I Will Remember This 'Til The Day I Die
Title: I Will Remember This 'Til The Day I Die
Author: Sue (
pseudonumity), otherwise known as...Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Pete and Patrick watch the sun rise.
Author's Note (1): Dudes, seriously. This province is beautiful. Pictures (I II III)!
Author's Note (2): The Wentz is infinitely quotable, but dear shit that boy's grammar hurts my brain.
Disclaimer: Not true and not mine.
Research Materials: Have any of you ever heard a Newfoundland accent? (In all fairness, this guy is a Cape Bretoner doing an impression, but it's fairly accurate.)
I Will Remember This 'Til The Day I Die
Patrick's innate sarcasm begged him to make some little quip about driving cross-country in a plane, but Pete's silence told him it wasn't the time. Patrick knew Pete like no one else. He'd seen his deepest thoughts on scattered papers and in 3:00 am e-mails. He'd joined Pete in his good moods, coaxed him through the bad ones, and memorized all the words he'd never said. He didn't need to know what was going on inside Pete's head, he just needed to know that something was, and that he was supposed to come along. And he did. He sat in silence on the way to the airport, and stood by while Pete bought two plane tickets to "as far east as the continent will let me go."
They'd barely rested at all in the hotel, and the flight from London to Toronto wasn't nearly long enough to sleep. There was more time on the flight to Halifax, and by the time they made the final connection through to Newfoundland they were fully refreshed.
The speakers crackled above them and an overly-enthusiastic stewardess announced their arrival. "We're now touching down in St. John's, Newfoundland. The local time is 5:33 am and the current temperature is fourteen degrees Celsius. Thank you for flying Air Canada, and we hope you enjoy your stay." The voice then repeated itself in French before clicking off. Everyone stood up and grabbed their bags, making their way off the plane and into the small airport.
Patrick waited for their bags as Pete found an information desk and rifled through the pamphlets.
"Can I help you with anything?" enquired the agent at the desk. She had a vague accent that Pete couldn't really place, almost like a hint of lazy Irish she was trying to keep hidden.
"Yeah..." replied Pete, absently, "I want to go east." He turned to face her. "I want to see the sun before anyone else."
Even looking at him head on, the agent didn't seem to recognize Pete. He was actually glad for the moment of social normalcy. "Well, you can't get much further east than here. Cape Spear is the most easterly point of North America, but if you're willing to sacrifice about five kilometers, you could go to Signal Hill and have the whole city below you."
Pete furrowed his brow thoughtfully and accepted the small map she held out to him. "Thanks," he said, and turned back in search of Patrick, who had already grabbed their bags and was headed his way.
"We probably could have left these in London," commented Patrick, dragging a bag devoted to hoodies behind him.
Pete replied with a con-committal grunt and took half the load, leading the way out to a line of cabs.
"Where ya headed?" asked a short man at the head of the line. He had a much thicker accent than the girl at the desk and it sounded more like "wurya'ed'd", but Pete still managed to get the idea.
"Signal Hill."
"Signal 'ill, yes yeah. Twenty bucks." He gestured to the first cabbie, who helped load the bags into the trunk before climbing back into his car and whisking Pete and Patrick off.
"Whadaya at, b'y?"
Pete and Patrick blinked at each other. "...Fine..." said Patrick, not really sure how he was meant to reply.
The cabbie let out a boisterous laugh. "Mainlanders, is ya? Welcome to The Rock." He slowed his speech somewhat to accommodate them.
"Thanks," replied Pete.
"So off to Signal 'ill?" He continued without waiting for an answer. "Yes b'y. Some beautiful spot, she is. You don't want no 'otel first? Drop off yer bags?"
"No," said Pete. "We're only here for a few hours."
They drove quickly past a semi-suburban area and into what looked like an older part of town. The streets narrowed, joining up and splitting off at random intervals, wrapping themselves around the natural hills of the city. Victorian-style houses and centuries-old cemeteries lined the streets. They sloped down a hill set at an insane angle before hanging a hard right and heading back up another one that was just as steep.
"Well, whenever yer done just give us a 'ollar and we'll getcha right back." He plucked a bright orange business card from the dashboard and passed it to them as they reached the base of Signal Hill and began their ascent.
