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“Did you come here to dance? What’s in your glass? Do you feel better?” (AU)
Author: [livejournal.com profile] sharon_hate
Rated: R
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.
Warning: Implied substance abuse.

"So are you going to save me or what?" Pete’s making looping designs in the perspiration on the counter. His drink it empty but Patrick doesn’t offer to buy him another one.

“Can I?”



It’s a year later when he sees Pete hesitantly flash him a smile. It’s very real and very honest. It hasn’t been that way in a long time, so Patrick makes himself stop. Pete takes quick, brisk steps to close the gap between them. He’s so different now, like a fresh sheet of paper, crisp.

“Hi,” Pete says shortly. Patrick looks up at him through thin eyebrows and smiles courteously.

“Hi… Uh, how have you been?” Patrick asks with genuine interest. It’s been a year, and things change (hopefully). Deep inside, there’s a part of him that wishes thing are the same, though, because that would mean he found someone else to save him. Thoughts like that are what make Patrick question his own morality.

“I’ve been okay.” His voice is soft and raw (stripped down) at the same time. It’s so unlike Pete that Patrick feels compelled to listen. “What about you? What’ve you been up to?”

“This and that.” Another low voice to match his. The theme for the conversation has been set: quiet rediscovery. “I, uh, work at Borders.”

“Yeah?” Pete chuckles, though it isn’t so far-fetched. “Listen, small talk is really lame and horrible and I hate it. I know you do, too and I was just wondering if maybe we could go and get coffee or something and have a real conversation because I know you’ve done more than organize shelves or whatever it is you do. And whatever happens happens, but that really isn’t my goal with this, not consciously. I just want to… talk…Like, really talk. I don’t know if we’ve ever done that before.”

He’s rambling, but his eyes are bright and animated so Patrick agrees.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick sees a twinkling letter hanging from Pete’s belt loop.


He’s tucked away in a dark corner of some club. He’s more than a little uncomfortable and it gets harder for him to breathe as the minutes pass. The air is thick with recycled breath and sweat and heat; Patrick concentrates on keeping his head straight.

There are several people gathered around him, some he knows but he most he doesn’t, and they chat wildly with grand arm gestures and raucous laughter. A few them are cautiously quiet and keep wary eyes out, monitoring those who are floating away from and into the circle. They’re making sure he’s not near.

He knows he’s here, everybody knows he’s here, but they’re being very polite about it and they do their best in aiding Patrick’s avoidance.

Yet Patrick is still unable to escape.

Pete wraps his hand around Patrick’s shoulder and quickly pecks at his neck. He’s all about decadent leers and distant eyes. He pulls away and looks up, frowning at Pete.

“What’re you doing?”

“What do you mean?” Pete asks, slipping his head into the crook of Patrick’s neck, arms encircling his shoulders. The words move against his skin and give him an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

Patrick shakes his head, and pushes Pete away again. He’s confused and the playfulness that was in his face is gone. It’s dark and bitter now.

“We’re done, Pete,” Patrick whispers solemnly, an inch from his face. “You didn’t need me anymore. S’ what you wanted.”

“I want you,” Pete says shortly. His voice feels hot and Pete’s eyebrows furrow in frustration.

“You’re on something.” Patrick pulls himself away and looks around. The gathering has scattered, leaving them alone. Fucking bastards. “It’s messing with you.”

Pete growls, “You’re the one that’s fucking with me,” he shoves Patrick back against the wall and stalks off. He desperately wants to keep him from leaving.


“What? Where?” Patrick questions. He scrambles around for the remote that’s buried in the cushions and hurriedly mutes the episode of I Dream of Jeanie that he’s seen on several occasions. Pulling himself off of the second-hand couch, Patrick ambles over towards Joe cautiously.

“Look, it was nothing. Don’t know why I told you. Just go back to whatever you were doing…” Joe spins around, an attempt to leave quickly and without anymore fuss, but Patrick pulls him back.

“You can’t do that. Tell me and then un-tell me,” he gripes. His runs his hand through his blond hair and short nails scratch at his scalp. It’s not as comforting as he would have hoped. “I’m handling it well, very well. And why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“‘Cause let’s face it, you’re acting fucking weird,” Joe says. His eyes hold a pity that Patrick hates.

Joe saw him pressing a short blonde girl up against a brick wall, back arched with his lips whispering secrets onto her jaw. He can see it: her jagged tresses and long dark eyelashes, pale hands with stars and shine grabbing at his neck. Patrick wants to frown. He knows it’s not the first time someone’s seen him, Joe just happens to be the only one who’s honest about it.

“Why would it be weird?” Patrick asks, smiling but his voice feels tight, stuck. “It shouldn’t be, I’m over it. I’ve been over it.”

“That” Joe begins, “is why it’d be weird. You look like you’re going to have a stroke.”

Patrick grimaces. “No, I don’t.” Joe’s laugh is airy and almost sounds defeated.

