You ever fucked a gun before kid?
Title: “You ever fucked a gun before kid?” 1/?
Author:
breaking_vanity
Pairing:Patrick/Peter
Rating: Pg-13
POV: 3rd
Summary:“You don’t know me. Chances are you don’t even know yourself or you wouldn’t talk this way. I don’t know myself, and that’s my first clue as to what lost people sound like. So I guess that makes you a liar too, because you said you weren’t lost. Y’know the best way to figure anything out is to see it in something other then the mirror. Keep that in mind, and turn around sunshine boy.”
Disclaimer: Don’t own.
Author Notes: It’ a story im not done telling
A walk in the rain might be just the help you need to escape yourself. There are sunflowers, and then there is your name written on their petals, so what’s a dilemma if not that. A darkness that envelops a person like the aura of downpour, or a long distance phone call that ends in the middle of “I will always love you”, sadness. Like the storms go by and to some that means a new beginning, to you it means a hibernation, a sleep that will only end once the darkness passes over these lands again. In card games there is a queen of hearts, an ace of spades, and a joker. In life there is the heartbreaker, the businessman, and the lonely, all winning the game and all becoming the game soon enough. A beginner will start off not knowing much, therefore creating a monopoly of their own in seconds reigning a land they know nothing about; of course until they learn the rules and a new novice arrives. The streetlights at night are his signatures, and painting car crashes in words and dances and winks, are his hobbies. A walk in the rain is what saved him, but from what, he didn’t know until it was time to save someone else. It’s funny the way that these things work out and we do not see who we really are until it becomes apparent in someone else.
He wasn’t a strange boy, or a wide-awake one at any time before 9pm until 5am. Those were his hours to strangle nightmares in a land of eternal summer when the darkness never lasted long enough, but never ended too early. It was eerie, this schedule of his, the ways of his mind that saw people as monsters and everyday things as only moving photographs. Things of the past captured in beauty or disaster, but never real enough to touch or exist amongst. But really, it would almost be better if they were actual pictures because then he could keep them and never really feel lonely when the sun ran away. Not everyone was good at life, and some were but just not too efficient at living it. Most of them, especially this eccentric and gorgeous boy that ruled landscapes of deceased artists and the ink stains on underground artworks. The strokes of pen and paper that became fear and insignificance, that stole inspiration and dumped it upon those that least deserved it. The autographs were those of the strong and single-minded, the artistic and frowned upon, but they were what lined the sidewalks that this boy walked upon, curbs on the road, gutters on the roof, everything’s got an end, and a new beginning.
He read quotes from The Crow religiously, and believed that maybe in a different life he had the kind of love that would surpass death, but also doubted it because if it could surpass death it should be able to follow him to the afterlife and beyond. That’s why he kept knives and guns and the word revenge at an arms length away from his heart, until true love would find him once again, then maybe it would be worth it to keep wandering the streets and making friends with each raindrop because they were the only things that felt like his world, and would drench him and his lips until they would curve up in a smile or a smirk to receive the skies kisses. Little did he know that those would soon be replaced with sunburns, because the storm has to begin before it can finally be over. How many storms awaited he did not know, but what the skies healed the streets would wound once more.
Blood never fell exactly where he wanted it to, so the pages look murdered with callous intent instead of painful precision. The cuts were never right and they always went away when all he hoped for was for them to just heal pretty. Like stories told with tattoos, there should have been words spelled out with those that left and so he buried them inside his heart and tried to do the same with his body but it would not allow it, so his heart overflowed with the ghosts that the past had choked up and he didn’t know, but one day not so very soon, but not too long from now he would meet them all again in a land where the sun didn’t shine, but it was the pretty sort of overcast gray with occasional showers and no broken sidewalks.
One day after a long night spent staring at nonexistent things trapped inside four or maybe more walls, he heard footsteps through the ceiling. Like lighting was walking around and trying not to cause a racket, but failing with every move because thunder was right behind it. He shook away the monsters from inside his eyes, and checking with the mirror if it was okay to leave it behind for now he peeked out the window into a sunny day and cringed like it was burning. This would be the beginning of the last drought, but he didn’t know that yet, and no one was around to warn him except those sounds on the room were the rains sneaking away so no one would notice and make them come back. The kid cringed once again, and threw up a little bit of bile to add to the distaste of the situation, and then the mirror called him back to bed, to be with the himself, the only one that hadn’t completely run away yet.
“Just because your heart is still beating, doesn’t mean you’re alive anyways.” Like the reflection he looked desperate and cynical enough to drop a tear onto the floor and hear it splash in a deafening echo, and then another and another until someone who loved the sunshine and had finally stepped outside heard, and cared enough to knock on the door to make sure things were alright. People didn’t cry like that for no reason, and Patrick no longer needed saving so what could there be to lose, after all he really didn’t have anything to offer or to lose, except the will to live.
