I Shot The Pilot
Title: I Shot The Pilot
Author:
secularsaint:: Katie
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A maybe suicide attempt and an angry Patrick
Disclaimer: Fiction.
Author Notes: 778 words. No death, just a stupid Peter and an upset Patrick. :) Title and cut text from Brand New. If you get it, congrats, I'm not even sure I get it. My birthday is the 10th so be nice.
Peter's bed is his central command, a melting pot for ideas and thoughts. Hundreds of scraps of papers meld in with the sheets to create a mess of chaos. Spirals and journals are thrown into the mix along with Uncrustables wrappers and empty Capri-Sun pouches. There are three pillows with a fourth thrown on the floor and on the left is a little hole of clean. Just big enough for a person to curl up and not sleep.
Peter's bed is not a place to sleep. It is a place to think, and to write, and to watch, and to be observed. It sits opposite a small television set and horizontal to the closet. The walls surrounding it are painted off-white and smeared with unmentionable messes. There are posters and more paper between the smears of discoloration, but they do not make the room any less of an eyesore. The floor is competing with the bed for the biggest mess and it could be winning. Pens, markers, spirals, and months old trash litter the carpet.
Peter's bed was condemned from the start.
Peter's bed is the eye of the storm. Around it swirls malevolent thoughts, uninspiring ideas, and a tidal wave of misery. It is a tsunami, a hurricane, a thunderstorm of negativity. Combined to assault its occupant.
There is no light shining in through the windows, the sun disappeared a long time ago. In Peter's hand is a match, a long one usually used for lighting fires in a fireplace. The first thing to go up are the journals, paper feeding off of paper, leaving charred metal spirals. Then the posters are lit and then the trash on the floor. Then he places the match on the sheets and watches them go up as well. He closes his eyes. The room smells like smoke and alcohol.
He closes the door and goes into the bathroom. The door is thick and he closes and locks it. He turns the water on and starts the shower. He places the plug in the bathtub so it fills up and then looks in his medicine cabinet. He takes out a bottle of sleeping pills and gulps down more than a couple with tap water. Fully clothed he slides into the bathtub, water spraying down onto him. It takes longer then he wanted but he blacks out, smoke pouring under the crack between the door and tile.
He wakes up in a bed, one that thankfully doesn't belong to him. He knows this before he remembers the fire. When he does remember the fire he closes his eyes and forces out a cough, one that shakes his entire body and makes his head feel like it's being compressed. Someone's noticed his distress and there's a hand on his shoulder. He feels vaguely naked without a hoodie, but lets it pass when he realizes who that hand belongs to.
"Pete?" It's Patrick. Of course it's Patrick. Why wouldn't it be? "Pete, are you okay?"
He takes a general inventory and surprisingly, he doesn't feel that bad. "Yeah," he looks up at Patrick and then closes his eyes again. Suddenly there's a loud 'smack!' and his face is stinging.
"You stupid fuck! What were you fucking thinking!?" Needless to say, his eyes are open now and he closes them again just in time to receive another slap across the face. There's a pause and he opens his eyes to find Patrick glaring expectantly at him with his hands on his hips. "That was a fucking question!"
"I guess I wasn't...?" It felt like he was getting told off by his mother. It felt a lot like he was getting told off by his mother. Except, his mother never really cussed. Or slapped him.
"Why the fuck would you even try something like that?" Now, his entire body was being assaulted by angry Patrick fists. He curled his knees up to his abdomen and crossed his arms over his face. Patrick sighed angrily and either got tired of beating him up or felt some kind of sympathy for the hospital gowned figure in front of him, because he began pacing the room and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't get you. I don't fucking get it."
He looked sadly at Patrick but couldn't bring himself to look into his eyes, he tried to tell him through eye-to-elbow contact that he wasn't supposed to. When that obviously failed he made room in the bed and looked pathetically in Patrick's direction. Patrick took the hint and slipped his shoes off then slid under the blanket and settled himself, wrapping his arms around Peter. Pete, in return, wrapped his arms around Patrick and inhaled the Patrick essence. He breathed out heavily, and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."
"I know. I love you."
