Overdue - Pete/Patrick
I bring you fic! Written for fall_out_nurse and josiemus_prime. Beta'd by the very very lovely vinvy! Thank you sweetie!
Title: Overdue
Author: Defect_no9
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: Slight Pete/Patrick. Mentions of attempted suicide. Ativan Fic.
Word Count: 1421
Summary: Patrick was the last one to arrive to the hospital.
Patrick is the last one to arrive to the hospital.
Only half an hour ago, he was locked up in the glass box recording booth. A frantic phone call from Joe. Something about a Best Buy parking lot. A bottle of Ativan. Pete is in the hospital. But he was just here a few hours ago. They’ve been trying to write their next album. To do this thing together.
Patrick presses his lips into a thin line, willing his throat back open around the cotton bunched inside it.
His squeaking sneakers are the only sound as he scuffles down the hallway toward room 578. A nurse, silent in her rounds, nods politely at Patrick as he stands in front of a gray painted door. It’s painted just like many others in the hall- dull, quiet, and calm. Gray like the way he’s feeling- helpless, forgotten, terrified. The sound of a heart monitor beeping quietly beside the bed announces his entrance into the room.
A tiny smudge smeared across sterile hospital linen. An I.V. hooked under the skin of his left hand. Florescent lights humming along to a tuneless melody. Every dream he’d ever dreamt is sending him Morse code through the heart monitor. Tattoos too dark against ashen skin, skin too dark against scratchy cotton. His hair is sweat-matted and swept away from his brow. Patrick can see his mother’s lips against it. Patrick bites his lip to keep it from vibrating against his teeth.
Joe looks up from where he’s stationed in a rather uncomfortable looking chair. “Hey, you made it.”
Patrick scuffs his toe against the gray, speckled linoleum tile. Black rubber smeared from under his sole. “Yeah,” he whispers.
Joe nods, standing up and waving Patrick closer. “Andy is driving his mom home. She looked--- tired I guess. She’s tough though. You have to be with a kid like him.” Joe turns his gaze down to Pete on the hospital bed. Pete doesn’t move, the monitor the only indicator that he’s still here at all.
“I’ll stay with him,” Patrick blurts out. It isn’t a suggestion.
Joe frowns slightly, the artificial lighting shadowing more wrinkles than possible on his youthful face. His eyebrows do a series of arches and quirks before settling in a sympathetic posture. Wrapping his hoodie around his arm, he rubs his free hand over Patrick’s shoulder. “Alright, Patrick. Just,” Joe looks over his shoulder, “don’t be afraid to call me if you need anything.”
Patrick nods hard, like a bobble doll. A plastic Jesus attached to a dashboard. The same one Pete insists on keeping in the van despite Patrick’s protests.
Joe pulls Patrick in by the back of his neck, and pushes his head against the crook of his neck. Patrick can hear his quickening breath echo across Joe’s skin as his nostrils flare. Grinding his teeth, Patrick pushes gently away, nodding again at the fake marbling on the tiled floor.
“I’ll see you tomorrow Patrick,” Joe says, patting him gently on his shoulder before leaving, the door silently swishing shut behind him.
Patrick takes his glasses off and scrubs a hand over his face. Placing them in the front pocket of his jacket and dropping the jacket onto the vacated plastic chair Joe left behind, Patrick stands over the prone form of Pete. The monitor continues its monotonous catalog of sounds at around 40 BPM. Outside, a tree scratches its bare branches against the window. Begging to scrub the sterile air out of the suddenly tiny room, Patrick watches it paw weakly at the glass.
A rustle of sheets and a sigh draw his attention back to the shadow on the bed.
“Patrick?” Squinting at the harsh lights leaking from the ceiling, Pete turns his wrinkled nose toward Patrick.
He looks exhausted. He looks like shit. He looks like… Like he’s just swallowed a bottle of Ativan and then had to vomit them all up.
Patrick can hear him sobbing in his car alone. He can hear Pete begging for something, anything, to make all the hurting stop. He can hear the prescription rattling in his hand as he dumps them into his palm without counting. The realization dawning on him. The frantically lazy telephone call for help. The ambulance playing his favorite song as it carried him away.
Carbon powder filtering out the impurities.
Patrick wants to answer. He really does, just there is this boulder where he vocal chords used to be. Strings of muscle slapping together, trying to get Pete’s attention. He is a phonograph winding up to play the record Pete keeps. Warped vinyl, too tired to sound right anymore. Patrick wants to answer, but he can’t breathe. Please leave a message after the beep.
He stands there, clenching and unclenching his fingers, waiting for something to tell him how to respond. Pete always has the words to the buzzing in his head. Pete is the one who answers the roaring mass of people every day. Pete promised that they were in this together. He promised.
Pete’s eyes widen, eyebrows arcing up, as Patrick realizes he just said that last part aloud.
“You promised me we would do this together.” Patrick is measuring his breaths, trying not to yell. His skin is twisting and twisting as he holds back. Pete blinks his eyes shut.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not good enough.” Patrick shuffles closer to the bed.