He didn’t know yet, but he would become a martyr for this boy. The boy whose only happiness he stole by wishing the sun out; he would eventually save [in his own way]. What an irony, what a contradiction, and most of all what a story to tell his own ghosts once it is all over. Patrick climbs the few stairs that separate the lament from the ground, and knocks on the door until his knuckles are ready to bleed and shedding bruises, but he is not ready to turn around yet. After all the day is young, and the mourning has only just begun. He stands and stands, and when the boy inside finally realizes that the stranger at the door wasn’t about to leave, he crumbles down to his knees with defeat and half walks half crawls to the sound of the knocking and heavy breathing. Peter doesn’t really know what to except, and wishes that it’s a robber with friendly tendencies or a rapist with a gun. What he gets however, is a slightly chubby, weaponless, harmless kid that he stares at not recognizing him and not really caring as to what exactly he wants.
“Can I help you? Are you lost? Because if you are, then you should ask that girl next door to show you the way became I’m the king of not being found and yet still able to lose.” Pete’s voice is scratchy and cold and unsure and snobby, and sexy all at once. It’s like the word strange has been personified into the most beautiful corpse in the graveyard. Patrick is shocked to say the very least, and the sun burns his neck to intensify every single definition of awkward tenfold.
“I’m not looking to be found, nor am I lost really. I just heard you crying and it reminded me of sadness and sunflowers at night. Out of place, waiting until they will belong again.”
“ What makes you think that my sadness is your business? Bloodshot eyes are always “in”, so I should be concerned with you and your lack of fashion.”
“Isn’t it funny, how talking about it makes it sound much more lovely than it actually is. I know that your heart breaking isn’t something you’d like to keep, if there was a chance for something better to replace it.”
“You don’t know me. Chances are you don’t even know yourself or you wouldn’t talk this way. I don’t know myself, and that’s my first clue as to what lost people sound like. So I guess that makes you a liar too, because you said you weren’t lost. Y’know the best way to figure anything out is to see it in something other then the mirror. Keep that in mind, and turn around sunshine boy.”
Pete slams the door with malice and shaking hands because he cannot believe he just did that. It was like the truth, it was like himself except for a ghost walking around knocking on doors. Except the opposite, the pessimist and the cynic meeting the martyr and the lovers. It was scary, not the fear at night kind of fear, but a shaking hands “I hope he comes back so I can do that again [apologize]” kind of way. But the side of him that came out around this boy follows suit and half crawls half walks back into the cage in his heart, hopefully to sleep and never come out again. Peter never said he wanted to live again. Not until the rain and the memories of gentle water droplet kisses come back.
Until then the window became his worst enemy and best friend, especially when he first met the two doves, two mates for life, two reasons to never give up. They came around every day around the same time of day, half mocking half helping him out, helping him get up and answer the door that Patrick beats on every day, with no particular pattern as to the times, but for some reason he always comes back. Maybe some boys have a fetish for waiting outside of doors for hours, and then sitting on the steps outside them for hours more, but Pete’s got a thing for being afraid all the time, so he just ignores it and watches the doves, who are also waiting for the storms to come back again like memories to coma patients.
See, another thing about Pete is that he’s real pretty, real gorgeous, but in the way that the humidity will make his hair frizzy and tears will turn his eyes bloodshot, and the past has already made his chest hollow, so it didn’t matter, because to the cameras in real life and the mirror he just was a well used whore. Almost lovely, but not quite, almost worth something, but not really, just a one night stand for the rain, a prolonged relationship for the sidewalks that never had a core to it, but still broke his heart all the same.
“I wonder if he’ll come back to me. I wonder if the sun is his. Like an apology, an ironic apology. A sorry that’s meaningful but is actually the exact opposite. Sympathetic in the cruelest of ways. If the rain comes back then I will have the strength to answer, until then if he waits he waits, if he doesn’t, doesn’t matter.”
[[The lights drinks too y’know, they say to justify the means of weeks and days, to slay each other the moon had reigned, forget this rain until the sin arrives again, the sun. Lost to the shadows of the dark, a paradox became an irony became a shallow word like love.]]
Birds die, wings grow old and Peter feels weary and his eyes droop and his mouth is dry, but the sky is taunting him with clouds, but these clouds become tiny tornadoes when his pupils widen and there are puddles on the ground suddenly. One night stand, we meet again, except in entirely different circumstances and ways when the door vibrates from the violence, the impatience he finally walks. But there isn’t a smile or an awkward silence to greet, instead he finally meets death straight away.