"I know."
Author:
secularsaint:: Katie Rating: PG-13
Summary: A maybe suicide attempt and an angry Patrick
Disclaimer: Fiction.
Author Notes: 778 words. No death, just a stupid Peter and an upset Patrick. :) Title and cut text from Brand New. If you get it, congrats, I'm not even sure I get it. My birthday is the 10th so be nice.
Peter's bed is his central command, a melting pot for ideas and thoughts. Hundreds of scraps of papers meld in with the sheets to create a mess of chaos. Spirals and journals are thrown into the mix along with Uncrustables wrappers and empty Capri-Sun pouches. There are three pillows with a fourth thrown on the floor and on the left is a little hole of clean. Just big enough for a person to curl up and not sleep.
Peter's bed is not a place to sleep. It is a place to think, and to write, and to watch, and to be observed. It sits opposite a small television set and horizontal to the closet. The walls surrounding it are painted off-white and smeared with unmentionable messes. There are posters and more paper between the smears of discoloration, but they do not make the room any less of an eyesore. The floor is competing with the bed for the biggest mess and it could be winning. Pens, markers, spirals, and months old trash litter the carpet.
Peter's bed was condemned from the start.
Peter's bed is the eye of the storm. Around it swirls malevolent thoughts, uninspiring ideas, and a tidal wave of misery. It is a tsunami, a hurricane, a thunderstorm of negativity. Combined to assault its occupant.
There is no light shining in through the windows, the sun disappeared a long time ago. In Peter's hand is a match, a long one usually used for lighting fires in a fireplace. The first thing to go up are the journals, paper feeding off of paper, leaving charred metal spirals. Then the posters are lit and then the trash on the floor. Then he places the match on the sheets and watches them go up as well. He closes his eyes. The room smells like smoke and alcohol.
He closes the door and goes into the bathroom. The door is thick and he closes and locks it. He turns the water on and starts the shower. He places the plug in the bathtub so it fills up and then looks in his medicine cabinet. He takes out a bottle of sleeping pills and gulps down more than a couple with tap water. Fully clothed he slides into the bathtub, water spraying down onto him. It takes longer then he wanted but he blacks out, smoke pouring under the crack between the door and tile.
He wakes up in a bed, one that thankfully doesn't belong to him. He knows this before he remembers the fire. When he does remember the fire he closes his eyes and forces out a cough, one that shakes his entire body and makes his head feel like it's being compressed. Someone's noticed his distress and there's a hand on his shoulder. He feels vaguely naked without a hoodie, but lets it pass when he realizes who that hand belongs to.
"Pete?" It's Patrick. Of course it's Patrick. Why wouldn't it be? "Pete, are you okay?"
He takes a general inventory and surprisingly, he doesn't feel that bad. "Yeah," he looks up at Patrick and then closes his eyes again. Suddenly there's a loud 'smack!' and his face is stinging.
"You stupid fuck! What were you fucking thinking!?" Needless to say, his eyes are open now and he closes them again just in time to receive another slap across the face. There's a pause and he opens his eyes to find Patrick glaring expectantly at him with his hands on his hips. "That was a fucking question!"
"I guess I wasn't...?" It felt like he was getting told off by his mother. It felt a lot like he was getting told off by his mother. Except, his mother never really cussed. Or slapped him.
"Why the fuck would you even try something like that?" Now, his entire body was being assaulted by angry Patrick fists. He curled his knees up to his abdomen and crossed his arms over his face. Patrick sighed angrily and either got tired of beating him up or felt some kind of sympathy for the hospital gowned figure in front of him, because he began pacing the room and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't get you. I don't fucking get it."
He looked sadly at Patrick but couldn't bring himself to look into his eyes, he tried to tell him through eye-to-elbow contact that he wasn't supposed to. When that obviously failed he made room in the bed and looked pathetically in Patrick's direction. Patrick took the hint and slipped his shoes off then slid under the blanket and settled himself, wrapping his arms around Peter. Pete, in return, wrapped his arms around Patrick and inhaled the Patrick essence. He breathed out heavily, and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."
"I know. I love you."
"I know."