New Story: And Then the Aliens Killed Bill Murray
This is my very, very belated Sweet Charity story for purelyironic, who has been wonderfully patient and waiting for this all year! Thank God she's on my flist and knows all about the crazy year I've been having. *g*
Title: And Then the Aliens Killed Bill Murray
Author: Miss Pamela
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Word count: 5686
Huge thank you to giddygeek for beta and dealing with me and this story for WAY too long, and to femmequixotic for the final beta.
Before Pete was even completely awake, he could tell that it was way too fucking early. Bright, mid-morning summer sunshine glared through his blinds and he could hear his neighbors out mowing their lawns, their kids screeching in the streets.
"Fuck," he mumbled. Squinting at his clock radio, he realized two things: One, it was only nine-thirty in the fucking morning, which meant that he'd gotten exactly three hours of sleep, and two, his alarm was blasting that stupid Creed song he couldn't get away from. 8:10 it read, cruelly.
"Fuck!" he said again, a little louder, groping around for something to throw at his clock.
"Peter?" his mom called through the door. "Peter, I hope you're awake." Pause.
"What?" Pete yelled.
"You have a doctor's appointment in thirty minutes. Did you forget?" Her tone suggested that she fully expected him to have forgotten. "And shower this time, please."
Fuuuuuck. Pete dragged himself out of bed and slumped his way into the shower, rinsing perfunctorily (no shampoo) before throwing on the jeans he wore the day before and a shirt that might have been his sister's.
His mom, blessed woman, had a huge travel mug full of coffee waiting for him. "I'll be out until later tonight," she said. "So I assume I won't be seeing you until tomorrow sometime?"
"Mmmph," Pete mumbled around the rim of the mug. He waved to her, his keys jingling around his fingers, tangling them together.
Pete was mostly awake by the time he got to Dr. Hafek's office. The doc poked and prodded at him and made him breathe, like there was some chance Pete had stopped doing that on his own.
"And how are we sleeping, Pete?" Dr. Hafek asked.
"I don't know about you, but I can't sleep for shit, as usual." Pete shrugged. "I'll deal."
"Peter," the doctor said, pushing his glasses up and frowning. "Lack of sleep can have profound effects on both the mind and the body. Science doesn't fully understand how sleep and dreaming work, but there is no denying that persistent insomnia can have quite serious repercussions."
"Yeah, I think it's turning me into an asshole." Pete yawned, cracking his jaw. "We good?"
"Hmmmm," Dr. Hafek said, making a note in Pete's chart. "Take your sleeping pills, Peter, and come see me in six months."
"Aye aye," Pete saluted and backed out the exam room door.
Pete hated getting up early with the fire of a thousand fucking suns, but just for a moment, with the sun shining on his face, and the prospect of an iced latte and an afternoon with Patrick ahead of him, he could almost see why people made the effort.
And an hour later, when he showed up at Patrick's house with two iced lattes and the smug, smug satisfaction of a man who got to wake up his best friend with an icy-cold hand to the back of his neck, Pete resolved to get up early like, once a month. Maybe.
"Fucking asshole," Patrick mumbled around his straw, kicking Pete in the shins. "Fucking fucker."
"You love me," Pete crooned. "Soooooo much."
"I fucking hate you." Patrick took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Wait for me downstairs; I'm taking a shower and then I have to play something for you."
Pete tried not to watch Patrick's ass as he left, but seriously, he was only human, and he'd been up for like, fifteen hours already.
..........
It turned out that Patrick wanting to "play him something" meant that he was going to fuck around on his guitar until Pete died of boredom.
"Your mom invited me out for your graduation dinner," Pete said, flicking plastic forks at Patrick's head. One hit the brim of his hat at juuuust the right angle and teetered for a second before plunging to its death in a pile of Patrick's dirty socks.
"How did you even get so many forks?" Patrick asked, swatting the next one away. "And, okay, cool."
"I saved them." Pete dodged Patrick's retaliatory hand-stabbing attack, which, in Pete's opinion completely lacked any kind of finesse and showed an utter lack of creativity. "For exactly this occasion."
"You're an asshole," Patrick said. "For exactly every occasion. Hand me that pick?"
Pete tossed him the pick and snuggled deeper into the couch, tucking his toes under Patrick's thighs and listening to the warm, comforting sounds of the low hum of Patrick's mom's vacuum, a neighbor's radio out in the yard, and Patrick cursing under his breath over some chords. Surprisingly, Pete found his eyes drifting closed, but the even the thought of sleep startled him back into wakefulness.
"Are you even listening to this?" Patrick asked and smacked Pete's legs. "I don't know, I have the lyrics for this, and some of the chords, but." He made a small, frustrated grunt.
"It's great," Pete said, only half listening. "Keep playing."
"I would if I had anything else written, asshole." Patrick sighed and put down his guitar. "Seriously, Pete, just go home if you're not even going to pay attention."
"You're like, even pissier than usual tonight." Pete tried to dart forward and kiss Patrick on the cheek, working his hand down to wedgie him at the same time.
"Get the fuck off!" Patrick pushed him away and fixed his shirt. "You know what, I am in kind of a shitty mood." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Want to watch Goonies and bug my mom to get us some Chinese food?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Pete said. "I want lo mein, motherfucker."
After a practically perfect night of three more wedgies (for Patrick), a movie marathon, (Goonies, Independence Day, and Star Wars: Episode IV), and a sneak duck sauce attack, (Pete's hair was still sticky) Pete finally made it home just before midnight.
For the first time in weeks, he fell right asleep.
.......
Before Pete was even completely awake, he could tell that it was way too fucking early. Bright, mid-morning summer sunshine glared through his blinds and he could hear his neighbors out mowing their lawns, their kids screeching in the streets.
"Fuck," he mumbled. Squinting at his clock radio, he realized two things: One, it was nine-thirty in the fucking morning, which meant that he'd gotten nine whole hours of sleep, and two, that stupid fucking Creed song...
Wait.
Pete shook his head to clear it. Deja fucking vu.
"Peter?" his mom called through the door. "Peter, I hope you're awake." Pause.
"What?" Pete yelled.
"You have a doctor's appointment in thirty minutes. Did you forget?"
Okay, now this was getting weird. Pete sat up and smacked himself in the head, just in case he was actually still asleep. "I went yesterday, woman! Or are you getting senile?"
"It's Monday, Pete. I doubt that Dr. Hafek let you in on a Sunday." He heard her sigh through the door. "Don't forget to shower this time, okay?"
Pete slowly peeled back his blanket, completely awake, his head spinning. He could have sworn he'd already gone to the doctor's, went to Patrick's...the movie marathon... Pete felt his hair for duck sauce residue. Nothing.
"My dreams are getting fucking freaky," he announced to his Transformers.
Trying to shake it off, Pete hopped off the bed to get into the shower. The shower didn't help, the coffee didn't help, and the bright sunshine just seemed menacing, in an end-of-the-world, nuclear winter kind of way.