“You ever fucked a gun before kid?”
Author:
breaking_vanityPairing:Patrick/Peter
Rating: Pg-13
POV: 3rd
Summary:“You don’t know me. Chances are you don’t even know yourself or you wouldn’t talk this way. I don’t know myself, and that’s my first clue as to what lost people sound like. So I guess that makes you a liar too, because you said you weren’t lost. Y’know the best way to figure anything out is to see it in something other then the mirror. Keep that in mind, and turn around sunshine boy.”
Disclaimer: Don’t own.
Author Notes: It’ a story im not done telling
A walk in the rain might be just the help you need to escape yourself. There are sunflowers, and then there is your name written on their petals, so what’s a dilemma if not that. A darkness that envelops a person like the aura of downpour, or a long distance phone call that ends in the middle of “I will always love you”, sadness. Like the storms go by and to some that means a new beginning, to you it means a hibernation, a sleep that will only end once the darkness passes over these lands again. In card games there is a queen of hearts, an ace of spades, and a joker. In life there is the heartbreaker, the businessman, and the lonely, all winning the game and all becoming the game soon enough. A beginner will start off not knowing much, therefore creating a monopoly of their own in seconds reigning a land they know nothing about; of course until they learn the rules and a new novice arrives. The streetlights at night are his signatures, and painting car crashes in words and dances and winks, are his hobbies. A walk in the rain is what saved him, but from what, he didn’t know until it was time to save someone else. It’s funny the way that these things work out and we do not see who we really are until it becomes apparent in someone else.
He wasn’t a strange boy, or a wide-awake one at any time before 9pm until 5am. Those were his hours to strangle nightmares in a land of eternal summer when the darkness never lasted long enough, but never ended too early. It was eerie, this schedule of his, the ways of his mind that saw people as monsters and everyday things as only moving photographs. Things of the past captured in beauty or disaster, but never real enough to touch or exist amongst. But really, it would almost be better if they were actual pictures because then he could keep them and never really feel lonely when the sun ran away. Not everyone was good at life, and some were but just not too efficient at living it. Most of them, especially this eccentric and gorgeous boy that ruled landscapes of deceased artists and the ink stains on underground artworks. The strokes of pen and paper that became fear and insignificance, that stole inspiration and dumped it upon those that least deserved it. The autographs were those of the strong and single-minded, the artistic and frowned upon, but they were what lined the sidewalks that this boy walked upon, curbs on the road, gutters on the roof, everything’s got an end, and a new beginning.
He read quotes from The Crow religiously, and believed that maybe in a different life he had the kind of love that would surpass death, but also doubted it because if it could surpass death it should be able to follow him to the afterlife and beyond. That’s why he kept knives and guns and the word revenge at an arms length away from his heart, until true love would find him once again, then maybe it would be worth it to keep wandering the streets and making friends with each raindrop because they were the only things that felt like his world, and would drench him and his lips until they would curve up in a smile or a smirk to receive the skies kisses. Little did he know that those would soon be replaced with sunburns, because the storm has to begin before it can finally be over. How many storms awaited he did not know, but what the skies healed the streets would wound once more.
Blood never fell exactly where he wanted it to, so the pages look murdered with callous intent instead of painful precision. The cuts were never right and they always went away when all he hoped for was for them to just heal pretty. Like stories told with tattoos, there should have been words spelled out with those that left and so he buried them inside his heart and tried to do the same with his body but it would not allow it, so his heart overflowed with the ghosts that the past had choked up and he didn’t know, but one day not so very soon, but not too long from now he would meet them all again in a land where the sun didn’t shine, but it was the pretty sort of overcast gray with occasional showers and no broken sidewalks.
One day after a long night spent staring at nonexistent things trapped inside four or maybe more walls, he heard footsteps through the ceiling. Like lighting was walking around and trying not to cause a racket, but failing with every move because thunder was right behind it. He shook away the monsters from inside his eyes, and checking with the mirror if it was okay to leave it behind for now he peeked out the window into a sunny day and cringed like it was burning. This would be the beginning of the last drought, but he didn’t know that yet, and no one was around to warn him except those sounds on the room were the rains sneaking away so no one would notice and make them come back. The kid cringed once again, and threw up a little bit of bile to add to the distaste of the situation, and then the mirror called him back to bed, to be with the himself, the only one that hadn’t completely run away yet.
“Just because your heart is still beating, doesn’t mean you’re alive anyways.” Like the reflection he looked desperate and cynical enough to drop a tear onto the floor and hear it splash in a deafening echo, and then another and another until someone who loved the sunshine and had finally stepped outside heard, and cared enough to knock on the door to make sure things were alright. People didn’t cry like that for no reason, and Patrick no longer needed saving so what could there be to lose, after all he really didn’t have anything to offer or to lose, except the will to live.