Pete is holding so still against the bed sheets, his head at an awkward angle, looking at Patrick from beneath dark eyelashes. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry that I’m a failure. I’m sorry that I made my mom cry. I’m sorry that I almost died. I’m sorry I have to swallow pills everyday in an attempt to feel normal.” Pete mumbles, choking on the words, “I’m just so tired.” Tired of dragging his body across the shards of his broken self. A boy backed into a corner. A boy trapped by the memories he refuses to let go. A boy who doesn’t deserve to be alone.
“I’m glad you’re a failure,” Patrick says as he drops his knee to the bed. “Otherwise I might’ve lost you.”
“Patrick,” Pete darts a look up from under his lashes, but Patrick covers his body with his own.
“We’re in this together Pete. Together means you’re never alone. Together means I’m here to listen to you read me poetry about wax fruit or something.” Patrick wants to crush himself into Pete’s skin. He wants to seep into his pores, mingle with the molecules, and remind him every day that he is not alone. “I love you, Pete. More than brothers, more than lovers--- more than anything. Next time you try a stunt like this, I’ll kill you myself.”
Pete clenches big handfuls of Patrick’s flannel. The same one he wore the first day of practice. The collar still a little lopsided from when Pete yanked on it.
“Oh my god dude, your voice!” A memory echoing loudly, although distantly in Patrick’s head.
“What about the tour?” Pete mumbles tiredly from the planes of Patrick’s chest.
“We’ll figure it out. I don’t know. We’ll figure something out.”
Patrick crawls up on the bed, pushing Pete back against his awkward pillows, crowding in his space. Pete pushes his head into Patrick’s chest. Pushing, pushing, pushing, until Patrick is sure Pete’s head must be in his chest cavity. Gripping the collar with both hands, he pulls in Patrick’s flannel, worrying the fabric and bunching it in his fists.
“I love you Patrick.”
Patrick can feel big salty tears warming up his chest.
Pete is silent, not even shuddering against the riptide of his feelings. The same way he’s always cried, quiet and hidden from the world. Only now, he’s hidden against Patrick. Squeezed against him on a hospital bed, clinging to each other like frightened children.
Patrick strokes the short hair on Pete’s neck until he hears his breath even out and the heart monitor beat out an old Sinatra tune. Something slow and lazy. Something a little jazzy despite his sadness.
Patrick soaks the pillow beneath his head, letting the ocean leak from his eyes into his ear. He whispers softly to the I.V. pulled taut on Pete’s hand, hoping desperately for something other than a plastic dashboard Jesus to hear him.
“We’ll figure it out.”
Title: Overdue
Author: Defect_no9
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: Slight Pete/Patrick. Mentions of attempted suicide. Ativan Fic.
Word Count: 1421
Summary: Patrick was the last one to arrive to the hospital.
Patrick is the last one to arrive to the hospital.
Only half an hour ago, he was locked up in the glass box recording booth. A frantic phone call from Joe. Something about a Best Buy parking lot. A bottle of Ativan. Pete is in the hospital. But he was just here a few hours ago. They’ve been trying to write their next album. To do this thing together.
Patrick presses his lips into a thin line, willing his throat back open around the cotton bunched inside it.
His squeaking sneakers are the only sound as he scuffles down the hallway toward room 578. A nurse, silent in her rounds, nods politely at Patrick as he stands in front of a gray painted door. It’s painted just like many others in the hall- dull, quiet, and calm. Gray like the way he’s feeling- helpless, forgotten, terrified. The sound of a heart monitor beeping quietly beside the bed announces his entrance into the room.
A tiny smudge smeared across sterile hospital linen. An I.V. hooked under the skin of his left hand. Florescent lights humming along to a tuneless melody. Every dream he’d ever dreamt is sending him Morse code through the heart monitor. Tattoos too dark against ashen skin, skin too dark against scratchy cotton. His hair is sweat-matted and swept away from his brow. Patrick can see his mother’s lips against it. Patrick bites his lip to keep it from vibrating against his teeth.
Joe looks up from where he’s stationed in a rather uncomfortable looking chair. “Hey, you made it.”
Patrick scuffs his toe against the gray, speckled linoleum tile. Black rubber smeared from under his sole. “Yeah,” he whispers.
Joe nods, standing up and waving Patrick closer. “Andy is driving his mom home. She looked--- tired I guess. She’s tough though. You have to be with a kid like him.” Joe turns his gaze down to Pete on the hospital bed. Pete doesn’t move, the monitor the only indicator that he’s still here at all.
“I’ll stay with him,” Patrick blurts out. It isn’t a suggestion.
Joe frowns slightly, the artificial lighting shadowing more wrinkles than possible on his youthful face. His eyebrows do a series of arches and quirks before settling in a sympathetic posture. Wrapping his hoodie around his arm, he rubs his free hand over Patrick’s shoulder. “Alright, Patrick. Just,” Joe looks over his shoulder, “don’t be afraid to call me if you need anything.”