"And how are we sleeping, Pete?" Dr. Hafek asked.
"I have deja-vu," Pete blurted out. "Like, really, really badly. I swear I've lived this whole day before, like Bill Murray or some shit like that." Pete gripped the edge of the exam table, wincing at the familiar crinkle of the paper. "It's not going away; it's just getting worse."
"Hmmmm." Dr. Hafek put Pete's file down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I'm going to be honest with you, Peter. Not much is known about déjà vu. It's just one of those funny tricks our mind plays on us from time to time. But," He picked up his pen and pulled a small pad from the pocket of his lab coat. "I'll bet anything that, in your case, it's linked to your insomnia." He scribbled on the pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Pete. "Give this prescription a try. If it doesn't work, call my office tomorrow."
"Right," Pete muttered. "If there is a tomorrow."
He called Patrick as soon as he left the office, told him the he was feeling too shitty to come over, then drove right home. His mom was out, so he went straight upstairs and back into bed, twisting his hands in the blankets, watching the sunlight move across his ceiling for hours before darkness finally fell.
.......
Pete didn't remember falling asleep, but he must have. Because he woke up to the same fucking sunshine, the same fucking Creed song, and his mom yelling about the goddamned fucking doctor.
"I'm in a movie," Pete told his Transformers. "A bad sci-fi movie. Or a fucking black comedy." Pete kind of hoped that his Transformers would answer back, considering that he was in a movie and all, but no such luck.
"Pete, are you going to shower?" his mom called through the door.
"Nope," Pete muttered, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. "If I'm in a comedy, then I'd better have some fun."
........
"So, how come you never stick your fingers in my ass?" Pete asked.
Dr. Hafek frowned at him. "Excuse me?"
"What if I said please?" Pete swung his legs back and forth, enjoying the crinkling sound of the tissue paper on the examining table. "Or maybe you're just the kind of guy who likes romance. I'll take you out for smoothies after, if you want."
"Prostate exams aren't typically done until you're a bit older, Peter." Dr Hafek rubbed his chin. "Tell me about your sleep habits again."
"I'll give you fifty bucks if you use two fingers," Pete offered. "Trust me when I say I can take it."
Later that afternoon, Pete went to Patrick's and, while Patrick was trying to show him some song he was writing, Pete kissed him square on the mouth.
Patrick didn't even blink. He just waved Pete off and said, "Seriously, if you're not even going to listen, then go home."
That time, Pete went, figuring that maybe he was in a sci-fi movie after all, something dark and twisted. Maybe he was being directed by Ridley Scott. That would be fucking cool.
.......
Pete spent the entire next cycle naked. It turned out that it didn't matter where he slept, because he fell asleep in a lovely Chicago PD jail cell, and woke up in his own bed, with only Creed to comfort him.
Maybe I'll spend today in drag, Pete thought to himself, before he was fully awake. No, he really needed to solve this shit before he ended up in a mental hospital.
This required a serious plan of attack. Pete showered slowly, considering his options. Coffee first, of course. When considering any kind of plans or attacks or...well, anything, coffee was a necessary first step. And then he had to enlist his friends. Pete was a leader, not a loner. Okay, he was kind of a loner, but only in his own head, and he could probably use everyone's help on this one.
Pete tried to call Patrick on his way to Starbucks, but nobody answered. It was probably for the best, because Pete would just end up kissing him again. He thought about calling Dirty, but he didn't really feel like spending another night in jail.
There was an empty parking spot right in front of Starbucks, which was usually a good omen. Pete parked, cursing at his blind spot and nearly smacking into the Kia in front of him, hopped out of the car, and dialed almost without thinking.
"Joseph, my friend, I have a hypothetical question for you." Pete leaned back against the hood of his car and turned his face to the sun.
"And I have a hypothetical answer," Joe said. Pete heard the sounds of Need for Speed come to a screeching halt while Joe put the game on pause.
"Suppose you were in a movie," Pete started, then stopped. "Not like you were acting in a movie--"
"No, no, like you were stuck in a movie, I got it," Joe said. "What kind of movie?
Pete grinned. He loved his friends. "Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Or, like, some freaky sci-fi shit directed by Ridley Scott."
There was a long pause. "Well, if you're Bill Murray, you're in a comedy. So you have to learn a life lesson or some shit like that." Another pause. "If you're being directed by Ridley Scott, you're fucked."
"Yeah, that's what I figured." Pete rubbed his fingers against the worn spot just above the knee of his jeans. "Can you think of any life lessons that I'm missing out on?"
"Dude, I do not have all day." Pete heard Need for Speed come roaring to life again. "Maybe you should talk to Andy."
"Right," Pete said. "Thanks." He hung up and went into Starbucks. Blessed Starbucks, always the same, no matter what day it was. Pete opened his mouth to start ordering his usual, but he decided that he was too damned jittery for coffee. He ordered a giant cup of Calm and dialed Andy.
"Andy," Pete announced. "I am being Zen."
"Uh-huh." There was some kind of blurred, ambient noise in the background. Cheering, maybe.
"I am a Zen motherfucking master," Pete went on. "I'm breathing and drinking tea and focusing on the solution to my giant fucking existential problem."
"I'm glad you're breathing, man," Andy muttered. "Truly."
"Because I need focus. Laser focus. Robot laser focus." Pete made laser noises, just in case Andy didn't get his meaning, He sounded kind of distracted.
"Robots, got it," Andy mumbled. "Dude, the Twins are playing a double header. Can I call you later?"
"Andy, my life is possibly being directed by Ridley Scott!" Pete yelled, ignoring the dirty looks all the other customers were giving him. "This is serious!"
"Well, in that case, you're fucked," Andy said. "I'll call you later. About the robots."
The asshole didn’t even wait before he hung up. Pete chucked his phone into the trash and took a huge swig of tea, choking on the bitter dregs at the bottom. So much for being fucking Zen.
......
The next cycle, Pete decided that Patrick was the key. He had to learn some kind of life lesson, right? Face his fears? Nobody knew his fears like Patrick. Nobody knew Pete like Patrick.
"Patrick is the key," he told his still-inanimate Transformers. "He is the motherfucking Keymaster and I am the Gatekeeper. Why didn't I think of this before?"
Pete skipped the doctor but not the shower, and headed over to Patrick's feeling more cheerful than he had in days. Day. Multiples of one day.
"Good morning!" he yelled to Patrick's mom, who was outside getting ready to leave for work. He figured it paid to be polite, just in case he did wake up and it was tomorrow.
"Pete!" Her eyebrows shot up to the top of her forehead. "What on Earth are you doing up so early?"
"I had a thing," Pete said, swinging his arm around her neck and kissing her cheek. "You look lovely today, Patricia."
She batted him away, laughing, "Patrick is still asleep, but you can go on up. And tell him he needs to take out the trash and empty the dishwasher."
