Blades of Grass {CNY}
Title: Blades of Grass
Location: Central/Upstate New York
Rationg: PG (Totally harmless)
Dedication:
redzspike, my big gay best friend.
Author's Notes: A bit rushed but I hope you'll enjoy it. Keep in mind that whatever you think of when you think "New York" is wrong. Up here, everyone is backwards and sheltered. It's kind of a "simple living" sort of place.
The Motor Inn exists, unfortunately, and it's just off the thru-way -- which is a "turnpike" in any state but this one...
Ages, Peter thought, it had been ages since they’d set out on this stupid expedition of theirs and now, for whatever reason, they were spending the last days of it in God-Knows-Where, New York.
Personally, Peter had been perfectly fine with their original idea of hitting up The City and then perhaps a site or two in Canada, making a stop in Albany along the way. This plan certainly had made sense to him, and Patrick had agreed with it when it had first been proposed. There it was, then, all laid out nicely for them: the grand finale of the trip. Yeah; New York, New York, then a brief affair with America’s nearest neighbor -- Ah, just like the come-down of good sex!
Somewhere along the line, however (Pete remembered it was just after they had jumped on the New York State thru-way), Patrick had suddenly become stricken with the irrepressible urge to see the rest of the state. And begrudgingly, Peter had agreed to this; mostly because he felt that he was obligated to, but partly, too, because good ol’ Travis had sparked his interest in The 315 with all of his tales of street-smart bumpkins.
And that’s how they’d landed wherever they were now, with Pete at the wheel, barreling down some “scenic route”/backroad that was straight out of a horror flick. They were way, way out in the boondocks as far as Pete could tell, although signs told him they’d be in Utica soon, and that name was the first vaguely familiar one he’d seen in a long time.
The evening was quiet here. Winds blew carefully through the countryside and Peter hadn’t the faintest idea if they were cold winds or warm. Farmlands unfolded all around as well as in front of them, for as far as the eye could see. (It was quite a pity that at this particular moment, Patrick’s own eyes were in fact slowly but surely slipping shut.) Peter stole a glance or two at the other traveler: his forehead against the window, barely holding onto consciousness, with rows and rows of dead (or dying) trees reflecting in those deep, blue pools that looked somehow at home in all of this damned scenery. And in that moment Pete wondered what in the hell the two of them were doing out there.
In retrospect, neither boy could be entirely sure how long it was before their little car rolled into the decrepit “Motor Inn” parking lot… To a point, all of the woods and fields and woods and fields and woods around there looked identical. But here was the first neon sign (with letters missing, mind you) that they’d spotted so far and Pete gladly welcomed the sight. Patrick, however, did not.
“No,” he grunted loudly, as Pete began to slip out of the driver’s seat.
“No what?” Pete asked, certain that Patrick must just be in some groggy state of confusion.
“No, I don’t want to sleep in a hotel tonight. Especially not this one. I mean…” He sat up straight and blinked sleep from his eyes, attempting to be taken seriously. “This isn’t the city… we don’t necessarily have to have a roof over our heads. C’mon, it’s nice out.”
Peter groaned, vocalizing his apparent dissatisfaction while climbing back into the car submissively. What could he do? He didn’t want to argue, and besides, the place looked a little sub-par to their standards of “Great” hotels.
With a grand roar of the engine (not really, but Pete sometimes liked to add that to stories for good measure), they were off down the road again. This time, it took them only a few minutes to find somewhere to stop. With eyes straining against darkness and hearts straining against good judgment, the two agreed upon a clearing behind a small cluster of trees.
“Sleeping under the stars… how cliché,” Peter quipped, laying out his blanket.
“It’s also pretty cliché to run away from your problems,” replied the other, “and isn’t that exactly what we’ve been doing this whole time?”
“Touché, Stump.”
Following this brief exchange of words, the night was… well, in some respects, it was completely silent, and in others, it was louder than the city. But the two Chicago natives rather liked this, and in no time at all they were lying down beside each other -- because there’s just no other way to sleep, really.
Of course, sleeping was the very last thing on either of their minds.
Patrick was rolled up in his usual thoughtful silence, taking in inspiration and all kinds of good things from the clear country air. He noticed how bright those stars seemed… Had he ever seen them like this before?
