Disclaimer: These are fictional events.
"Where’re we going? Is it far?” Patrick asks, turning his attention back to the matters at hand and eying the fluorescent green numbers on the car radio [8:25]. Pete shrugs a noncommittal response and taps his fingers in a lazy beat against the steering wheel. (Patrick/Pete)
Los Angeles is so underrated.
The car door slams shut and it echoes down and through the street. Pete wordlessly shifts into reverse and begins to back out of the driveway without so much as even looking in Patrick’s direction.
Though, Patrick hardly notices. In fact, he hasn’t noticed much since their initial arrival. It’s different from the last time, he thinks, almost entirely. Burbank isn’t Hollywood; Burbank isn’t the adobe-cream walls of Pete’s home (Despite Pete’s own unwillingness to refer to it as that; home). It’s far away from where they are now.
So, lately, Patrick has been preoccupying his time with studying the houses that are lined all down the winding avenue; 70’s modern houses with flat roofs and kidney pools in the backyard, and even more so the classic Spanish villas who have cactus plants and palm trees instead of the traditional rose bushes usually present.
Two gleaming, white-yellow coyote eyes watch them from the far end of block, as they drive away into the hidden canyons. Patrick holds its gaze through the rear-view mirror for a few more seconds before it takes off, padding rebelliously down the almost suburban street.
“Where’re we going? Is it far?” Patrick asks, turning his attention back to the matters at hand and eying the fluorescent green numbers on the car radio [8:25]. Pete shrugs a noncommittal response and taps his fingers in a lazy beat against the steering wheel.
“Wherever the wind takes us,” Pete murmurs softly (sardonically), tugging the steering wheel to the right. “I figured we’d just drive around and whatever happens, happens.”
The street lights glide across the windows in a steady pulse, lighting up the otherwise dark car. With every passing glance Patrick gets, Pete’s face is continuously tense with concentration and thought. He wishes he knew why so he could help, but it’s never that easy, not with Pete.
“What if we get lost?” Patrick asks, fingers twitching to turn on the radio or pick at nylon strings. The silence in the car is thick and he hopes that if he fills the space with whatever words, it won’t feel as terrible and uncomfortable. It’s not supposed to feel like that when you’re with your best friend.
“We can’t. It’s practically impossible,” Pete rolls his eyes, “The 5 takes you everywhere in LA. You just got to remember the off-street.”
Patrick sighs and doesn’t respond. Giving in (to his own fidgeting and also to Pete), he leans forward and jabs at random buttons on the face of the car radio, hoping to find anything other than the shrill static he’s discovered so far. One station comes in clear, though, so he decides to keep it, whatever it is. He pulls back and rests his head against the cool window. It vibrates softly from the street, but he doesn’t mind much.