as they went up the slight incline of a drive-way. His driveway. He'd know this cobbled pattern underfoot anywhere and he giggled a little, feeling silly in his half-asleep condition. He was propped up against the screen-door brusquely and squirmed as Pete went through his jeans’ pockets, searching for the key.
"Back pocket," he breathed, eyes still closed as Pete's hands rested questioningly on his hips. "The key with the notch in it."
"Hmm." Pete's fingers dipped into the pocket instantly and Patrick inhaled slowly as he felt the pressure against his ass, pressing in a little before withdrawing too quickly. "Here it is."
Patrick opened his eyes halfway to discover that Pete had already opened the door and was pulling him into his own house, the throttling of the car engine fading away as they went through the kitchen, down a couple of steps and into the quiet hallway, passing his mother's barely shut door. It was the slice of darkness between the whiteness of this door and its frame that pushed Patrick back into full-wakefulness, hearing his mother's short breaths and mutters as she turned over in bed.
"Be quiet," he hissed unnecessarily at Pete as he was pushed into his own room, blinking owlishly as the light was snapped on and Pete stood against the door, looking at him. He wanted to take a step back, because they were standing too close, Pete's warmth warring with the stuffy heat of the room. "Oh...um. Thanks."
"No problem." Pete was turning his head to the side, taking in Patrick's messy room out of the corner of his eye, while seeming to dare Patrick at the same time, move away, just take that step back, I know you want to do it. His gaze hardened and grew quizzical at the same time when Patrick stood his ground, breathing deeply. "You're the most confusing person I've ever met."
Patrick stared at him. He opened his mouth to snap something back at Pete, something highly acidic, something that would sear Pete straight down to the bone the way Pete's stares did to him, when Pete leaned forward and kissed him, grabbing him by the back of the neck as if Patrick would try to escape. Patrick went stock-still, gasping as Pete pushed forward even more, feeling more than hearing the faint clink of their teeth together. He barely had time to pull in a proper breath when Pete's hand fell away and he drew back, looking at Patrick with disquiet.
"Look, I didn't--" he started and Patrick didn't want to hear any excuses, so he kissed him back; and maybe that was a more ruinous move, because he was crowded right up against the lean line of Pete's body, one leg thrust between his thighs, mouth moving clumsily over Pete's. His hands were in Pete's hair, on Pete's shoulders, desperate and clinging; Pete's mouth was open and willing underneath his, tongue slipping out to stroke against Patrick's and it was all too rough and fast. It was nothing like kissing a girl. It was the most insane kiss he had ever been involved in and Patrick moaned, scrambling for a better hold as Pete's hands roamed down his back.
He pulled away with a rough groan, stumbling back and staring at Pete, whose mouth was swollen and red, his eyes closed as he inhaled raggedly, hands pressing flat against the door, fingers arching and trembling against the painted wood. Finally, he opened his eyes, blinking at Patrick, who felt a strange urge to apologize and opened his mouth to do so.
Pete shook his head slightly, a strange warning as his eyes flashed. Patrick snapped his mouth shut and continued to look at him, trying to find some answer in the flush of his cheeks, the furious curve of his eyebrows and coming up empty.
"I'll see you," Pete croaked and then cleared his throat. Patrick turned his head away slightly, pretending to inspect a stack of magazines. "Later."
Pete left the light on as he slipped out the door. Patrick felt strangely exposed, listening to the car back out of the driveway and rumble down the street.
So I haven't written back in so long. Maybe you think that your last letter scared me off. It didn't. It's just that you're so intense and when all that intensity is focused in my direction, its a little unsettling.
It's not unwelcome. I need you to understand that.
I mean, I've never had anyone pay such close attention to me before, like you do. My skin...I suppose I inherited that from my mother. But people I know would point that out in relation to her. You, you talked about it like it had such an effect on you.
Since I'm writing, then at least I can put down words what I cannot say to your face: you have no idea how it feels to have an impact on you. You will never know what it means to sit on the edge of people's attention and watch you smile at them, dazzle them, take them into your circle with your laugh and then...and then turn to me and look at me as if there's a secret hidden between us. Like there's something that no-one else needs to know, because its for you and me only.
Then, I feel a little sense of loss, like an uncertain mourning, because I figure that with your attention span, the intensity will be gone sooner or later. Personally, I would prefer that it ends up being much later. I might not be a drama-queen like you, but everyone wants to be fussed over, sometimes.
I do want to save you. But for myself.
Authors:
megyal and lesinnocentsRating: R at the moment
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Summary: Dear Pete...
Disclaimer: 100% Unreal.
AN: I apologize for the break. The time-frame in these tend to jump around, not in the letters themselves, but in the live-action parts. I thought you might want to note that. And I just wanted a chance to use the phrase 'live-action'.
||Letter 1||Letter 2||Letter 3||Letter 4||Letter 5||Letter 6||Letter 7||Letter 8||Letter 9||
Dear Peter,
So this is what is called a tour. It’s crazy. I mean, when last have I changed this shirt? I can't remember. I called my mother from that payphone near that gas-station last night and she was like 'Patrick, where are you?" and I couldn't recall where I was. I had to reassure her that I was ok, that I was eating properly and that you weren't a bad influence on me.
