There's a light on, in Chicago
I wrote Pete/Jeanae fic. Yeah, I don't even know.
~1100 words, PG, beta by Mony.
inspiration: turnyourankle's prompt ''small talk dearie'' + this
There's A Light On, In Chicago
Pete stands in the veranda of her house, sort of trying to peek inside through the American toffee colored glass window in the front door without looking like he’s peeking.
It’s a bitter evening between two seasons, the kind that has people scrunching up their faces and then relaxing them in hopes of getting blood rush to the surface of their skins. It’s the kind of evening that makes Pete huddle carefully in his old zip-up winter jacket and grind his teeth so that they don’t clatter noisily against each other.
Going through his pockets, his fingers brush against soft cashmere. He pulls out a downy scarf from the left side: cherry red and soft like he remembers. He studies it for a second or ten, maybe, just fingering the randomly spread out holes in the knitting and bounces the spine against his palm.
He presses it to his nose and lips and breathes in memories of frostbitten cheeks and the taste of gums after hot chocolate in the park. The place in the stomach she once named the hub of one’s emotions itches just so, so he shuts his eyes and rings the bell.
. . . .
Coming home after months, a year, a year and a half, feels surprisingly normal. It’s like time stands still in Chicago: no matter how long he has been gone, mostly everything looks the same, feels the same, at least on the first glance. The streets sparkle the same way every November in the evenings when it’s been raining and streetlamps gush yellow down on wet asphalt aching his eyes.
The same ice cream truck that’s been circling the suburbia since the mid 90s still plays its tune in the minor key getting it stuck in his head like a golden rule every time it drives by.
Jeanae’s smile is the same, her eyes, the gestures she makes with her hands. Her hair is shorter though, dyed a peculiar off purple, that he can’t help but touch with his fingers, fascinated with the contrast the strands make against his burning red skin, warming too fast in the bright hallway.
“You like it?” She asks referring to her hair and Pete nods, lets his hand drop between her shoulders and pulls her into a strangely awkward hug. It’s the kind that should be preserved for first dates and one-night stands; not for girls like Jeanae.
“I like it,” he says after a while though, satisfied when the familiar easiness that he has learned to expect to have with her starts to slowly tingle between them.
It follows them to the kitchen on their heels before it completely seeps into them as if finally remembering where it belongs.
. . . .
She makes coffee but they forget to drink it before it turns lukewarm and stains the insides of their cups.
. . . .
She sits sideways on the sofa, her foot on the cushion under her thigh so that her knee presses gently against his hip.
He thinks about kissing her then, remembers still how soft her lips feel against his skin, wet prints on his neck following a cooling path behind her mouth.
. . . .
She feels sort of different, more mature maybe. He thinks she’s probably gone past him, in a way, and wonders how long he was really gone.
“Hey, what are you thinking about?” She asks shaking his thigh with her hand and he thinks fuck it and leans in to press his lips on hers.
Thinks, oh, when she opens her mouth as if she had been waiting for him all this time.
. . . .
They eat yellow gummi candy until their tongues hurt and fingers smell like sunshine; end up sleeping on the sofa together, his head on the armrest and her body on his, her nose warming his neck every exhalation. It’s the first time they do this at her place: sleep together the whole night without him having to sneak out of the window of her room like he was still in high school.
“What about-“
“They’re out of town,” she had spoken softly, sleepily, before pressing into him like everything they had been to each other they still were.
. . . .
It’s times like this when he loved her the most. When it was just Pete and Jeanae, and quiet and no one was there to ruin the moment for them. When it was still easy to walk down the street hand wrapped around hand without anyone giving them a second glance.
It’s times like this he loves the most.
. . . .
He eats soggy cereal in the morning before letting Jeanae continue her life like he had never come back in the first place. He voices this in between spoonfuls, but thinks she doesn’t look very impressed with him.
“You’re an idiot,” she says and hands him a cup of microwaved coffee, goes about to reheat her own. There’s a thin crack on the surface where the hand painted heart is that he covers with his palm.
. . . .
Patrick asks him sometimes what the concept of home is for him. So he shrugs and says things like mom and dad, the rusty mailbox with a handwritten ‘Wentz’ on the side, my batman sheets (he would grin here and let Patrick roll his eyes at him). Sometimes he sighs and adds Jeanae on the list wanting to hold her in his arms and smell her hair.
. . . .
When he’s ready to leave, he apologizes for being so much trouble and is slightly relieved when she pulls him into a hug kissing his cheek. “Don’t be stupid,” she says fondly and touches his hair.
“Oh yeah…” Pete pulls the cherry red scarf from his jacket pocket -the one with the holes and the smell of frostbitten skin- and wraps it around her neck. “Almost forgot.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’ve been looking for this, but I didn’t think…”
“Yea. I have no idea how long I’ve had it. Sorry,” he grins sheepishly his stomach tingling when she curls her fingers around the cashmere and gives a laugh.
“Stop apologizing to me you freak.”
She pushes him out of the house and then that’s it.
. . . .
He comes back to her when he has worn out all the old memories, all the good ones, of her, of them, in search for more, because. Because she still remains the best source for them back home in Chicago.