"I'll even help him," Pete grinned. "Have a nice day!" He waved to her as she drove off, her car glinting in the bright sunlight. He went in through the front door, slammed it and yelled, "Honey! I'm hoooooome!"
Pete bounded up the stairs two at a time. "Patrick, my man, you need to help me!" He burst through Patrick's bedroom door to find him rumpled, sleepy, and reaching for his glasses.
"What the fuck, dude?" he mumbled. "What are you even doing here?"
"I just came over to do your mom and I figured it was rude not to say hi." Pete bounced on the edge of Patrick's bed. "And I have something amazing and kind of shocking to tell you, so you better sit down."
"I'm in bed. I couldn't be more sitting." Patrick yawned loudly. "This had better be important."
"I'm stuck in a time loop. Or a movie. I can't really tell which," Pete said, looking at the floor. Faced with the normal, everyday chaos of Patrick's room and the wonderfully familiar look of affection and exasperation on Patrick's face, Pete wavered. This was fucking weird, right? Completely weird. His good mood was suddenly gone; he was crazy, he sounded crazy -- why would Patrick ever believe him? "I uh, I've been waking up on Monday morning -- this Monday -- for the past four days. It just keeps repeating." Seeing the beginning of an epic Patrick eye-roll, Pete rushed on. "The first time, I went about my day, like normal. I got up, took a shower--"
"That's not normal," Patrick said, smirking at him.
"Shut the fuck up," Pete said, his heart in his chest. Patrick had to believe him. He had to. "I went to the doctor and then I came over here. You were practicing -- a new song, I think -- and then you got all pissy and we watched movies and ordered Chinese."
"That could be any day," Patrick pointed out, but he wasn't smirking anymore. He sat up, shuffling his legs around Pete.
"And then I woke up again and it was Monday again and I went to the doctor's and...fuck, it happened, okay?" Pete couldn't even look at Patrick. He focused on the pile of clothes next to the bed, eyes stinging. Fuck.
"Oookaayyyy," Patrick said, knocking his shoulder against Pete's. "I can see that you're really upset."
"But you think I'm crazy," Pete said, sighing. "I was there, you were there, you were mad at me because I wasn't paying attention to you, you were writing this song..." Pete sat up and snapped his fingers. "The song." He bounced off the bed and retrieved Patrick's acoustic guitar from where it was leaning against his closet. "If I can play the song for you, you'll know I wasn't dreaming."
"If you can play it well I'll know that I'm dreaming," Patrick said, but he had a funny expression on his face. He ducked his head and glanced at Pete from under his eyelashes. "I am working on something," he admitted. "I was going to show you today."
"Ha! Okay! Awesome!" Pete strummed the guitar a few times, trying to remember the chords. Fuck, he'd never wished that he had Patrick's music brain before, but it had been days since he'd heard the song, and he was barely listening at the time. Fuck, fuck, what was it? Pete closed his eyes and tried to bring that moment back. The low buzz of the lawnmower, the feeling of total contentment, the forks bouncing off Patrick's hat...
His fingers moved, awkwardly finding his way around the strings, picking out the notes, slowly at first, then a little faster. Figuring his shitty singing was a little better than his shitty guitar skills, Pete hummed the snatches that he remembered from the melody. "Something like that? You said you had the lyrics written, but you couldn't get the song to work."
Patrick stared at him, mouth slightly open. "Um," he said.
"Is that it?" Pete asked, hope bubbling up in his chest. "That's it, right?"
"You're...stuck in a space/time loop," Patrick said, looking closely at Pete, his eyes widening. "Holy shit."
"I know, right?" Pete giggled in relief. "Totally fucked up!" It was okay; everything was going to be okay because Patrick believed him. Pete felt better than he had in days.
"So, um," Patrick scratched his head. "How do we fix this? Well," he added quickly, "obviously if you knew, you wouldn't be asking. So. Um."
"It's okay," Pete said, wrapping his arms around Patrick. "You believe me. We'll figure it out."
"Maybe we should go into the city?" Patrick suggested. "I mean, I don't have a plan or anything, but I'm pretty sure the answer to disturbances in the space-time continuum aren't found in Glenview."
Pete nodded. "Hey, I'm willing to try anything. Joe thinks I need to learn some kind of life lesson. Maybe I should go volunteer at a soup kitchen or something?"
"I don't know, dude; you're already pretty generous." Patrick shrugged. "Maybe you need to work on your relationships with women."
They both stopped and looked at each other. A long beat of silence stretched between them.
"In a day?" Pete said.
"Yeah, never mind," Patrick said quickly, shaking his head. "Maybe I'll just throw you in Lake Michigan or something."
"Cool." Pete stood up, grabbed Patrick's hand and tugged him until he was standing. "Let's do this thing."
It turned out there wasn't much to "do" other than wander around Chicago, revisiting Pete's old haunts and sightseeing like tourists. Pete apologized to several club owners, old bandmates, and that poor lady at the zoo, trying to make amends.
None of it felt right.
At the end of the day, when Patrick refused to do as he promised and throw Pete into the lake, Pete jumped in on his own. He made Patrick drive home and spent the ride back to Glenview wrapped in an old blanket that had been in his trunk, wearing just his dad's gym shorts, which, ew, he also salvaged from the trunk.
Patrick tried to crack a joke about getting into his dad's pants, but Pete wasn't in the mood. Somehow he knew that this wasn't working. He was going to have to wake up again and it wouldn't be tomorrow and Patrick wouldn't believe him and fuck.
"We'll fix it," Patrick said softly, glancing at him as they pulled into Patrick's driveway. "I'll play the song for you again. I bet I'll believe you faster." He smiled, looking at Pete to join in. "Especially if you play it better."
Pete bared his teeth, almost smiling, then shook his head, huddling deeper into the blanket for a second before throwing it off. "Nah, I remember it. I'm not coming in. I just--" he rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. "I just want to get this over with."
Patrick got out of the car and Pete hopped over to the driver's side. "Hey," Pete called to Patrick's back as he walked up the walkway, his back hunched, looking as miserable as Pete felt. "Does the song have a name?"
"Saturday," Patrick said, looking quickly back at him. "It's called 'Saturday.'"
......
Morning. Sunshine. Creed. Mom.
At least Pete expected it this time. And he knew exactly where he was going. He figured that, at the very least, he could get another whole day with Patrick out of it. And now he knew that Patrick would, eventually, believe him.
"Saturday," Pete muttered to himself as he pulled on his jeans. He hummed the chord progression to himself, wishing that he didn't suck even worse at the guitar than he did on bass.
Pete timed it so he got to Patrick's house two minutes after his mom left. He wasn't really in the mood for small talk. He barged into Patrick's room and grabbed the guitar.
"Wha-?" Patrick mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Pete?"
"I--" Pete stopped, desperately not wanting to fucking do this again, "I'm stuck in a time loop, like Groundhog Day." Pete held his hand up at Patrick's baffled look. "You didn't believe me last time, either. Let me --" he stood up, grabbed the guitar, and sat down again.