The long road took them past a building that looked too modern to really belong, and up to the top of the hill (which felt more like a small mountain). The entire plateau was covered by a parking lot, and at one end there was a building that looked like it had been modeled after a miniature castle.
"Cabot Tower, she is," commented the cabbie as he unloaded their bags and set them near a retaining wall. "Marconi got the 'S' up 'ere more'n a 'undred years ago. First thing to cross d'Atlantic."
Patrick nodded as he handed over a twenty and turned back to Pete, who was staring off into the distance.
Bits of mist and fog hung over the ocean, making it hard to see the moon reflecting off it. The hill (mountain) sprawled out in front of them, a beautifully harsh field of natural rocks and artificial paths. The ocean blew salty air in their faces and the cool breeze went right through Patrick. He shuddered in the wind, but the drop in temperature was quickly negated by the warm hand that crept into his.
Pete pulled Patrick into a slow walk around the lot. Over towards the tower, the view revealed The Narrows, a sort of an inlet between Signal Hill and another mountain on the other side. The city harbour lined one side of the inlet and poured back into the lights of the city. It wasn't large, and from their perch they could see right to it's edges where they tapered out into strips of highway lights.
When they arrived back at their luggage, Pete hopped the low retaining wall and sat on it, facing out towards the ocean. Patrick followed suit, wrapping on arm around Pete and looking out over the water with him.
"You're cold," said Pete, feeling Patrick's slight shiver.
"You're warm," Patrick replied, hugging into him a little closer.
Pete put an arm over Patrick's shoulder. "Stay close then." Pete placed a long kiss on Patrick's temple. "Thank you for coming with me," he whispered against the soft skin.
Patrick smiled. "You knew I would. Even before you asked, you knew I would." He laughed a little. "Even before you asked, I knew I would."
Pete smiled. "Because you love me?"
"Because I belong to you."
Pete furrowed a little. "You don't... You don't have to do everything I say. I don't own you."
Patrick laughed again and looked Pete in the eyes. "Pete, I want to belong to you. I'll do anything you want me to because you want it, and if you want it, I want you to have it."
Pete was a person who could find words for anything. He prided himself on the fact that he could rhapsodize for hours about love, loss, friendship, and pain. Somehow it made him love Patrick even more that he could render him speechless. The smile that crept across Patrick's face told him that he loved it just as much.
"Tell me you love me," prompted Patrick, eyes on the ocean.
"I love you," Pete replied.
"I love you, too." Pete wondered for a moment if his eyes were playing tricks on him because Patrick's face suddenly took on a warm glow. "You're missing it."
Pete was confused, but quickly realized that the glow was being cast by the sun breaking over the horizon. The thin, yellow sliver grew as it climbed the sky and turned it first orange, then pink, then a soft, lavender-tinted blue. The ocean held up it's image, filling the entire panorama with soft, vibrant light. Pete and Patrick didn't speak for half an hour as the world revealed itself. A thick wave of fog poured down the hill on the other side of the narrows, and the rough, jagged edges of the rock formations came to life, flaunting their patches of moss and grass.
"It's beautiful," commented Patrick.
"It really is," came Pete's voice, right next to his ear. He turned and found Pete looking straight at him. His eyes had never left the boy's face as the sun had risen.
"You missed it."
Pete smiled and leaned in for a kiss. "I saw the best part."
* * *
Pete collapsed on his mattress and breathed in the familiar air of his house. It smelled like a musky blend of good friends, good times, and a puppy who didn't know outdoors from in. After the return flight to London to retrieve their car and Hemmy, there had been days of almost non-stop driving. He listened to the water running as Patrick showered in the next room and briefly considered joining him, but knew there was one thing he wanted to take care of first.
Pete had always been a bit of a photo-whore, so it hadn't surprised Patrick in the least that he'd brought a digital camera with an insane storage capacity on the trip, plus a half dozen back up memory cards. He put the one he was looking for into his camera and booted up his computer. After scrolling through the gallery, he found the picture he wanted and quickly uploaded it, adding a hasty, rambling caption as Patrick flicked off the bathroom fan and made his way down the hall.
