Probably Something Amazing (patrick/pete)
Feb. 23rd, 2007 11:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fakebrain"Probably Something Amazing"
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sharon_hate
Rated: T
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.
Don’t you have anything better to do? (“Better than you? No way.”)
(Patrick/Pete)
Probably Something Amazing
They both hang around the patch of half-dead grass under the bridge after (Patrick’s) school lets out and also sometimes late at night, when Peter convinces him it is worth it to scale down the side of his house. On most days, they both stand around idly and discuss trivial things that Patrick knows Peter can’t stand. And then, sometimes Peter will kiss him and maybe Patrick will kiss back.
(Patrick can never tell if the kisses are accidental or not because Peter always has to be just so close.) It’s easier to just give in when he’s there.
+
“Have you ever been in love, Patrick?” Peter murmurs into the echoing cavity of faint tattoos (Patrick’s chest). His face is pressed against the soft, worn fabric of his t-shirt and his arm is draped tentatively across his stomach, fingertips fashioning indistinct swirls in the soil just barely in reach.
A bitter wind bites at Peter’s exposed lower back and at the tops of his hips, where his sweater rides up. The cold only makes him press himself closer to Patrick’s warmth. (“Have you ever been in love, Patrick?”)
“No,” Patrick says after a moment of consideration only it sounds forced and clumsy to Peter’s ears and exactly like the age that makes him squirm. Patrick squirms underneath him, licking at his lips and stutters out, “Have you ever -- have you ever had sex?”
Patrick’s fingers flex unconsciously around the loose fabric of Peter’s hoodie.
The particular emphasis on the word makes Peter’s cheeks and chest ache a little from the grin he’s holding back, so he shifts up and buries his face into his neck, hoping his giddiness isn’t as obvious as it seems.
Peter pulls back, moving so he’s hovering right above and leaning in so close, close enough for Patrick to feel his breath against his cheek. Dirt and earth press in between Patrick’s palms and fingers as they struggle to steady himself from the wave of sick that always passes over him when they’re about to kiss.
“Why, yes, Mister Stump, I have,” he says softly, taking in the flush of Patrick’s skin and the way his thin eyebrows pulled together at the answer. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he leans in and pecks Patrick on the corner of his mouth. “Have you?” he asks.
Patrick shrugs the question off, idly licking the spot where Peter kissed. “With who?” he questions lightly, hoping to conceal the apprehension washing over him in waves.
Peter moans extravagantly, angling himself back to fall away from Patrick in a grand, dramatic gesture. He lands softly the on the soil and immediately pulls his legs to his chest, the point of his chin pressing into his kneecaps. “My first time was with some neighbor-boy -- I don’t remember his name. James, maybe.”
Patrick crawls forward and pulls back, resting on his calves silently. Peter continues, “I think I was 14, I don’t remember. He was a year older, though…”
It leaves Patrick with a bad taste in his mouth, bitter and chalky like he inhaled years accumulated, stale dust. At this angle, Peter thinks, his eyes look so green. Crawling forward and closer to Patrick, the knees of his too tight jeans gradually take on the mud and muck and are no where near the same shade of deep blue they were when Peter first bought them.
“Why? Jealous?” Peter questions with a small grin, the cold seeping in to his skin. All the knees of all his jeans are like that now, dark and dirty and worn, since Patrick and he began retreating under bridges.
Patrick rolls his eyes and his eyelashes flicker nervously. Such trepidation makes Patrick’s stomach heavy and his mind overwrought. He wants to go, so badly, just to escape the repercussions. (Fight or flight, fight or flight.) It’s his own fault, though, it really is. “I have to go,” he tumbles out and his voice is uneven. Patrick hates acting his age, hates even more when he’s the one to bring it to attention. “It’s almost dinner time.” (Flight.)
It’s 6:57, and the sun is orange and purple. One of the last spare rays before it sets bounces off the frame of his glasses and to Peter, it looks as if the lights just coming from inside Patrick.
He had hoped it would ease the tension building inside him, but, if anything, it rises even further with the way Peter is looking down at him. It’s always the same look and it’s always when he’s being predictable -- a look of both amusement and disappointment.
Peter has a wide range of emotions (and they always manage to make him feel guilty).
In order to spare himself from one more look, he bites his bottom lip and rises on the ends of his toes and quickly presses his own lips against Peter’s. He pulls away just as fast, eyes wide -- almost as wide as Peter’s.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” garbles Patrick, as he pulls his hat down lower over his eyes and over the blush raging across his cheeks and down his neck. He takes off into the brush, running, tripping and stumbling as fast as he can up the hill and onto the road.
Peter watches him and smiles lazily, “Bye!”
+
Because even being pinned under him, with his warm roaming hands, Patrick still manages to choke out, “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Better than you?” Peter inhales, looking up at him through his long eyelashes. “No way.”
Peter talks in vague circles with warm breath that always finds its way to the back of Patrick’s neck. And while he has this anxious look bouncing around behind his irises most of the time, he sometimes gets so still, that it might scare Patrick if he didn’t feel the quick, tiny heaves of his chest.
