Ficlet: Summer
Hey, awesome, so stereomer reminded me that I wrote this little ficlet kind of for gigantic. Frank and Patrick, set during Warped Tour 2005.
They're out in the Midwest somewhere. Fall Out Boy has already played, and MCR isn't playing until late in the afternoon. Somewhere in that gap Pete has managed to cajole Patrick, Mikey, Joe, and a couple of the more tolerant roadies into putting out the little wickets, digging them through the tough brown grass. Patrick can feel himself burning already, and Joe says, "Hey, did you put more sunscreen on? You're looking a little pink, dude," right before Pete knocks Patrick's ball off behind an abandoned lawn chair with a whoop.
"Yeah, suck on that!" Pete calls, punching the air with his mallet.
"Whatever, yours went even farther than mine did," Patrick says, except that clearly doesn't matter to Pete at all. "There needs to be a rule about hitting things under things." He stoops to squint at the lawn chair.
"The rule is boo and yeah," Pete says, jabbing his finger at Patrick, and then he's off and running across the grass toward someone else.
"I was thinking, like, maybe we get to put it back on the field," Patrick says to Joe and Mikey, except neither of them are paying any attention, because Pete has just dive-tackled Frank to the ground, shouting, "Frank! Frank! Come play croquet with me!"
"Fucking ow, you insane fucker!" floats across the field.
"I hope he can still play tonight," Mikey says. He doesn't sound overly concerned, and he laughs a moment later.
"Let him go, Pete," Patrick yells. "My Chem needs him intact."
"Pussy!" Pete shouts back, but he stands up, and over Joe's shoulder, Patrick can see him offering Frank a hand up. Pete's good like that, when he's the one who's put you to the ground.
Patrick's down on his knees, poking at his ball with the head of his mallet when Frank wanders over, standing over him, shading Patrick's head and upper back from the sun. Patrick squints up at him, cataloguing the grass stain on his knee and the dirt ground into his elbow.
"Hey, thanks for that," Frank says.
"Oh, you know," Patrick says. "'S cool. Gotta keep down the collateral damage." He taps his mallet against the chair leg. "I'm thinking we can band together against him later."
"Yeah?" Frank says. He picks up the lawn chair and moves it three feet to the side.
"Oh," Patrick says. "Oh, wow."
"Have to think outside the box, my friend," Frank says, rapping his knuckles across the bone of Patrick's shoulder. "Or you'll never get ahead."
Patrick shakes his head, standing. "Dude, you're so on my team," he says, and Frank laughs.
They're out in the Midwest somewhere. Fall Out Boy has already played, and MCR isn't playing until late in the afternoon. Somewhere in that gap Pete has managed to cajole Patrick, Mikey, Joe, and a couple of the more tolerant roadies into putting out the little wickets, digging them through the tough brown grass. Patrick can feel himself burning already, and Joe says, "Hey, did you put more sunscreen on? You're looking a little pink, dude," right before Pete knocks Patrick's ball off behind an abandoned lawn chair with a whoop.
"Yeah, suck on that!" Pete calls, punching the air with his mallet.
"Whatever, yours went even farther than mine did," Patrick says, except that clearly doesn't matter to Pete at all. "There needs to be a rule about hitting things under things." He stoops to squint at the lawn chair.
"The rule is boo and yeah," Pete says, jabbing his finger at Patrick, and then he's off and running across the grass toward someone else.
"I was thinking, like, maybe we get to put it back on the field," Patrick says to Joe and Mikey, except neither of them are paying any attention, because Pete has just dive-tackled Frank to the ground, shouting, "Frank! Frank! Come play croquet with me!"
"Fucking ow, you insane fucker!" floats across the field.
"I hope he can still play tonight," Mikey says. He doesn't sound overly concerned, and he laughs a moment later.
"Let him go, Pete," Patrick yells. "My Chem needs him intact."
"Pussy!" Pete shouts back, but he stands up, and over Joe's shoulder, Patrick can see him offering Frank a hand up. Pete's good like that, when he's the one who's put you to the ground.
Patrick's down on his knees, poking at his ball with the head of his mallet when Frank wanders over, standing over him, shading Patrick's head and upper back from the sun. Patrick squints up at him, cataloguing the grass stain on his knee and the dirt ground into his elbow.
"Hey, thanks for that," Frank says.
"Oh, you know," Patrick says. "'S cool. Gotta keep down the collateral damage." He taps his mallet against the chair leg. "I'm thinking we can band together against him later."
"Yeah?" Frank says. He picks up the lawn chair and moves it three feet to the side.
"Oh," Patrick says. "Oh, wow."
"Have to think outside the box, my friend," Frank says, rapping his knuckles across the bone of Patrick's shoulder. "Or you'll never get ahead."
Patrick shakes his head, standing. "Dude, you're so on my team," he says, and Frank laughs.