Oh, of course not. Surely the two of them had seen stars from some spotty hotel windows, but never like this, and never so clearly, and never from that very spot. Something about this warmed him inside; The idea that perhaps never again would someone lie down in the same spot, just as they were doing, and look up at the stars. And really, didn’t that epitomize why they’d come out on this silly little trip? Each place was something new, something different… they’d take something from each stop that they couldn’t get anywhere else.
Ah, success is such a versatile thing. Patrick doubted he’d ever felt any more fulfilled because of his band (and, more guiltily, his music in general.) And on that note, he easily drifted into sleep.
Peter, on the other hand, was busy fighting off his usual late-night demons. His thoughts lay close to Patrick’s as usual, but they soon veered down a less optimistic path.
The trip was nearly over now… they were closing in on their last days before they had to go back to everything, everything that they’d abandoned to do this. Had it been worth it? Did this adventure really merit dropping the responsibilities of their band? After all, they could have just as easily had seen all of these places on tour…
And, oh, there it was. Certainly they had seen so much, they had traveled so far, but nothing compared to coming out and experiencing all of it first hand.
Still, though…
He thought back to when he’d first convinced Patrick to accompany him in this vast undertaking of his. Since then, he’d made bountiful self discovery, but he still couldn’t convince himself that it was enough.
He scowled up at the burning masses of gas -- some alive, some dead, all of them glaring down at him with the same heavenly disdain. It was sometime in that rippling sea of worried moments when everything made sense… when the world fell apart, and the pieces fell together.
This was it. This was Pete’s big, once-in-a-lifetime experience. Never again would he and Patrick go through something like this; not alone, not together. Forever, it would be something for him to look back on and draw from, something to cherish. Maybe he’d finally gotten free of the webs of fame and made a good, healthy (albeit somewhat bizarre) decision.
He understood, then, that there was more to their endeavor than wrong maps and wrong turns. The trip had been about what was right -- and about having the right person beside him for the ride. Every moment they’d spent outside of their city had been spent outside of their heads, their lives. The past, and all of its problems, meant nothing now.
So Pete turned over, then, and found Patrick’s hand in the dark. It was motionless but warm, and for now that would be fine. He pressed a kiss, stark and secret, to Patrick’s cheek. He closed his eyes.
Tonight he would be carried to sleep by the sounds of the leaves and toads and Patrick’s distinct snores, all in a perfect harmony that he would never share with the band, but would keep to himself forever.
Location: Central/Upstate New York
Rationg: PG (Totally harmless)
Dedication:
redzspike, my big gay best friend.Author's Notes: A bit rushed but I hope you'll enjoy it. Keep in mind that whatever you think of when you think "New York" is wrong. Up here, everyone is backwards and sheltered. It's kind of a "simple living" sort of place.
The Motor Inn exists, unfortunately, and it's just off the thru-way -- which is a "turnpike" in any state but this one...
Ages, Peter thought, it had been ages since they’d set out on this stupid expedition of theirs and now, for whatever reason, they were spending the last days of it in God-Knows-Where, New York.
Personally, Peter had been perfectly fine with their original idea of hitting up The City and then perhaps a site or two in Canada, making a stop in Albany along the way. This plan certainly had made sense to him, and Patrick had agreed with it when it had first been proposed. There it was, then, all laid out nicely for them: the grand finale of the trip. Yeah; New York, New York, then a brief affair with America’s nearest neighbor -- Ah, just like the come-down of good sex!
Somewhere along the line, however (Pete remembered it was just after they had jumped on the New York State thru-way), Patrick had suddenly become stricken with the irrepressible urge to see the rest of the state. And begrudgingly, Peter had agreed to this; mostly because he felt that he was obligated to, but partly, too, because good ol’ Travis had sparked his interest in The 315 with all of his tales of street-smart bumpkins.
And that’s how they’d landed wherever they were now, with Pete at the wheel, barreling down some “scenic route”/backroad that was straight out of a horror flick. They were way, way out in the boondocks as far as Pete could tell, although signs told him they’d be in Utica soon, and that name was the first vaguely familiar one he’d seen in a long time.
The evening was quiet here. Winds blew carefully through the countryside and Peter hadn’t the faintest idea if they were cold winds or warm. Farmlands unfolded all around as well as in front of them, for as far as the eye could see. (It was quite a pity that at this particular moment, Patrick’s own eyes were in fact slowly but surely slipping shut.) Peter stole a glance or two at the other traveler: his forehead against the window, barely holding onto consciousness, with rows and rows of dead (or dying) trees reflecting in those deep, blue pools that looked somehow at home in all of this damned scenery. And in that moment Pete wondered what in the hell the two of them were doing out there.
