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Los Angeles is so underrated: Part Two
Author: [profile] souldiers
Rated: PG 
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.

From where they sit, they can see all the small houses lined up, with terra cotta roofs and adobe walls that stay cool when you press your cheek to them. Large oval shaped pools glisten in the moonlight and, if they strain their eyes hard enough, they can make out large plastic monsters that have been forgotten and float slowly back and forth in the water. (Patrick/Pete)

part one, The Hills


 
Los Angeles is so underrated.

 Griffith Park
 
“For the record, I don’t blame you,” Pete admits, continuing to ignore him in favor of watching the once-idle observatory. Past it, miles down maybe, the lights on the buildings glimmer like the stars that have become so hard to see these days. “Never did.
 
“I mean, I do the same thing, right?”
 
“I’m still sorry,” Patrick shrugs. The wind whistles through the hills and trees and the dogs bark salutations at each other faintly in the distance, almost on loop.
 
From where they sit, they can see all the small houses lined up, with terra cotta roofs and adobe walls that stay cool when you press your cheek to them. Large oval shaped pools glisten in the moonlight and, if they strain their eyes hard enough, they can make out large plastic monsters that have been forgotten and float slowly back and forth in the water.
 
(It’s so easy to get caught up [in the lights of it all], and forget where you are sometimes.)
 
Pushing himself up off the dirt, Pete dusts off his dark-dyed jeans and gaits closer to the edge. Tiny rocks and pieces of earth crunch and groan beneath his sneakers and Patrick unconsciously fists the jacket he’s supposed to be wearing when Pete stops, only fingers away from the long, sloping hill. Disrupted pebbles fly down to the roads below and echo a resonance that buries itself in the dead of Patrick’s chest.
 
“Pete,” he warns, muscles tense and waiting.
 
“Relax,” Pete reassures. He bends down, picking up an asphalt-rock, and heaves it over and across, into the tall tops of the trees.
 
It is followed by the snaps and cracks of it bouncing against trunks, maybe even breaking the thin branches, and the shaking of upset leaves.
 
“I think we should go now,” he says, after a moment, turning to face Patrick for the first time since arriving. He seems calmer now, a little bit saner, like he’s been collecting himself, like he’s spent his 45 minutes with Rose [his psychiatrist]. “They close at ten and it’s like, 9:40. It’ll take us at least 15 minutes to get back to the front gate with it being so dark.” 

Patrick nods and begins to collect himself as well.
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J. Gomez

May 2009

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