“Yeah,” beat, “you do.”


It’s not okay for him to cry, he’s an adult, it’s what he’s been insisting ever since he was 17, he’s a man, even. That makes it ten times worse, what he’s doing.

He’s been sulking and abusing himself in the worst ways for a week now, lying in bed all day, reveling in the past. And despite the almost constant vigilance of friends (most of them having been there to witness the rise and collapse of the relationship) he continues to blame himself for what he didn’t get a chance to do.

“He has to deal with it on his own,” they reassure. Patrick doesn’t want to listen. He knew what was going to happen when he confronted him, he knew he had to persist, but he failed, and now Pete’s worse off than he ever would have been with Patrick.

It’s three in the morning, or so Patrick thinks. He hasn’t yet willed himself to actually look at a clock, but - It feels like three, he muses. Patrick had dozed off a few hours earlier and has just woken in a sweaty and confused haze. The small TV next to his bed is playing I Love Lucy, the episode where they learn proper English (“There are two words you must never say; one of them is ‘swell’, the other one is ‘lousy’.”). Perhaps it’s two.

Sitting up, he pulls at his pillowcases and sheets. His muscles stretch for the first time in many days. All the beddings are being rolled up and shoved into a horrible, asymmetrical plastic basket he bought at Ikea years ago; Patrick’s going to the laundry room.


He’s screaming and panting in between points. Patrick watches helplessly, eyebrows knitted together, as Pete storms through the apartment, sending everything flying as he passes. He did the right thing, though, he knows it. It’s for Pete’s own good. He’s helping him, he’s saving him from himself. It’s what he wanted. He knew this is what he was getting into, so why does Patrick still feel so heartbroken?

Everything had been going so well, but now Pete’s tearing everything apart, looking for anything that ever alluded to his presence. He’s trying to erase himself, but Patrick could never forget him.

“I can’t believe you, I can’t fucking believe you,” he keeps repeating. Pete’s face is dusted pink and his hair is shooting out in all these different directions. “What’re you trying to accomplish? I’m not some charity case, Patrick! I don’t need you pretending to be some damn guardian angel…”

Patrick’s leaning against the wall, nodding every so often. His arms are crossed in a pathetic attempt to keep himself from rushing over and tackling Pete. He can’t kiss this away.

“I don’t want to see you this way…” Patrick whispers to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. Pete turns around, dropping his bag full of belongings onto the floor. It’s a black Jansport with arbitrary sayings written in gold inked pen. It used to belong to Patrick, but he gave it to Pete a month after they had first met. He walks over to Patrick and stops directly in front of him and glowers.

“I don’t need you, Patrick, I never did. I was fine by myself!” Like venom.

Pete turns on his heel and walks over to the counter, grabbing the shining silver ‘P’ and he shoves it into his back pocket.


Lately, it’s been so quiet. Patrick can’t stand it. He grew up with brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts, there has to be noise and chaos for it to be a real home. That’s why he wanted Pete to move in with him, so he wouldn’t be alone. Even if it makes him sound dependent and clingy, it’s the truth. Patrick hates how alone it feels. Pete hates being alone, too.

Patrick never officially asked him to move in, but would hint at it in roundabout ways until Pete’s clothes and few belongings started appearing randomly around the apartment.

Now, though, even with Pete only a few inches to his right, Patrick may as well be alone. Their conversations are empty and their touches, if you could call it that, are half-hearted. On several occasions Patrick has tried to bring up the topic of their downward spiral, but he somehow manages to misplace his courage along the way. Patrick’s never been brave, only caring.

Pete had gone and visited someone for the fourth time this week. His spirit began to pale and even the littlest inconvenience sent him into tirades. Andy’s voice rings in his head, but Patrick already knew something would send their relationship reeling. The moment he saw Pete he knew this wouldn’t be easy. Pete has an addictive personality, he clings to things. He used to cling to Patrick.

He’s clinging to something else now, Patrick tells himself, trying to sound detached. It’s harder than anything he’s ever done.


With a jerk and a sharp gasp, Patrick jerks awake, it feels like falling endlessly and it hurts so much, he grabs frantically at the cold spot next to him. Pete’s gone. There’s a small ache down inside Patrick, past his heart and lungs, that worries about whatever he may be up to. He easily dismisses it, though; Patrick can trust him.


The sound of Pete’s key unlocking the door echoes through the silent apartment. Patrick lies back down, closes his eyes and waits patiently. The door opens and closes and his light footsteps can be heard trailing closer. The bedroom window was left open last night and the birds can be heard chirping away happily.

Pete opens the door softly and tiptoes to the edge of the bed, watching for signs of Patrick stirring. Quickly toeing off his sneakers, he climbs over Patrick, briefly straddling him. The waist of his tight jeans digs into his hips uncomfortably, but Pete ignores it and throws an arm over Patrick’s middle.

“I know you’re awake.” Patrick suppresses the urge to grin and throw his arms around Pete’s neck.