"after writing On the road jack was interviewed incessantly mostly about dean moriarty. most journalists assumed he was dean and that was all they wanted to know about. until his death jack proclaimed he was in fact sal paradise. dean was neal cassady. patrick is my dean. he keeps the car between the lines. he unlocks the secrets. he is the conversation. he is the magic. i know i am sal and i feel damn lucky to have the wind blowing in the thru the windows as he keeps us at 80mph. make no mistake, there is a difference between a parlor trick and true blue magic. i will remember this til the day i die."
Patrick's innate sarcasm begged him to make some little quip about driving cross-country in a plane, but Pete's silence told him it wasn't the time. Patrick knew Pete like no one else. He'd seen his deepest thoughts on scattered papers and in 3:00 am e-mails. He'd joined Pete in his good moods, coaxed him through the bad ones, and memorized all the words he'd never said. He didn't need to know what was going on inside Pete's head, he just needed to know that something was, and that he was supposed to come along. And he did. He sat in silence on the way to the airport, and stood by while Pete bought two plane tickets to "as far east as the continent will let me go."
They'd barely rested at all in the hotel, and the flight from London to Toronto wasn't nearly long enough to sleep. There was more time on the flight to Halifax, and by the time they made the final connection through to Newfoundland they were fully refreshed.
The speakers crackled above them and an overly-enthusiastic stewardess announced their arrival. "We're now touching down in St. John's, Newfoundland. The local time is 5:33 am and the current temperature is fourteen degrees Celsius. Thank you for flying Air Canada, and we hope you enjoy your stay." The voice then repeated itself in French before clicking off. Everyone stood up and grabbed their bags, making their way off the plane and into the small airport.
Patrick waited for their bags as Pete found an information desk and rifled through the pamphlets.
"Can I help you with anything?" enquired the agent at the desk. She had a vague accent that Pete couldn't really place, almost like a hint of lazy Irish she was trying to keep hidden.
"Yeah..." replied Pete, absently, "I want to go east." He turned to face her. "I want to see the sun before anyone else."
Even looking at him head on, the agent didn't seem to recognize Pete. He was actually glad for the moment of social normalcy. "Well, you can't get much further east than here. Cape Spear is the most easterly point of North America, but if you're willing to sacrifice about five kilometers, you could go to Signal Hill and have the whole city below you."
Pete furrowed his brow thoughtfully and accepted the small map she held out to him. "Thanks," he said, and turned back in search of Patrick, who had already grabbed their bags and was headed his way.
"We probably could have left these in London," commented Patrick, dragging a bag devoted to hoodies behind him.
Pete replied with a con-committal grunt and took half the load, leading the way out to a line of cabs.
"Where ya headed?" asked a short man at the head of the line. He had a much thicker accent than the girl at the desk and it sounded more like "wurya'ed'd", but Pete still managed to get the idea.
"Signal Hill."
"Signal 'ill, yes yeah. Twenty bucks." He gestured to the first cabbie, who helped load the bags into the trunk before climbing back into his car and whisking Pete and Patrick off.
"Whadaya at, b'y?"
Pete and Patrick blinked at each other. "...Fine..." said Patrick, not really sure how he was meant to reply.
The cabbie let out a boisterous laugh. "Mainlanders, is ya? Welcome to The Rock." He slowed his speech somewhat to accommodate them.
"Thanks," replied Pete.
"So off to Signal 'ill?" He continued without waiting for an answer. "Yes b'y. Some beautiful spot, she is. You don't want no 'otel first? Drop off yer bags?"
"No," said Pete. "We're only here for a few hours."
They drove quickly past a semi-suburban area and into what looked like an older part of town. The streets narrowed, joining up and splitting off at random intervals, wrapping themselves around the natural hills of the city. Victorian-style houses and centuries-old cemeteries lined the streets. They sloped down a hill set at an insane angle before hanging a hard right and heading back up another one that was just as steep.
"Well, whenever yer done just give us a 'ollar and we'll getcha right back." He plucked a bright orange business card from the dashboard and passed it to them as they reached the base of Signal Hill and began their ascent.
The long road took them past a building that looked too modern to really belong, and up to the top of the hill (which felt more like a small mountain). The entire plateau was covered by a parking lot, and at one end there was a building that looked like it had been modeled after a miniature castle.
"Cabot Tower, she is," commented the cabbie as he unloaded their bags and set them near a retaining wall. "Marconi got the 'S' up 'ere more'n a 'undred years ago. First thing to cross d'Atlantic."