"It is too fucking early for your bullshit," Patrick muttered, flopping back onto his pillow. "Can your freakout wait until like, noon?"
"No." Pete positioned his hands on the guitar. "I have to convince you, okay? You have to believe that I've lived this day seven or eight fucking times already and I've heard your song, your new song, and it's called 'Saturday' and I learned the chords so please, please listen." Pete gripped the neck of the guitar so hard that Patrick was probably going to yell at him.
"Okay, first," Patrick said, "loosen your death grip on my guitar, dude." He yawned and worked his way out of the covers and onto his feet, sliding next to Pete and giving him a quick hug on his way out. "Second, I have to pee. Third, you can play me the song, because if there's anything that'll make me believe in science fiction, it's you actually learning how to play the guitar."
Pete relaxed, his muscles unknotting, and smiled at Patrick, who never stopped being Patrick. "I love you," he said, with feeling.
"I know," Patrick called from the bathroom, over the sound of running water. "I'm pretty lovable."
"You're totally blushing, dude!" Pete yelled. "I can sense it!"
"Am not," Patrick said as he came out of the bathroom, totally blushing. Dude never could take a compliment, even if he gave it to himself.
Patrick sat down on the bed next to Pete and stretched. "Okay, hit me."
Pete struggled with his fingers for a second, then moved them to the chords, awkwardly, but with a little more confidence than last time. He still hummed the melody, just in case. He stopped playing and looked at Patrick, who was pale, his mouth hanging open. Not his most attractive look, but Pete took it as a good sign.
"You...okay, wow." Patrick scratched his head. "Well, the world isn't ending or anything; you still can't play at all." He took a deep breath. "But yeah, wow. That's the song. I never played it before, and I sure as hell never told anyone the title."
Pete grinned. "Dude, my guitar skills are amazing. You are so jealous."
"Yes, jealousy." Patrick nodded, keeping a completely straight face. "That's it exactly." He bumped shoulders with Pete. "So are you here because you know how to break the um...curse? Or whatever?"
Pete shook his head. "I have no idea. I just...I just wanted you to believe me." He shrugged. "We spent the last today running around and tryin all worst of crazy shit. I just want to stay here today." He curled up on Patrick's bed, the tips of his toes touching the waistband of Patrick's shorts. "Play me the song. We can work on it together, if you want."
Patrick stared at him. "You come over and wake me up to convince me that you're stuck in a space-time loop and all you really want to do is what we were going to do anyway?"
"Pretty much, yeah," Pete said, closing his eyes. "I'm tired, Patrick. Really tired. I just..I'm taking a break this time around. Sing me the words?"
He heard Patrick taking a deep breath and sighing, then the familiar sounds of harrumphing and grumbling that meant Patrick was getting ready to sing. Pete smiled. This was exactly what he needed.
And then Patrick started singing and Pete listened, really listened to the words, instead of just letting them wash over him, and then he heard his own name and then he got it, got the song, got the idea, got the goddamned fucking clue.
"It's about us," Pete said, opening his eyes and grinning at Patrick, who was -- ha -- totally blushing again. "You wrote a song about us."
"It's about..I don't know. Graduating. The band. Um. Everything." Patrick ducked his head and fidgeted. "And yeah, us. Just, you like, changed my life, you know?"
"Christ, Patrick, you saved my life." Pete sat up and wrapped himself around Patrick, gently pushing the guitar to the floor. He buried his face in Patrick's neck and murmured, "Don't you know that?"
Patrick didn't say anything, but hesitantly put his arm around Pete's waist. Pete shivered. I wonder, he thought. But then he wasn't wondering anymore, because Patrick slowly, hesitantly, pressed his lips to Pete's, quick and dry and weirdly innocent, considering Pete was practically humping his leg.
"Thank God," Pete breathed and went in for a longer, deeper kiss, pushing, pushing, pushing, like he always did with Patrick, and Patrick let him in, like he always did.
Pete couldn't believe his luck. He never, ever thought that he would really end up here, making out with Patrick on his bed, the sun streaming through on both of them. Pete always assumed his crush on Patrick would lead to (a) some kind of inappropriate declaration of love, most likely involving public humiliation and police action, or (b) tears, moping, and endless poetry about his Great and Tragic Love.
But no, instead, Patrick was moving under him and panting and somehow Pete had gotten his hand shoved into Patrick's shorts and shit, yeah, this was it, this was--
"Wait," Patrick gasped, scrabbling at Pete's hands.
"What?" Pete sat up and took his hands away, grinding his teeth in frustration.
"What if I don't remember?" Patrick took a couple of deep breaths through his nose. "What if you end up with this amazing memory of our first time and I don't? Or if you get to--"
"If I get to keep having a first time with you, and you don't even realize," Pete said, sitting back and feeling kind of sick. He'd almost forgotten about his situation.
"Right," Patrick said. He shook his head a little and muttered, "I must be fucking crazy to stop this." He grabbed Pete's arm. "Please don't forget, okay? Just like, jump me as soon as you get this shit figured out."
Pete grinned so hard his face hurt. "I want that in writing, dude."
Patrick snorted. He bent down and grabbed the guitar. "So, are we still on for finishing that song?"
"Yeah, after my cold shower," Pete grumbled, but he was still smiling. Oh, Patrick was so getting jumped. And if he thought he had motivation to get this time loop shit fixed before, well. The universe hadn't seen anything yet.
They worked on the song all day. Back and forth, in the familiar rhythm of their songwriting. They stopped long enough to make pb&js at one point, and then raided Patrick's freezer for ice cream a little later. While they were trying to work on the bridge, Patrick declared that he was going to write the fucking song with his fucking ice cream cone, because it could not be more wrong, wrong, wrong than Pete was.
Pete only sulked for about three minutes over that, but then he remembered that he got to stick his tongue in Patrick's mouth this morning, so he cheerfully acknowledged his inferiority to delicious desserts.
When Patrick's mom came home, she asked Pete to stay for dinner, and Patrick surprised him by saying, "Pete's staying over tonight, if that's cool. We're working on a song."
Pete looked at him, questioning, and when they'd gotten back upstairs to Patrick's room, Patrick shrugged and said, "If I'm only going to remember this day until you fall asleep, I want to make the most of it."
Right. Pete's heart thudded dully in his chest at the thought of starting all the fuck over again in the morning. "Let's get back to work," he said quietly.
They were all business after that, Patrick making Pete memorize and recite notes and chords, so they would be able to recreate all their hard work. Pete's brain hurt, but by the time they finished the song around midnight, he could play it backwards and forwards.
"Well," Patrick said, putting his guitar away carefully. "I guess this is it."
Pete didn't say anything; he just dove for Patrick, knocking him onto the bed and curling up next to him. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said softly.
"You got it," Patrick whispered, hugging him closer.
It was so fucking unfair that Pete, who couldn't usually sleep without enough tranqs to knock out a horse, fell right asleep.