Author:
sharon_hateRated: T
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.
Don’t you have anything better to do? (“Better than you? No way.”)
(Patrick/Pete)
They both hang around the patch of half-dead grass under the bridge after (Patrick’s) school lets out and also sometimes late at night, when Peter convinces him it is worth it to scale down the side of his house. On most days, they both stand around idly and discuss trivial things that Patrick knows Peter can’t stand. And then, sometimes Peter will kiss him and maybe Patrick will kiss back.
(Patrick can never tell if the kisses are accidental or not because Peter always has to be just so close.) It’s easier to just give in when he’s there.
“Have you ever been in love, Patrick?” Peter murmurs into the echoing cavity of faint tattoos (Patrick’s chest). His face is pressed against the soft, worn fabric of his t-shirt and his arm is draped tentatively across his stomach, fingertips fashioning indistinct swirls in the soil just barely in reach.
A bitter wind bites at Peter’s exposed lower back and at the tops of his hips, where his sweater rides up. The cold only makes him press himself closer to Patrick’s warmth. (“Have you ever been in love, Patrick?”)
“No,” Patrick says after a moment of consideration only it sounds forced and clumsy to Peter’s ears and exactly like the age that makes him squirm. Patrick squirms underneath him, licking at his lips and stutters out, “Have you ever -- have you ever had sex?”
Patrick’s fingers flex unconsciously around the loose fabric of Peter’s hoodie.
The particular emphasis on the word makes Peter’s cheeks and chest ache a little from the grin he’s holding back, so he shifts up and buries his face into his neck, hoping his giddiness isn’t as obvious as it seems.
Peter pulls back, moving so he’s hovering right above and leaning in so close, close enough for Patrick to feel his breath against his cheek. Dirt and earth press in between Patrick’s palms and fingers as they struggle to steady himself from the wave of sick that always passes over him when they’re about to kiss.
“Why, yes, Mister Stump, I have,” he says softly, taking in the flush of Patrick’s skin and the way his thin eyebrows pulled together at the answer. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he leans in and pecks Patrick on the corner of his mouth. “Have you?” he asks.
Patrick shrugs the question off, idly licking the spot where Peter kissed. “With who?” he questions lightly, hoping to conceal the apprehension washing over him in waves.
Peter moans extravagantly, angling himself back to fall away from Patrick in a grand, dramatic gesture. He lands softly the on the soil and immediately pulls his legs to his chest, the point of his chin pressing into his kneecaps. “My first time was with some neighbor-boy -- I don’t remember his name. James, maybe.”
Patrick crawls forward and pulls back, resting on his calves silently. Peter continues, “I think I was 14, I don’t remember. He was a year older, though…”
It leaves Patrick with a bad taste in his mouth, bitter and chalky like he inhaled years accumulated, stale dust. At this angle, Peter thinks, his eyes look so green. Crawling forward and closer to Patrick, the knees of his too tight jeans gradually take on the mud and muck and are no where near the same shade of deep blue they were when Peter first bought them.
“Why? Jealous?” Peter questions with a small grin, the cold seeping in to his skin. All the knees of all his jeans are like that now, dark and dirty and worn, since Patrick and he began retreating under bridges.
Patrick rolls his eyes and his eyelashes flicker nervously. Such trepidation makes Patrick’s stomach heavy and his mind overwrought. He wants to go, so badly, just to escape the repercussions. (Fight or flight, fight or flight.) It’s his own fault, though, it really is. “I have to go,” he tumbles out and his voice is uneven. Patrick hates acting his age, hates even more when he’s the one to bring it to attention. “It’s almost dinner time.” (Flight.)
It’s 6:57, and the sun is orange and purple. One of the last spare rays before it sets bounces off the frame of his glasses and to Peter, it looks as if the lights just coming from inside Patrick.
He had hoped it would ease the tension building inside him, but, if anything, it rises even further with the way Peter is looking down at him. It’s always the same look and it’s always when he’s being predictable -- a look of both amusement and disappointment.
Peter has a wide range of emotions (and they always manage to make him feel guilty).
In order to spare himself from one more look, he bites his bottom lip and rises on the ends of his toes and quickly presses his own lips against Peter’s. He pulls away just as fast, eyes wide -- almost as wide as Peter’s.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” garbles Patrick, as he pulls his hat down lower over his eyes and over the blush raging across his cheeks and down his neck. He takes off into the brush, running, tripping and stumbling as fast as he can up the hill and onto the road.
Peter watches him and smiles lazily, “Bye!”
Because even being pinned under him, with his warm roaming hands, Patrick still manages to choke out, “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Better than you?” Peter inhales, looking up at him through his long eyelashes. “No way.”
Peter talks in vague circles with warm breath that always finds its way to the back of Patrick’s neck. And while he has this anxious look bouncing around behind his irises most of the time, he sometimes gets so still, that it might scare Patrick if he didn’t feel the quick, tiny heaves of his chest.