Patrick nodded as he handed over a twenty and turned back to Pete, who was staring off into the distance.
Bits of mist and fog hung over the ocean, making it hard to see the moon reflecting off it. The hill (mountain) sprawled out in front of them, a beautifully harsh field of natural rocks and artificial paths. The ocean blew salty air in their faces and the cool breeze went right through Patrick. He shuddered in the wind, but the drop in temperature was quickly negated by the warm hand that crept into his.
Pete pulled Patrick into a slow walk around the lot. Over towards the tower, the view revealed The Narrows, a sort of an inlet between Signal Hill and another mountain on the other side. The city harbour lined one side of the inlet and poured back into the lights of the city. It wasn't large, and from their perch they could see right to it's edges where they tapered out into strips of highway lights.
When they arrived back at their luggage, Pete hopped the low retaining wall and sat on it, facing out towards the ocean. Patrick followed suit, wrapping on arm around Pete and looking out over the water with him.
"You're cold," said Pete, feeling Patrick's slight shiver.
"You're warm," Patrick replied, hugging into him a little closer.
Pete put an arm over Patrick's shoulder. "Stay close then." Pete placed a long kiss on Patrick's temple. "Thank you for coming with me," he whispered against the soft skin.
Patrick smiled. "You knew I would. Even before you asked, you knew I would." He laughed a little. "Even before you asked, I knew I would."
Pete smiled. "Because you love me?"
"Because I belong to you."
Pete furrowed a little. "You don't... You don't have to do everything I say. I don't own you."
Patrick laughed again and looked Pete in the eyes. "Pete, I want to belong to you. I'll do anything you want me to because you want it, and if you want it, I want you to have it."
Pete was a person who could find words for anything. He prided himself on the fact that he could rhapsodize for hours about love, loss, friendship, and pain. Somehow it made him love Patrick even more that he could render him speechless. The smile that crept across Patrick's face told him that he loved it just as much.
"Tell me you love me," prompted Patrick, eyes on the ocean.
"I love you," Pete replied.
"I love you, too." Pete wondered for a moment if his eyes were playing tricks on him because Patrick's face suddenly took on a warm glow. "You're missing it."
Pete was confused, but quickly realized that the glow was being cast by the sun breaking over the horizon. The thin, yellow sliver grew as it climbed the sky and turned it first orange, then pink, then a soft, lavender-tinted blue. The ocean held up it's image, filling the entire panorama with soft, vibrant light. Pete and Patrick didn't speak for half an hour as the world revealed itself. A thick wave of fog poured down the hill on the other side of the narrows, and the rough, jagged edges of the rock formations came to life, flaunting their patches of moss and grass.
"It's beautiful," commented Patrick.
"It really is," came Pete's voice, right next to his ear. He turned and found Pete looking straight at him. His eyes had never left the boy's face as the sun had risen.
"You missed it."
Pete smiled and leaned in for a kiss. "I saw the best part."
* * *
Pete collapsed on his mattress and breathed in the familiar air of his house. It smelled like a musky blend of good friends, good times, and a puppy who didn't know outdoors from in. After the return flight to London to retrieve their car and Hemmy, there had been days of almost non-stop driving. He listened to the water running as Patrick showered in the next room and briefly considered joining him, but knew there was one thing he wanted to take care of first.
Pete had always been a bit of a photo-whore, so it hadn't surprised Patrick in the least that he'd brought a digital camera with an insane storage capacity on the trip, plus a half dozen back up memory cards. He put the one he was looking for into his camera and booted up his computer. After scrolling through the gallery, he found the picture he wanted and quickly uploaded it, adding a hasty, rambling caption as Patrick flicked off the bathroom fan and made his way down the hall.
"after writing On the road jack was interviewed incessantly mostly about dean moriarty. most journalists assumed he was dean and that was all they wanted to know about. until his death jack proclaimed he was in fact sal paradise. dean was neal cassady. patrick is my dean. he keeps the car between the lines. he unlocks the secrets. he is the conversation. he is the magic. i know i am sal and i feel damn lucky to have the wind blowing in the thru the windows as he keeps us at 80mph. make no mistake, there is a difference between a parlor trick and true blue magic. i will remember this til the day i die."