He didn’t know yet, but he would become a martyr for this boy. The boy whose only happiness he stole by wishing the sun out; he would eventually save [in his own way]. What an irony, what a contradiction, and most of all what a story to tell his own ghosts once it is all over. Patrick climbs the few stairs that separate the lament from the ground, and knocks on the door until his knuckles are ready to bleed and shedding bruises, but he is not ready to turn around yet. After all the day is young, and the mourning has only just begun. He stands and stands, and when the boy inside finally realizes that the stranger at the door wasn’t about to leave, he crumbles down to his knees with defeat and half walks half crawls to the sound of the knocking and heavy breathing. Peter doesn’t really know what to except, and wishes that it’s a robber with friendly tendencies or a rapist with a gun. What he gets however, is a slightly chubby, weaponless, harmless kid that he stares at not recognizing him and not really caring as to what exactly he wants.
“Can I help you? Are you lost? Because if you are, then you should ask that girl next door to show you the way became I’m the king of not being found and yet still able to lose.” Pete’s voice is scratchy and cold and unsure and snobby, and sexy all at once. It’s like the word strange has been personified into the most beautiful corpse in the graveyard. Patrick is shocked to say the very least, and the sun burns his neck to intensify every single definition of awkward tenfold.
“I’m not looking to be found, nor am I lost really. I just heard you crying and it reminded me of sadness and sunflowers at night. Out of place, waiting until they will belong again.”
“ What makes you think that my sadness is your business? Bloodshot eyes are always “in”, so I should be concerned with you and your lack of fashion.”
“Isn’t it funny, how talking about it makes it sound much more lovely than it actually is. I know that your heart breaking isn’t something you’d like to keep, if there was a chance for something better to replace it.”
“You don’t know me. Chances are you don’t even know yourself or you wouldn’t talk this way. I don’t know myself, and that’s my first clue as to what lost people sound like. So I guess that makes you a liar too, because you said you weren’t lost. Y’know the best way to figure anything out is to see it in something other then the mirror. Keep that in mind, and turn around sunshine boy.”
Pete slams the door with malice and shaking hands because he cannot believe he just did that. It was like the truth, it was like himself except for a ghost walking around knocking on doors. Except the opposite, the pessimist and the cynic meeting the martyr and the lovers. It was scary, not the fear at night kind of fear, but a shaking hands “I hope he comes back so I can do that again [apologize]” kind of way. But the side of him that came out around this boy follows suit and half crawls half walks back into the cage in his heart, hopefully to sleep and never come out again. Peter never said he wanted to live again. Not until the rain and the memories of gentle water droplet kisses come back.
Until then the window became his worst enemy and best friend, especially when he first met the two doves, two mates for life, two reasons to never give up. They came around every day around the same time of day, half mocking half helping him out, helping him get up and answer the door that Patrick beats on every day, with no particular pattern as to the times, but for some reason he always comes back. Maybe some boys have a fetish for waiting outside of doors for hours, and then sitting on the steps outside them for hours more, but Pete’s got a thing for being afraid all the time, so he just ignores it and watches the doves, who are also waiting for the storms to come back again like memories to coma patients.
See, another thing about Pete is that he’s real pretty, real gorgeous, but in the way that the humidity will make his hair frizzy and tears will turn his eyes bloodshot, and the past has already made his chest hollow, so it didn’t matter, because to the cameras in real life and the mirror he just was a well used whore. Almost lovely, but not quite, almost worth something, but not really, just a one night stand for the rain, a prolonged relationship for the sidewalks that never had a core to it, but still broke his heart all the same.
“I wonder if he’ll come back to me. I wonder if the sun is his. Like an apology, an ironic apology. A sorry that’s meaningful but is actually the exact opposite. Sympathetic in the cruelest of ways. If the rain comes back then I will have the strength to answer, until then if he waits he waits, if he doesn’t, doesn’t matter.”
[[The lights drinks too y’know, they say to justify the means of weeks and days, to slay each other the moon had reigned, forget this rain until the sin arrives again, the sun. Lost to the shadows of the dark, a paradox became an irony became a shallow word like love.]]
Birds die, wings grow old and Peter feels weary and his eyes droop and his mouth is dry, but the sky is taunting him with clouds, but these clouds become tiny tornadoes when his pupils widen and there are puddles on the ground suddenly. One night stand, we meet again, except in entirely different circumstances and ways when the door vibrates from the violence, the impatience he finally walks. But there isn’t a smile or an awkward silence to greet, instead he finally meets death straight away.
“You ever fucked a gun before kid?”