Morning. Sunshine. The sound of a lawnmower. Fucking Creed. Pete sighed rolled over and -- wait, he couldn't roll over because someone was there and oh God, Pete did not even want to open his eyes, because it was too good to be true.
"I fucking hate this song," he heard Patrick mumble, and then the bed dipped as everything shifted and Pete couldn’t take it anymore, so he cracked his eyes open just enough to see--
Holy shit.
Patrick's room.
The alarm clock, no longer blaring Creed, read 11:15.
Patrick crawled back into bed and looked at him. 'What? Oh, wait, shit. Is it--it's fixed?"
"Dude!" Pete yelled. "Dude, I am free! Take that, Ridley Scott, you motherfucker!" He sat up and bounced on the edge of Patrick's bed. "It's Tueeesdaaayy and I remember the soooong and I get to jump yoouuuu!"
Patrick laughed. "Crazy motherfucker," he said, trying to sit up on the lurching bed.
"Yeah, but I'm your crazy motherfucker." Pete shoved him back onto the pillow. "This is the best day of my life."
Patrick grabbed him and pulled him down for a quick kiss. "Promise me we can record the song later."
"That is going to be our song," Pete said, enthusiastically yanking off his jeans. "Forever and ever, even when we're famous."
"Forever and ever," Patrick agreed. "Now get over here and jump my bones, asshole."
And, as he now realized that his life was being directed by an eighteen year-old kid from Glenview, Pete jumped.
Title: And Then the Aliens Killed Bill Murray
Author: Miss Pamela
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Word count: 5686
Huge thank you to giddygeek for beta and dealing with me and this story for WAY too long, and to femmequixotic for the final beta.
Before Pete was even completely awake, he could tell that it was way too fucking early. Bright, mid-morning summer sunshine glared through his blinds and he could hear his neighbors out mowing their lawns, their kids screeching in the streets.
"Fuck," he mumbled. Squinting at his clock radio, he realized two things: One, it was only nine-thirty in the fucking morning, which meant that he'd gotten exactly three hours of sleep, and two, his alarm was blasting that stupid Creed song he couldn't get away from. 8:10 it read, cruelly.
"Fuck!" he said again, a little louder, groping around for something to throw at his clock.
"Peter?" his mom called through the door. "Peter, I hope you're awake." Pause.
"What?" Pete yelled.
"You have a doctor's appointment in thirty minutes. Did you forget?" Her tone suggested that she fully expected him to have forgotten. "And shower this time, please."
Fuuuuuck. Pete dragged himself out of bed and slumped his way into the shower, rinsing perfunctorily (no shampoo) before throwing on the jeans he wore the day before and a shirt that might have been his sister's.
His mom, blessed woman, had a huge travel mug full of coffee waiting for him. "I'll be out until later tonight," she said. "So I assume I won't be seeing you until tomorrow sometime?"
"Mmmph," Pete mumbled around the rim of the mug. He waved to her, his keys jingling around his fingers, tangling them together.
Pete was mostly awake by the time he got to Dr. Hafek's office. The doc poked and prodded at him and made him breathe, like there was some chance Pete had stopped doing that on his own.
"And how are we sleeping, Pete?" Dr. Hafek asked.
"I don't know about you, but I can't sleep for shit, as usual." Pete shrugged. "I'll deal."
"Peter," the doctor said, pushing his glasses up and frowning. "Lack of sleep can have profound effects on both the mind and the body. Science doesn't fully understand how sleep and dreaming work, but there is no denying that persistent insomnia can have quite serious repercussions."
"Yeah, I think it's turning me into an asshole." Pete yawned, cracking his jaw. "We good?"
"Hmmmm," Dr. Hafek said, making a note in Pete's chart. "Take your sleeping pills, Peter, and come see me in six months."
"Aye aye," Pete saluted and backed out the exam room door.
Pete hated getting up early with the fire of a thousand fucking suns, but just for a moment, with the sun shining on his face, and the prospect of an iced latte and an afternoon with Patrick ahead of him, he could almost see why people made the effort.
And an hour later, when he showed up at Patrick's house with two iced lattes and the smug, smug satisfaction of a man who got to wake up his best friend with an icy-cold hand to the back of his neck, Pete resolved to get up early like, once a month. Maybe.
"Fucking asshole," Patrick mumbled around his straw, kicking Pete in the shins. "Fucking fucker."
"You love me," Pete crooned. "Soooooo much."
"I fucking hate you." Patrick took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Wait for me downstairs; I'm taking a shower and then I have to play something for you."
Pete tried not to watch Patrick's ass as he left, but seriously, he was only human, and he'd been up for like, fifteen hours already.
..........
It turned out that Patrick wanting to "play him something" meant that he was going to fuck around on his guitar until Pete died of boredom.
"Your mom invited me out for your graduation dinner," Pete said, flicking plastic forks at Patrick's head. One hit the brim of his hat at juuuust the right angle and teetered for a second before plunging to its death in a pile of Patrick's dirty socks.
"How did you even get so many forks?" Patrick asked, swatting the next one away. "And, okay, cool."
"I saved them." Pete dodged Patrick's retaliatory hand-stabbing attack, which, in Pete's opinion completely lacked any kind of finesse and showed an utter lack of creativity. "For exactly this occasion."
"You're an asshole," Patrick said. "For exactly every occasion. Hand me that pick?"
Pete tossed him the pick and snuggled deeper into the couch, tucking his toes under Patrick's thighs and listening to the warm, comforting sounds of the low hum of Patrick's mom's vacuum, a neighbor's radio out in the yard, and Patrick cursing under his breath over some chords. Surprisingly, Pete found his eyes drifting closed, but the even the thought of sleep startled him back into wakefulness.
"Are you even listening to this?" Patrick asked and smacked Pete's legs. "I don't know, I have the lyrics for this, and some of the chords, but." He made a small, frustrated grunt.
"It's great," Pete said, only half listening. "Keep playing."
"I would if I had anything else written, asshole." Patrick sighed and put down his guitar. "Seriously, Pete, just go home if you're not even going to pay attention."
"You're like, even pissier than usual tonight." Pete tried to dart forward and kiss Patrick on the cheek, working his hand down to wedgie him at the same time.
"Get the fuck off!" Patrick pushed him away and fixed his shirt. "You know what, I am in kind of a shitty mood." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Want to watch Goonies and bug my mom to get us some Chinese food?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Pete said. "I want lo mein, motherfucker."
After a practically perfect night of three more wedgies (for Patrick), a movie marathon, (Goonies, Independence Day, and Star Wars: Episode IV), and a sneak duck sauce attack, (Pete's hair was still sticky) Pete finally made it home just before midnight.
For the first time in weeks, he fell right asleep.
.......
Before Pete was even completely awake, he could tell that it was way too fucking early. Bright, mid-morning summer sunshine glared through his blinds and he could hear his neighbors out mowing their lawns, their kids screeching in the streets.