“I wasn’t trying to fool you,” he laughs. “I’m just still half-asleep.”

“Mm. I’m still tired, too.” Pete nuzzles his face into Patrick’s chest and takes a deep breath. It reminds him of lying under stars with grass itching at his cheek, swatting tirelessly at mosquitoes and June bugs. Mostly, it reminds him of being warm inside.

“Then why did you leave?” He rubs at his temple, before scooting down into the bed to be at eye-level with Pete. They stare at each other with sleepy eyes until Pete leans in and touches his lips promptly.

“I just had to get out of something… It was a waste of time. I’d rather be here.”


Pete pushes himself up and his boxer-briefs slide down sharp hips. Patrick’s tries his hardest not to ogle while Pete tries his hardest to continually put him in such situations. He’s smiling big and bright; his laugh is so loud and infectious, it reverberates in the center of your chest. The corners of Pete’s eyes crinkle when he’s happy.

The room is dark except for a gooseneck lamp in the far corner that leaves a majority of the room in shadows. Patrick is sitting up against his headboard with the sheets pulled up around his waist to hide his nudity. Pete crawls over to him, and pulls himself up to stand on his knees. Hooking his thumbs inside the waistband, he starts to tug them down.

“Where are you from?” Patrick asks suddenly. Pete only tucks his chin and laughs quietly. He throws himself across Patrick’s legs.

“I’m from Neverland.” He answers so easily, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Patrick leans forward and kisses him softly.

“Can I live with you there?” Patrick whispers into his ear, lips brushing against him just barely. Turning his head to look at him, Pete only smiles sadly.

“Don’t ask for that.” He’s so real now. So sweet and nothing how you see him. He’s not hiding behind tight t-shirts or smudged eyes. The cockiness is gone and all that’s left is some silly boy who’s so self-aware it’s painful. This is the person Patrick’s dying to discover and explore. Pete’s this wonderfully intricate character that authors would kill to have and write about. Patrick kisses him again.

“I’d face anything if I could be with you.”


The hanging ‘P’ that Pete bought for Patrick swings idly on the rearview mirror; he wasn’t clear on whose name it stood for. There’s a song playing lowly and Patrick sings along under his breath, too preoccupied with reading faded numbers on mailboxes piled in snow.

“…Quick and kissed her and took all she got…”

Patrick finally spots the number he’s been searching for and tugs on the steering wheel to pull over. The snow crunches under his shoes and the wind bites at his cheeks, so he hurries up the small pathway and knocks on the door in an uneven beat.

Andy peers out from behind the door before giving a wide smile and welcoming him in. The heater is on and the pink almost immediately leaves Patrick’s nose as he steps inside the small house.

“Hey, man. You made it,” Andy greets, clapping Patrick on the back. “I just made some green tea, do you want any?” Patrick agrees because the heat is out in his old car and his fingers still feel a bit numb.

“So what’s new?” He asks once he’s gotten settled down. Patrick looks up through blond eyelashes as he sips slowly on his tea.

“I met this guy.” Andy raises an eyebrow. Go on, it says. “His name’s Pete.”

“How olds this one?”

“Actually, he’s around your age. I met him at a bar,” Patrick adds, biting on his lower lip to keep from grinning. Andy scoffs.

“It’ll turn out like the others,” he says sadly.

“No, it won’t. He’s different. I can feel it.” Patrick sets down his cup and rubs his hand against the roughness of his jeans.


The boy (He’s a man) with dark hair and olive skin stares down into his drink, looking for an escape. That’s what Patrick thinks. That’s always been his problem, though, too wishful. Maybe hopefully he’s right this time.

“What’s your name?” Patrick asks softly, no more than two inches from his art arms. He radiates warmth so Patrick takes that as a good sign. The boy (man) looks up with a sigh, exasperated, but stops and stares. Patrick doesn’t really think he’s anything special but the nameless figure still looks into his eyes before letting out a breathy laugh.

“M’ Peter. But you can call me Pete, whichever.” I’m Patrick. He, Pete, extends his hand for Patrick’s and lets his eyes roam.

“So what’re your vices?” Patrick asks, pulling the stool back. He takes his sit coolly before leaning in, waiting for a reply.

Pete smiles coyly. “Lying, cheating, self-indulgence.”

“Ah, the Holy Trinity,” Patrick nods knowingly, before breaking out into a grin. “Wanna know mine?”


“I have this unnatural urge to help people...” He says, shaking his head. “It’s really very bothersome.” Pete chuckles to himself, turning to face Patrick.

“So are you going to save me or what?” Pete’s making looping designs in the perspiration on the counter. His drink it empty but Patrick doesn’t offer to buy him another one.

“Can I?”

Date: 2009-02-22 03:55 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] panicmydear.livejournal.com
Wow. This was really really good. I kind of want to cry now...


fakebrain: (Default)
J. Gomez

May 2009


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