That last one, I may have had to lie. Just a little.
I can't get over the reaction we've been getting. It's cool. We will probably never get to the level of people screaming our names in stadiums, but seriously, this is the most fun I've ever had in my life. Maybe the most fun I ever will. You may have noticed, but I love music. I grew up around it. I think I want to be made of whole notes and have my heart beat in four-four time. I want to breathe in the right pitch.
If possible, I'd do this for the rest of my life, earn a little money and I'd be content.
The drunken roar of the small crowd continued to reverberate in Patrick's head as he tugged the material of his t-shirt away from his skin, grimacing. The heat of the night pressed heavily against his bare head and he wondered where his hat had gotten to; it had been knocked off by the whirling dervish called Wentz during the second song, taking the attention away from Patrick's unsure, wavering voice. The wall he was now leaning on was cool in its support, the hard lines of the brick-work pressing into the soft planes of his back and he breathed deep, trying to catch back his breath. It had been incredibly nerve-wracking, going in front of that crowd, facing their hard, mocking eyes. The kids in this scene were made of entirely of brazen thorns and Pete had plunged right into them, absorbing their derisive yells and flinging them right back. Patrick sighed and pressed the back of his head against the wall. He was younger than nearly everyone there and he was sure they could smell the nervousness on him, like feral wolves happening on defenseless prey.
He glanced at Pete striding off the tiny stage, smiling lightly at the yells of the patrons as the main act went on from the other side. Patrick quelled a sliver of annoyed admiration: Pete looked as if he was merely taking stroll in the fresh autumn breeze; sweaty, yes, but not running in rivulets like Patrick. He gave Patrick a quick glance as he passed so close to him, bumping the bass guitar against his own thigh.
"You did good," Pete offered, still walking down the dim hallway, now looking back at Patrick over his shoulder. "I mean, you went kinda flat in the bridge, but yeah. Good."
Patrick pushed himself off the wall and followed, feeling like a lost puppy. He hated that feeling. Pete had given him the chance of a lifetime, this opportunity he'd been dreaming of since he was a little kid, and all he could do after each loud show was trail behind Wentz like...like some project. He wasn't that blind. Chris had explained to him what sort of person Pete was. He took fiery interest in someone new, burning them up with long smoldering looks until the person gave up, their skin aflame. "Watch him," Chris had warned. "He's my friend and I love him, seriously. But watch him."
That's what everyone said: Watch him. So Patrick watched. It wasn't hard to focus on someone like Pete; he was like a black hole, grasping insidiously onto everything in his vicinity, draining and assimilating it until it became all his, permanently. At times, Patrick thought it would be nice to become a part of that which belonged to Pete, to feel his consideration settle heavily on him, those brown eyes twinkling between hilarity and dark cynicism. Most times, however, Patrick's natural obstinacy took over and he resisted whatever strange pull Pete was imposing on him. He was aware that this intrigued Pete, maybe too much. The more he dug his heels in, struggling against whatever it was Pete was doing (he didn't quite understand it, himself), the more Pete felt the need to drag him in.
One day, something is going to give, Patrick thought to himself, watching Pete's spiky hair being lit up intermittently by the buzzing fluorescent lights. He thought that it would be himself that would surrender first. Pete was older after all; he had the benefit of experience.
The black t-shirt still clung to him as they exited into the dusty parking lot, the air, even out here, was redolent with the smell of cigarettes and beer, sharp fumes sewn into his shirt and jeans, even into his skin. Andy had been especially displeased, but had been placated with a few hurried words from Pete. Patrick walked over to where he was now packing some parts of the drum-kit into his car, leaving the rest to be stuffed into the other vehicle that Joe had borrowed from his parents. He picked up one of the crash-cymbals and helped stow it away, then struggled with the bass-drum into the larger trunk of Joe's car.
"Next gig is...?" Andy was exhausted, his speech low and careful. Patrick carefully stuck the drumsticks into the side pocket of Andy’s driver-side door, listening to Pete bicker with Andy about staying in the basement for the night. Andy's refusal was curt, as only Andy could do; classes in the morning, lecturers to argue with, grades to get.
"I have classes too," Pete said mockingly and Andy simply rolled his eyes. "Fine. See you in another week. Let's go," he now said to Patrick, not sounding tired at all. Patrick didn't know where he got the energy from, seemingly unending. "You staying over by me?"
Patrick hesitated, watching Joe and Chris struggle with the last of the wires and instruments. He almost said yes, knowing that Pete would find some way to snuggle up next to him wherever they might lie down in the basement, his breath warm against the crook of Patrick's neck, keeping him awake. He almost said yes without thinking about any of the ramifications at all, automatically giving a response just because Pete had looked had him with intent.
"No," he managed. "My mom...she said--"
"I remember what she said." Pete's smile was hard at the edges. He raised his voice a little, going up an octave. "'Make sure he gets home, his dad is coming by tomorrow and I don't need to hear anything about Patrick not being in the house.'"