"Fuck," he mumbled. Squinting at his clock radio, he realized two things: One, it was nine-thirty in the fucking morning, which meant that he'd gotten nine whole hours of sleep, and two, that stupid fucking Creed song...
Wait.
Pete shook his head to clear it. Deja fucking vu.
"Peter?" his mom called through the door. "Peter, I hope you're awake." Pause.
"What?" Pete yelled.
"You have a doctor's appointment in thirty minutes. Did you forget?"
Okay, now this was getting weird. Pete sat up and smacked himself in the head, just in case he was actually still asleep. "I went yesterday, woman! Or are you getting senile?"
"It's Monday, Pete. I doubt that Dr. Hafek let you in on a Sunday." He heard her sigh through the door. "Don't forget to shower this time, okay?"
Pete slowly peeled back his blanket, completely awake, his head spinning. He could have sworn he'd already gone to the doctor's, went to Patrick's...the movie marathon... Pete felt his hair for duck sauce residue. Nothing.
"My dreams are getting fucking freaky," he announced to his Transformers.
Trying to shake it off, Pete hopped off the bed to get into the shower. The shower didn't help, the coffee didn't help, and the bright sunshine just seemed menacing, in an end-of-the-world, nuclear winter kind of way.
"And how are we sleeping, Pete?" Dr. Hafek asked.
"I have deja-vu," Pete blurted out. "Like, really, really badly. I swear I've lived this whole day before, like Bill Murray or some shit like that." Pete gripped the edge of the exam table, wincing at the familiar crinkle of the paper. "It's not going away; it's just getting worse."
"Hmmmm." Dr. Hafek put Pete's file down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I'm going to be honest with you, Peter. Not much is known about déjà vu. It's just one of those funny tricks our mind plays on us from time to time. But," He picked up his pen and pulled a small pad from the pocket of his lab coat. "I'll bet anything that, in your case, it's linked to your insomnia." He scribbled on the pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Pete. "Give this prescription a try. If it doesn't work, call my office tomorrow."
"Right," Pete muttered. "If there is a tomorrow."
He called Patrick as soon as he left the office, told him the he was feeling too shitty to come over, then drove right home. His mom was out, so he went straight upstairs and back into bed, twisting his hands in the blankets, watching the sunlight move across his ceiling for hours before darkness finally fell.
.......
Pete didn't remember falling asleep, but he must have. Because he woke up to the same fucking sunshine, the same fucking Creed song, and his mom yelling about the goddamned fucking doctor.
"I'm in a movie," Pete told his Transformers. "A bad sci-fi movie. Or a fucking black comedy." Pete kind of hoped that his Transformers would answer back, considering that he was in a movie and all, but no such luck.
"Pete, are you going to shower?" his mom called through the door.
"Nope," Pete muttered, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. "If I'm in a comedy, then I'd better have some fun."
........
"So, how come you never stick your fingers in my ass?" Pete asked.
Dr. Hafek frowned at him. "Excuse me?"
"What if I said please?" Pete swung his legs back and forth, enjoying the crinkling sound of the tissue paper on the examining table. "Or maybe you're just the kind of guy who likes romance. I'll take you out for smoothies after, if you want."
"Prostate exams aren't typically done until you're a bit older, Peter." Dr Hafek rubbed his chin. "Tell me about your sleep habits again."
"I'll give you fifty bucks if you use two fingers," Pete offered. "Trust me when I say I can take it."
Later that afternoon, Pete went to Patrick's and, while Patrick was trying to show him some song he was writing, Pete kissed him square on the mouth.
Patrick didn't even blink. He just waved Pete off and said, "Seriously, if you're not even going to listen, then go home."
That time, Pete went, figuring that maybe he was in a sci-fi movie after all, something dark and twisted. Maybe he was being directed by Ridley Scott. That would be fucking cool.
.......
Pete spent the entire next cycle naked. It turned out that it didn't matter where he slept, because he fell asleep in a lovely Chicago PD jail cell, and woke up in his own bed, with only Creed to comfort him.
Maybe I'll spend today in drag, Pete thought to himself, before he was fully awake. No, he really needed to solve this shit before he ended up in a mental hospital.
This required a serious plan of attack. Pete showered slowly, considering his options. Coffee first, of course. When considering any kind of plans or attacks or...well, anything, coffee was a necessary first step. And then he had to enlist his friends. Pete was a leader, not a loner. Okay, he was kind of a loner, but only in his own head, and he could probably use everyone's help on this one.
Pete tried to call Patrick on his way to Starbucks, but nobody answered. It was probably for the best, because Pete would just end up kissing him again. He thought about calling Dirty, but he didn't really feel like spending another night in jail.
There was an empty parking spot right in front of Starbucks, which was usually a good omen. Pete parked, cursing at his blind spot and nearly smacking into the Kia in front of him, hopped out of the car, and dialed almost without thinking.
"Joseph, my friend, I have a hypothetical question for you." Pete leaned back against the hood of his car and turned his face to the sun.
"And I have a hypothetical answer," Joe said. Pete heard the sounds of Need for Speed come to a screeching halt while Joe put the game on pause.
"Suppose you were in a movie," Pete started, then stopped. "Not like you were acting in a movie--"
"No, no, like you were stuck in a movie, I got it," Joe said. "What kind of movie?
Pete grinned. He loved his friends. "Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Or, like, some freaky sci-fi shit directed by Ridley Scott."
There was a long pause. "Well, if you're Bill Murray, you're in a comedy. So you have to learn a life lesson or some shit like that." Another pause. "If you're being directed by Ridley Scott, you're fucked."
"Yeah, that's what I figured." Pete rubbed his fingers against the worn spot just above the knee of his jeans. "Can you think of any life lessons that I'm missing out on?"
"Dude, I do not have all day." Pete heard Need for Speed come roaring to life again. "Maybe you should talk to Andy."
"Right," Pete said. "Thanks." He hung up and went into Starbucks. Blessed Starbucks, always the same, no matter what day it was. Pete opened his mouth to start ordering his usual, but he decided that he was too damned jittery for coffee. He ordered a giant cup of Calm and dialed Andy.
"Andy," Pete announced. "I am being Zen."
"Uh-huh." There was some kind of blurred, ambient noise in the background. Cheering, maybe.
"I am a Zen motherfucking master," Pete went on. "I'm breathing and drinking tea and focusing on the solution to my giant fucking existential problem."
"I'm glad you're breathing, man," Andy muttered. "Truly."
"Because I need focus. Laser focus. Robot laser focus." Pete made laser noises, just in case Andy didn't get his meaning, He sounded kind of distracted.
"Robots, got it," Andy mumbled. "Dude, the Twins are playing a double header. Can I call you later?"
"Andy, my life is possibly being directed by Ridley Scott!" Pete yelled, ignoring the dirty looks all the other customers were giving him. "This is serious!"
"Well, in that case, you're fucked," Andy said. "I'll call you later. About the robots."
