Rating: Hard R. Maybe NC17.
Summary: Drabble. Pete and Patrick’s epic love story.
Perhaps it’s the romantic medley of shades and silence pumped in to the nothingness of the moment, and perhaps it quells the thirst of the poet inside of Pete, but he feels like he’s suffocating in beauty.
Disclaimer: Definitely not real, despite how much I wish it was.
Author Notes: This is my first time writing Pete and Patrick together. I never feel like I can do their relationship or this fantastic fandom justice, so instead of an actual fic you get four parts (over 1000 words) of melancholy drabble about their epic love that pretty much works out to be a fic anyway. Enjoy, and please comment, you precious people.
The first time Pete realizes he’s in love with Patrick is on a Thursday afternoon. It’s really nothing particularly epic and it’s not even something Pete expected to make his heart swell and ache in his chest, but it’s the very moment he twigs and it’s the beginning of a whole new explosion of emotions he didn’t know existed.
He’s on Patrick’s bus, back pressed uncomfortably against the counter in the kitchenette, neck twisted at an awkward angle. He can’t seem to move or function correctly.
Everything insideis a different shade of blue. The afternoon sky is mellowing out and tossing between daylight and darkness, causing some surreal array of color to be shed upon all that lies in its wake. Perhaps it’s the romantic medley of shades and silence pumped in to the nothingness of the moment, and perhaps it quells the thirst of the poet inside of Pete, but he feels like he’s suffocating in beauty. His breathing is forgotten and all he can do is stare unblinkingly at Patrick sprawled across the longest of the couches, oblivious to Pete’s revolutionary discovery.
No sense of calm has even come close to the one Pete currently feels, and he decides that this is what love is - just an ebb and flow of nostalgia crashing down over him along with this want for his life to be completely out of his control. There’s no explanation and for once there’s no words.
Really, he’s fucked.
Ashlee’s someone who’s not Patrick, but she’s also someone who smells nice and feels warm and can make Pete’s smile come across as real.
There’s an unspoken list of rules and history tied between them and she gets everything Pete never says aloud, gets it and cherishes it and never questions or nags. Ashlee’s also a little bit in love with Patrick (the same way every human being around him is). She knows she’ll never replace his spot in Pete’s life – doesn’t even want to, really, because she’ rooting for them somewhere deep down, somewhere she’s not as much Pete’s girlfriend as she is his confidant.
Her eyes are wide, forgiving and full of knowledge nobody’s ever told her – she’s been there from the start of all of this and she’s just waiting for one day. Holding her breath until Pete comes out and explains that Patrick’s awake and ready.
She’s okay being there in the times between because she knows Pete was never really hers and she knows she doesn’t love him as much as he loves Patrick. It’s okay and it’s fair and she lets Patrick play her scraps of songs at two in the morning when he’s too full of thinking to sleep. He’s Patrick – all soft around the edges and crooked smiles – he’s Ashlee’s Patrick in the way that she sees a side to him nobody else does and in a way that she knows how much he means to Pete.
There’s never been a time when Ashlee’s been jealous or bitter, just as there’s never been a time when she’s regretted her decisions. She gets to see the melancholy beauty that is two soul mates discovering each other in drowsy unawareness, and nothing in her life has ever been so fulfilling.
Pete’s in love with everything about her, from the tiny twitch she gets in her nose when she’s on the verge of sleep to the sounds she makes when he’s fucking her hard in his bunk (when she’s letting him say Patrick’s name the entire time, maybe egging him on just a little bit). It’s different because he’s not hers, and he loves her in a way that’s just not full enough.
Ashlee’s got her own life and she’s really okay with it.
Tying together the moments full of fear and a depth Pete gets lost in is what she’s there for.
It happens when nobody expects it to, when Pete’s starting to think that maybe he’s the only one trapped in a feeling of desperate, inescapable hope. Patrick’s drunk and fuzzy when his lips first nudge against Pete’s own chapped ones and for a moment Pete stills in the process of too many thoughts. What if this is wrong? What if he's the one to bump Patrick's halo right away from its spot above his pretty little head?
Ashlee’s right there, sitting right across from them on the couch because just minutes earlier they’d been playing a game of Uno. The cards are still warm and smudged with fingerprints, their drinks are unfinished and Ashlee’s still poised in her position with her game face on but suddenly everything that seemed significant two seconds ago has faded to gray.
There’s the distant sound of feet scuffing against the bus floor and Pete can feel the warmth of Ashlee’s smile as she takes her leave. Something inside of him gives a dull tug as the slow realization of her departure dawns – she’ll still be around, sure, but from now until the end of time she’ll be standing on the other side of the figurative playing field.
The funny thing is, everybody’s going to be just fine with it.
It’s fucking hot in Patrick’s studio – the air conditioner’s on the blink and the sweltering summer sunshine is filtering through the open window with practiced ease. Pete’s wearing nothing but his boxer-briefs and he can feel his back peeling off the wooden floor he's lying on very time he moves from his relaxed position. It stings a little but the slight burn reminds him he’s alive and that this is real. Patrick sitting across from him with his fingers hovering above the piano’s keys and sweat dampening his forehead - he’s real.
For a few rare moments Pete’s completely still, bitten-down nails subtly scraping across the floorboards being his only sign of life. The entirety of his attention is focused on the frustrated little ball of Patrick trying to move forwards with the same song he’s been working on all day.
He doesn’t feel it happening but somewhere between Patrick’s fist slamming down on the piano and his string of curses about the weather, Pete gets hard. It’s just a steady tug and swell in his abdomen along with a slight itch in his fingertips, but eventually the quiet static of his arousal begins to grow louder and louder until it’s finally too much to ignore.
He fucks Patrick right there, his lower back pushed hard and purposefully in to the groove of the grand piano, solid thighs stretched wide and sweat dripping down his back.
The whole time Pete is in another world, pounding in to him hard and afterwards when they’re both a sticky mess drowned in a puddle of midday sun, Pete writes an entire song of lyrics in his head.
There’s something about suffocating heat and a little bit about shades of blue, maybe a few lines of lovers lost and a chorus of purer love found, but in the end it all just flows in to dreams of Patrick while Pete sleeps, cheek squashed up against the hardwood floor and fingers splayed over the softness of Patrick’s belly.