Patrick nods hard, like a bobble doll. A plastic Jesus attached to a dashboard. The same one Pete insists on keeping in the van despite Patrick’s protests.
Joe pulls Patrick in by the back of his neck, and pushes his head against the crook of his neck. Patrick can hear his quickening breath echo across Joe’s skin as his nostrils flare. Grinding his teeth, Patrick pushes gently away, nodding again at the fake marbling on the tiled floor.
“I’ll see you tomorrow Patrick,” Joe says, patting him gently on his shoulder before leaving, the door silently swishing shut behind him.
Patrick takes his glasses off and scrubs a hand over his face. Placing them in the front pocket of his jacket and dropping the jacket onto the vacated plastic chair Joe left behind, Patrick stands over the prone form of Pete. The monitor continues its monotonous catalog of sounds at around 40 BPM. Outside, a tree scratches its bare branches against the window. Begging to scrub the sterile air out of the suddenly tiny room, Patrick watches it paw weakly at the glass.
A rustle of sheets and a sigh draw his attention back to the shadow on the bed.
“Patrick?” Squinting at the harsh lights leaking from the ceiling, Pete turns his wrinkled nose toward Patrick.
He looks exhausted. He looks like shit. He looks like… Like he’s just swallowed a bottle of Ativan and then had to vomit them all up.
Patrick can hear him sobbing in his car alone. He can hear Pete begging for something, anything, to make all the hurting stop. He can hear the prescription rattling in his hand as he dumps them into his palm without counting. The realization dawning on him. The frantically lazy telephone call for help. The ambulance playing his favorite song as it carried him away.
Carbon powder filtering out the impurities.
Patrick wants to answer. He really does, just there is this boulder where he vocal chords used to be. Strings of muscle slapping together, trying to get Pete’s attention. He is a phonograph winding up to play the record Pete keeps. Warped vinyl, too tired to sound right anymore. Patrick wants to answer, but he can’t breathe. Please leave a message after the beep.
He stands there, clenching and unclenching his fingers, waiting for something to tell him how to respond. Pete always has the words to the buzzing in his head. Pete is the one who answers the roaring mass of people every day. Pete promised that they were in this together. He promised.
Pete’s eyes widen, eyebrows arcing up, as Patrick realizes he just said that last part aloud.
“You promised me we would do this together.” Patrick is measuring his breaths, trying not to yell. His skin is twisting and twisting as he holds back. Pete blinks his eyes shut.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not good enough.” Patrick shuffles closer to the bed.
Pete is holding so still against the bed sheets, his head at an awkward angle, looking at Patrick from beneath dark eyelashes. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry that I’m a failure. I’m sorry that I made my mom cry. I’m sorry that I almost died. I’m sorry I have to swallow pills everyday in an attempt to feel normal.” Pete mumbles, choking on the words, “I’m just so tired.” Tired of dragging his body across the shards of his broken self. A boy backed into a corner. A boy trapped by the memories he refuses to let go. A boy who doesn’t deserve to be alone.
“I’m glad you’re a failure,” Patrick says as he drops his knee to the bed. “Otherwise I might’ve lost you.”
“Patrick,” Pete darts a look up from under his lashes, but Patrick covers his body with his own.
“We’re in this together Pete. Together means you’re never alone. Together means I’m here to listen to you read me poetry about wax fruit or something.” Patrick wants to crush himself into Pete’s skin. He wants to seep into his pores, mingle with the molecules, and remind him every day that he is not alone. “I love you, Pete. More than brothers, more than lovers--- more than anything. Next time you try a stunt like this, I’ll kill you myself.”
Pete clenches big handfuls of Patrick’s flannel. The same one he wore the first day of practice. The collar still a little lopsided from when Pete yanked on it.
“Oh my god dude, your voice!” A memory echoing loudly, although distantly in Patrick’s head.
“What about the tour?” Pete mumbles tiredly from the planes of Patrick’s chest.
“We’ll figure it out. I don’t know. We’ll figure something out.”
Patrick crawls up on the bed, pushing Pete back against his awkward pillows, crowding in his space. Pete pushes his head into Patrick’s chest. Pushing, pushing, pushing, until Patrick is sure Pete’s head must be in his chest cavity. Gripping the collar with both hands, he pulls in Patrick’s flannel, worrying the fabric and bunching it in his fists.
“I love you Patrick.”
Patrick can feel big salty tears warming up his chest.
Pete is silent, not even shuddering against the riptide of his feelings. The same way he’s always cried, quiet and hidden from the world. Only now, he’s hidden against Patrick. Squeezed against him on a hospital bed, clinging to each other like frightened children.
Patrick strokes the short hair on Pete’s neck until he hears his breath even out and the heart monitor beat out an old Sinatra tune. Something slow and lazy. Something a little jazzy despite his sadness.
Patrick soaks the pillow beneath his head, letting the ocean leak from his eyes into his ear. He whispers softly to the I.V. pulled taut on Pete’s hand, hoping desperately for something other than a plastic dashboard Jesus to hear him.
“We’ll figure it out.”