The asshole didn’t even wait before he hung up. Pete chucked his phone into the trash and took a huge swig of tea, choking on the bitter dregs at the bottom. So much for being fucking Zen.
......
The next cycle, Pete decided that Patrick was the key. He had to learn some kind of life lesson, right? Face his fears? Nobody knew his fears like Patrick. Nobody knew Pete like Patrick.
"Patrick is the key," he told his still-inanimate Transformers. "He is the motherfucking Keymaster and I am the Gatekeeper. Why didn't I think of this before?"
Pete skipped the doctor but not the shower, and headed over to Patrick's feeling more cheerful than he had in days. Day. Multiples of one day.
"Good morning!" he yelled to Patrick's mom, who was outside getting ready to leave for work. He figured it paid to be polite, just in case he did wake up and it was tomorrow.
"Pete!" Her eyebrows shot up to the top of her forehead. "What on Earth are you doing up so early?"
"I had a thing," Pete said, swinging his arm around her neck and kissing her cheek. "You look lovely today, Patricia."
She batted him away, laughing, "Patrick is still asleep, but you can go on up. And tell him he needs to take out the trash and empty the dishwasher."
"I'll even help him," Pete grinned. "Have a nice day!" He waved to her as she drove off, her car glinting in the bright sunlight. He went in through the front door, slammed it and yelled, "Honey! I'm hoooooome!"
Pete bounded up the stairs two at a time. "Patrick, my man, you need to help me!" He burst through Patrick's bedroom door to find him rumpled, sleepy, and reaching for his glasses.
"What the fuck, dude?" he mumbled. "What are you even doing here?"
"I just came over to do your mom and I figured it was rude not to say hi." Pete bounced on the edge of Patrick's bed. "And I have something amazing and kind of shocking to tell you, so you better sit down."
"I'm in bed. I couldn't be more sitting." Patrick yawned loudly. "This had better be important."
"I'm stuck in a time loop. Or a movie. I can't really tell which," Pete said, looking at the floor. Faced with the normal, everyday chaos of Patrick's room and the wonderfully familiar look of affection and exasperation on Patrick's face, Pete wavered. This was fucking weird, right? Completely weird. His good mood was suddenly gone; he was crazy, he sounded crazy -- why would Patrick ever believe him? "I uh, I've been waking up on Monday morning -- this Monday -- for the past four days. It just keeps repeating." Seeing the beginning of an epic Patrick eye-roll, Pete rushed on. "The first time, I went about my day, like normal. I got up, took a shower--"
"That's not normal," Patrick said, smirking at him.
"Shut the fuck up," Pete said, his heart in his chest. Patrick had to believe him. He had to. "I went to the doctor and then I came over here. You were practicing -- a new song, I think -- and then you got all pissy and we watched movies and ordered Chinese."
"That could be any day," Patrick pointed out, but he wasn't smirking anymore. He sat up, shuffling his legs around Pete.
"And then I woke up again and it was Monday again and I went to the doctor's and...fuck, it happened, okay?" Pete couldn't even look at Patrick. He focused on the pile of clothes next to the bed, eyes stinging. Fuck.
"Oookaayyyy," Patrick said, knocking his shoulder against Pete's. "I can see that you're really upset."
"But you think I'm crazy," Pete said, sighing. "I was there, you were there, you were mad at me because I wasn't paying attention to you, you were writing this song..." Pete sat up and snapped his fingers. "The song." He bounced off the bed and retrieved Patrick's acoustic guitar from where it was leaning against his closet. "If I can play the song for you, you'll know I wasn't dreaming."
"If you can play it well I'll know that I'm dreaming," Patrick said, but he had a funny expression on his face. He ducked his head and glanced at Pete from under his eyelashes. "I am working on something," he admitted. "I was going to show you today."
"Ha! Okay! Awesome!" Pete strummed the guitar a few times, trying to remember the chords. Fuck, he'd never wished that he had Patrick's music brain before, but it had been days since he'd heard the song, and he was barely listening at the time. Fuck, fuck, what was it? Pete closed his eyes and tried to bring that moment back. The low buzz of the lawnmower, the feeling of total contentment, the forks bouncing off Patrick's hat...
His fingers moved, awkwardly finding his way around the strings, picking out the notes, slowly at first, then a little faster. Figuring his shitty singing was a little better than his shitty guitar skills, Pete hummed the snatches that he remembered from the melody. "Something like that? You said you had the lyrics written, but you couldn't get the song to work."
Patrick stared at him, mouth slightly open. "Um," he said.
"Is that it?" Pete asked, hope bubbling up in his chest. "That's it, right?"
"You're...stuck in a space/time loop," Patrick said, looking closely at Pete, his eyes widening. "Holy shit."
"I know, right?" Pete giggled in relief. "Totally fucked up!" It was okay; everything was going to be okay because Patrick believed him. Pete felt better than he had in days.
"So, um," Patrick scratched his head. "How do we fix this? Well," he added quickly, "obviously if you knew, you wouldn't be asking. So. Um."
"It's okay," Pete said, wrapping his arms around Patrick. "You believe me. We'll figure it out."
"Maybe we should go into the city?" Patrick suggested. "I mean, I don't have a plan or anything, but I'm pretty sure the answer to disturbances in the space-time continuum aren't found in Glenview."
Pete nodded. "Hey, I'm willing to try anything. Joe thinks I need to learn some kind of life lesson. Maybe I should go volunteer at a soup kitchen or something?"
"I don't know, dude; you're already pretty generous." Patrick shrugged. "Maybe you need to work on your relationships with women."
They both stopped and looked at each other. A long beat of silence stretched between them.
"In a day?" Pete said.
"Yeah, never mind," Patrick said quickly, shaking his head. "Maybe I'll just throw you in Lake Michigan or something."
"Cool." Pete stood up, grabbed Patrick's hand and tugged him until he was standing. "Let's do this thing."
It turned out there wasn't much to "do" other than wander around Chicago, revisiting Pete's old haunts and sightseeing like tourists. Pete apologized to several club owners, old bandmates, and that poor lady at the zoo, trying to make amends.
None of it felt right.
At the end of the day, when Patrick refused to do as he promised and throw Pete into the lake, Pete jumped in on his own. He made Patrick drive home and spent the ride back to Glenview wrapped in an old blanket that had been in his trunk, wearing just his dad's gym shorts, which, ew, he also salvaged from the trunk.
Patrick tried to crack a joke about getting into his dad's pants, but Pete wasn't in the mood. Somehow he knew that this wasn't working. He was going to have to wake up again and it wouldn't be tomorrow and Patrick wouldn't believe him and fuck.
"We'll fix it," Patrick said softly, glancing at him as they pulled into Patrick's driveway. "I'll play the song for you again. I bet I'll believe you faster." He smiled, looking at Pete to join in. "Especially if you play it better."
Pete bared his teeth, almost smiling, then shook his head, huddling deeper into the blanket for a second before throwing it off. "Nah, I remember it. I'm not coming in. I just--" he rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. "I just want to get this over with."