In retrospect, neither boy could be entirely sure how long it was before their little car rolled into the decrepit “Motor Inn” parking lot… To a point, all of the woods and fields and woods and fields and woods around there looked identical. But here was the first neon sign (with letters missing, mind you) that they’d spotted so far and Pete gladly welcomed the sight. Patrick, however, did not.
“No,” he grunted loudly, as Pete began to slip out of the driver’s seat.
“No what?” Pete asked, certain that Patrick must just be in some groggy state of confusion.
“No, I don’t want to sleep in a hotel tonight. Especially not this one. I mean…” He sat up straight and blinked sleep from his eyes, attempting to be taken seriously. “This isn’t the city… we don’t necessarily have to have a roof over our heads. C’mon, it’s nice out.”
Peter groaned, vocalizing his apparent dissatisfaction while climbing back into the car submissively. What could he do? He didn’t want to argue, and besides, the place looked a little sub-par to their standards of “Great” hotels.
With a grand roar of the engine (not really, but Pete sometimes liked to add that to stories for good measure), they were off down the road again. This time, it took them only a few minutes to find somewhere to stop. With eyes straining against darkness and hearts straining against good judgment, the two agreed upon a clearing behind a small cluster of trees.
“Sleeping under the stars… how cliché,” Peter quipped, laying out his blanket.
“It’s also pretty cliché to run away from your problems,” replied the other, “and isn’t that exactly what we’ve been doing this whole time?”
“Touché, Stump.”
Following this brief exchange of words, the night was… well, in some respects, it was completely silent, and in others, it was louder than the city. But the two Chicago natives rather liked this, and in no time at all they were lying down beside each other -- because there’s just no other way to sleep, really.
Of course, sleeping was the very last thing on either of their minds.
Patrick was rolled up in his usual thoughtful silence, taking in inspiration and all kinds of good things from the clear country air. He noticed how bright those stars seemed… Had he ever seen them like this before?
Oh, of course not. Surely the two of them had seen stars from some spotty hotel windows, but never like this, and never so clearly, and never from that very spot. Something about this warmed him inside; The idea that perhaps never again would someone lie down in the same spot, just as they were doing, and look up at the stars. And really, didn’t that epitomize why they’d come out on this silly little trip? Each place was something new, something different… they’d take something from each stop that they couldn’t get anywhere else.
Ah, success is such a versatile thing. Patrick doubted he’d ever felt any more fulfilled because of his band (and, more guiltily, his music in general.) And on that note, he easily drifted into sleep.
Peter, on the other hand, was busy fighting off his usual late-night demons. His thoughts lay close to Patrick’s as usual, but they soon veered down a less optimistic path.
The trip was nearly over now… they were closing in on their last days before they had to go back to everything, everything that they’d abandoned to do this. Had it been worth it? Did this adventure really merit dropping the responsibilities of their band? After all, they could have just as easily had seen all of these places on tour…
And, oh, there it was. Certainly they had seen so much, they had traveled so far, but nothing compared to coming out and experiencing all of it first hand.
Still, though…
He thought back to when he’d first convinced Patrick to accompany him in this vast undertaking of his. Since then, he’d made bountiful self discovery, but he still couldn’t convince himself that it was enough.
He scowled up at the burning masses of gas -- some alive, some dead, all of them glaring down at him with the same heavenly disdain. It was sometime in that rippling sea of worried moments when everything made sense… when the world fell apart, and the pieces fell together.
This was it. This was Pete’s big, once-in-a-lifetime experience. Never again would he and Patrick go through something like this; not alone, not together. Forever, it would be something for him to look back on and draw from, something to cherish. Maybe he’d finally gotten free of the webs of fame and made a good, healthy (albeit somewhat bizarre) decision.
He understood, then, that there was more to their endeavor than wrong maps and wrong turns. The trip had been about what was right -- and about having the right person beside him for the ride. Every moment they’d spent outside of their city had been spent outside of their heads, their lives. The past, and all of its problems, meant nothing now.
So Pete turned over, then, and found Patrick’s hand in the dark. It was motionless but warm, and for now that would be fine. He pressed a kiss, stark and secret, to Patrick’s cheek. He closed his eyes.
Tonight he would be carried to sleep by the sounds of the leaves and toads and Patrick’s distinct snores, all in a perfect harmony that he would never share with the band, but would keep to himself forever.