"My mother doesn't sound like that," Patrick retorted, climbing into the car as Joe started it. He was more than glad when Pete chose to sit in front and Chris curled his taller frame into Patrick's side, muttering companionably about beer. Pete turned and regarded them, his gaze flickering to where Chris was resting his head on Patrick's shoulder, almost fully asleep. His eyes slid back up to meet Patrick's, the smiling mockery in them tinged with an odd gleam that Patrick couldn't get to read, before Pete turned back around and snapped on the radio.
Chris' weight was surprisingly consoling and Patrick didn't realize he had dozed off until his door popped open and he was being dragged bodily out into the warm night. Chris' sleepy complaint was muffled as the car-door slammed and Patrick felt an arm slip around his waist, supporting him as they went up the slight incline of a drive-way. His driveway. He'd know this cobbled pattern underfoot anywhere and he giggled a little, feeling silly in his half-asleep condition. He was propped up against the screen-door brusquely and squirmed as Pete went through his jeans’ pockets, searching for the key.
"Back pocket," he breathed, eyes still closed as Pete's hands rested questioningly on his hips. "The key with the notch in it."
"Hmm." Pete's fingers dipped into the pocket instantly and Patrick inhaled slowly as he felt the pressure against his ass, pressing in a little before withdrawing too quickly. "Here it is."
Patrick opened his eyes halfway to discover that Pete had already opened the door and was pulling him into his own house, the throttling of the car engine fading away as they went through the kitchen, down a couple of steps and into the quiet hallway, passing his mother's barely shut door. It was the slice of darkness between the whiteness of this door and its frame that pushed Patrick back into full-wakefulness, hearing his mother's short breaths and mutters as she turned over in bed.
"Be quiet," he hissed unnecessarily at Pete as he was pushed into his own room, blinking owlishly as the light was snapped on and Pete stood against the door, looking at him. He wanted to take a step back, because they were standing too close, Pete's warmth warring with the stuffy heat of the room. "Oh...um. Thanks."
"No problem." Pete was turning his head to the side, taking in Patrick's messy room out of the corner of his eye, while seeming to dare Patrick at the same time, move away, just take that step back, I know you want to do it. His gaze hardened and grew quizzical at the same time when Patrick stood his ground, breathing deeply. "You're the most confusing person I've ever met."
Patrick stared at him. He opened his mouth to snap something back at Pete, something highly acidic, something that would sear Pete straight down to the bone the way Pete's stares did to him, when Pete leaned forward and kissed him, grabbing him by the back of the neck as if Patrick would try to escape. Patrick went stock-still, gasping as Pete pushed forward even more, feeling more than hearing the faint clink of their teeth together. He barely had time to pull in a proper breath when Pete's hand fell away and he drew back, looking at Patrick with disquiet.
"Look, I didn't--" he started and Patrick didn't want to hear any excuses, so he kissed him back; and maybe that was a more ruinous move, because he was crowded right up against the lean line of Pete's body, one leg thrust between his thighs, mouth moving clumsily over Pete's. His hands were in Pete's hair, on Pete's shoulders, desperate and clinging; Pete's mouth was open and willing underneath his, tongue slipping out to stroke against Patrick's and it was all too rough and fast. It was nothing like kissing a girl. It was the most insane kiss he had ever been involved in and Patrick moaned, scrambling for a better hold as Pete's hands roamed down his back.
He pulled away with a rough groan, stumbling back and staring at Pete, whose mouth was swollen and red, his eyes closed as he inhaled raggedly, hands pressing flat against the door, fingers arching and trembling against the painted wood. Finally, he opened his eyes, blinking at Patrick, who felt a strange urge to apologize and opened his mouth to do so.
Pete shook his head slightly, a strange warning as his eyes flashed. Patrick snapped his mouth shut and continued to look at him, trying to find some answer in the flush of his cheeks, the furious curve of his eyebrows and coming up empty.
"I'll see you," Pete croaked and then cleared his throat. Patrick turned his head away slightly, pretending to inspect a stack of magazines. "Later."
Pete left the light on as he slipped out the door. Patrick felt strangely exposed, listening to the car back out of the driveway and rumble down the street.
So I haven't written back in so long. Maybe you think that your last letter scared me off. It didn't. It's just that you're so intense and when all that intensity is focused in my direction, its a little unsettling.
It's not unwelcome. I need you to understand that.
I mean, I've never had anyone pay such close attention to me before, like you do. My skin...I suppose I inherited that from my mother. But people I know would point that out in relation to her. You, you talked about it like it had such an effect on you.
Since I'm writing, then at least I can put down words what I cannot say to your face: you have no idea how it feels to have an impact on you. You will never know what it means to sit on the edge of people's attention and watch you smile at them, dazzle them, take them into your circle with your laugh and then...and then turn to me and look at me as if there's a secret hidden between us. Like there's something that no-one else needs to know, because its for you and me only.
Then, I feel a little sense of loss, like an uncertain mourning, because I figure that with your attention span, the intensity will be gone sooner or later. Personally, I would prefer that it ends up being much later. I might not be a drama-queen like you, but everyone wants to be fussed over, sometimes.
I do want to save you. But for myself.