~1100 words, PG, beta by Mony.
inspiration: turnyourankle's prompt ''small talk dearie'' + this
There's A Light On, In Chicago
Pete stands in the veranda of her house, sort of trying to peek inside through the American toffee colored glass window in the front door without looking like he’s peeking.
It’s a bitter evening between two seasons, the kind that has people scrunching up their faces and then relaxing them in hopes of getting blood rush to the surface of their skins. It’s the kind of evening that makes Pete huddle carefully in his old zip-up winter jacket and grind his teeth so that they don’t clatter noisily against each other.
Going through his pockets, his fingers brush against soft cashmere. He pulls out a downy scarf from the left side: cherry red and soft like he remembers. He studies it for a second or ten, maybe, just fingering the randomly spread out holes in the knitting and bounces the spine against his palm.
He presses it to his nose and lips and breathes in memories of frostbitten cheeks and the taste of gums after hot chocolate in the park. The place in the stomach she once named the hub of one’s emotions itches just so, so he shuts his eyes and rings the bell.
. . . .
Coming home after months, a year, a year and a half, feels surprisingly normal. It’s like time stands still in Chicago: no matter how long he has been gone, mostly everything looks the same, feels the same, at least on the first glance. The streets sparkle the same way every November in the evenings when it’s been raining and streetlamps gush yellow down on wet asphalt aching his eyes.
The same ice cream truck that’s been circling the suburbia since the mid 90s still plays its tune in the minor key getting it stuck in his head like a golden rule every time it drives by.
Jeanae’s smile is the same, her eyes, the gestures she makes with her hands. Her hair is shorter though, dyed a peculiar off purple, that he can’t help but touch with his fingers, fascinated with the contrast the strands make against his burning red skin, warming too fast in the bright hallway.
“You like it?” She asks referring to her hair and Pete nods, lets his hand drop between her shoulders and pulls her into a strangely awkward hug. It’s the kind that should be preserved for first dates and one-night stands; not for girls like Jeanae.
“I like it,” he says after a while though, satisfied when the familiar easiness that he has learned to expect to have with her starts to slowly tingle between them.
It follows them to the kitchen on their heels before it completely seeps into them as if finally remembering where it belongs.
. . . .
She makes coffee but they forget to drink it before it turns lukewarm and stains the insides of their cups.
. . . .
She sits sideways on the sofa, her foot on the cushion under her thigh so that her knee presses gently against his hip.
He thinks about kissing her then, remembers still how soft her lips feel against his skin, wet prints on his neck following a cooling path behind her mouth.
. . . .
She feels sort of different, more mature maybe. He thinks she’s probably gone past him, in a way, and wonders how long he was really gone.
“Hey, what are you thinking about?” She asks shaking his thigh with her hand and he thinks fuck it and leans in to press his lips on hers.
Thinks, oh, when she opens her mouth as if she had been waiting for him all this time.
. . . .
They eat yellow gummi candy until their tongues hurt and fingers smell like sunshine; end up sleeping on the sofa together, his head on the armrest and her body on his, her nose warming his neck every exhalation. It’s the first time they do this at her place: sleep together the whole night without him having to sneak out of the window of her room like he was still in high school.
“What about-“
“They’re out of town,” she had spoken softly, sleepily, before pressing into him like everything they had been to each other they still were.
. . . .
It’s times like this when he loved her the most. When it was just Pete and Jeanae, and quiet and no one was there to ruin the moment for them. When it was still easy to walk down the street hand wrapped around hand without anyone giving them a second glance.
It’s times like this he loves the most.
. . . .
He eats soggy cereal in the morning before letting Jeanae continue her life like he had never come back in the first place. He voices this in between spoonfuls, but thinks she doesn’t look very impressed with him.
“You’re an idiot,” she says and hands him a cup of microwaved coffee, goes about to reheat her own. There’s a thin crack on the surface where the hand painted heart is that he covers with his palm.
. . . .
Patrick asks him sometimes what the concept of home is for him. So he shrugs and says things like mom and dad, the rusty mailbox with a handwritten ‘Wentz’ on the side, my batman sheets (he would grin here and let Patrick roll his eyes at him). Sometimes he sighs and adds Jeanae on the list wanting to hold her in his arms and smell her hair.
. . . .
When he’s ready to leave, he apologizes for being so much trouble and is slightly relieved when she pulls him into a hug kissing his cheek. “Don’t be stupid,” she says fondly and touches his hair.
“Oh yeah…” Pete pulls the cherry red scarf from his jacket pocket -the one with the holes and the smell of frostbitten skin- and wraps it around her neck. “Almost forgot.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’ve been looking for this, but I didn’t think…”
“Yea. I have no idea how long I’ve had it. Sorry,” he grins sheepishly his stomach tingling when she curls her fingers around the cashmere and gives a laugh.
“Stop apologizing to me you freak.”
She pushes him out of the house and then that’s it.
. . . .
He comes back to her when he has worn out all the old memories, all the good ones, of her, of them, in search for more, because. Because she still remains the best source for them back home in Chicago.