Patrick got out of the car and Pete hopped over to the driver's side. "Hey," Pete called to Patrick's back as he walked up the walkway, his back hunched, looking as miserable as Pete felt. "Does the song have a name?"
"Saturday," Patrick said, looking quickly back at him. "It's called 'Saturday.'"
......
Morning. Sunshine. Creed. Mom.
At least Pete expected it this time. And he knew exactly where he was going. He figured that, at the very least, he could get another whole day with Patrick out of it. And now he knew that Patrick would, eventually, believe him.
"Saturday," Pete muttered to himself as he pulled on his jeans. He hummed the chord progression to himself, wishing that he didn't suck even worse at the guitar than he did on bass.
Pete timed it so he got to Patrick's house two minutes after his mom left. He wasn't really in the mood for small talk. He barged into Patrick's room and grabbed the guitar.
"Wha-?" Patrick mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Pete?"
"I--" Pete stopped, desperately not wanting to fucking do this again, "I'm stuck in a time loop, like Groundhog Day." Pete held his hand up at Patrick's baffled look. "You didn't believe me last time, either. Let me --" he stood up, grabbed the guitar, and sat down again.
"It is too fucking early for your bullshit," Patrick muttered, flopping back onto his pillow. "Can your freakout wait until like, noon?"
"No." Pete positioned his hands on the guitar. "I have to convince you, okay? You have to believe that I've lived this day seven or eight fucking times already and I've heard your song, your new song, and it's called 'Saturday' and I learned the chords so please, please listen." Pete gripped the neck of the guitar so hard that Patrick was probably going to yell at him.
"Okay, first," Patrick said, "loosen your death grip on my guitar, dude." He yawned and worked his way out of the covers and onto his feet, sliding next to Pete and giving him a quick hug on his way out. "Second, I have to pee. Third, you can play me the song, because if there's anything that'll make me believe in science fiction, it's you actually learning how to play the guitar."
Pete relaxed, his muscles unknotting, and smiled at Patrick, who never stopped being Patrick. "I love you," he said, with feeling.
"I know," Patrick called from the bathroom, over the sound of running water. "I'm pretty lovable."
"You're totally blushing, dude!" Pete yelled. "I can sense it!"
"Am not," Patrick said as he came out of the bathroom, totally blushing. Dude never could take a compliment, even if he gave it to himself.
Patrick sat down on the bed next to Pete and stretched. "Okay, hit me."
Pete struggled with his fingers for a second, then moved them to the chords, awkwardly, but with a little more confidence than last time. He still hummed the melody, just in case. He stopped playing and looked at Patrick, who was pale, his mouth hanging open. Not his most attractive look, but Pete took it as a good sign.
"You...okay, wow." Patrick scratched his head. "Well, the world isn't ending or anything; you still can't play at all." He took a deep breath. "But yeah, wow. That's the song. I never played it before, and I sure as hell never told anyone the title."
Pete grinned. "Dude, my guitar skills are amazing. You are so jealous."
"Yes, jealousy." Patrick nodded, keeping a completely straight face. "That's it exactly." He bumped shoulders with Pete. "So are you here because you know how to break the um...curse? Or whatever?"
Pete shook his head. "I have no idea. I just...I just wanted you to believe me." He shrugged. "We spent the last today running around and tryin all worst of crazy shit. I just want to stay here today." He curled up on Patrick's bed, the tips of his toes touching the waistband of Patrick's shorts. "Play me the song. We can work on it together, if you want."
Patrick stared at him. "You come over and wake me up to convince me that you're stuck in a space-time loop and all you really want to do is what we were going to do anyway?"
"Pretty much, yeah," Pete said, closing his eyes. "I'm tired, Patrick. Really tired. I just..I'm taking a break this time around. Sing me the words?"
He heard Patrick taking a deep breath and sighing, then the familiar sounds of harrumphing and grumbling that meant Patrick was getting ready to sing. Pete smiled. This was exactly what he needed.
And then Patrick started singing and Pete listened, really listened to the words, instead of just letting them wash over him, and then he heard his own name and then he got it, got the song, got the idea, got the goddamned fucking clue.
"It's about us," Pete said, opening his eyes and grinning at Patrick, who was -- ha -- totally blushing again. "You wrote a song about us."
"It's about..I don't know. Graduating. The band. Um. Everything." Patrick ducked his head and fidgeted. "And yeah, us. Just, you like, changed my life, you know?"
"Christ, Patrick, you saved my life." Pete sat up and wrapped himself around Patrick, gently pushing the guitar to the floor. He buried his face in Patrick's neck and murmured, "Don't you know that?"
Patrick didn't say anything, but hesitantly put his arm around Pete's waist. Pete shivered. I wonder, he thought. But then he wasn't wondering anymore, because Patrick slowly, hesitantly, pressed his lips to Pete's, quick and dry and weirdly innocent, considering Pete was practically humping his leg.
"Thank God," Pete breathed and went in for a longer, deeper kiss, pushing, pushing, pushing, like he always did with Patrick, and Patrick let him in, like he always did.
Pete couldn't believe his luck. He never, ever thought that he would really end up here, making out with Patrick on his bed, the sun streaming through on both of them. Pete always assumed his crush on Patrick would lead to (a) some kind of inappropriate declaration of love, most likely involving public humiliation and police action, or (b) tears, moping, and endless poetry about his Great and Tragic Love.
But no, instead, Patrick was moving under him and panting and somehow Pete had gotten his hand shoved into Patrick's shorts and shit, yeah, this was it, this was--
"Wait," Patrick gasped, scrabbling at Pete's hands.
"What?" Pete sat up and took his hands away, grinding his teeth in frustration.
"What if I don't remember?" Patrick took a couple of deep breaths through his nose. "What if you end up with this amazing memory of our first time and I don't? Or if you get to--"
"If I get to keep having a first time with you, and you don't even realize," Pete said, sitting back and feeling kind of sick. He'd almost forgotten about his situation.
"Right," Patrick said. He shook his head a little and muttered, "I must be fucking crazy to stop this." He grabbed Pete's arm. "Please don't forget, okay? Just like, jump me as soon as you get this shit figured out."
Pete grinned so hard his face hurt. "I want that in writing, dude."
Patrick snorted. He bent down and grabbed the guitar. "So, are we still on for finishing that song?"
"Yeah, after my cold shower," Pete grumbled, but he was still smiling. Oh, Patrick was so getting jumped. And if he thought he had motivation to get this time loop shit fixed before, well. The universe hadn't seen anything yet.
They worked on the song all day. Back and forth, in the familiar rhythm of their songwriting. They stopped long enough to make pb&js at one point, and then raided Patrick's freezer for ice cream a little later. While they were trying to work on the bridge, Patrick declared that he was going to write the fucking song with his fucking ice cream cone, because it could not be more wrong, wrong, wrong than Pete was.
Pete only sulked for about three minutes over that, but then he remembered that he got to stick his tongue in Patrick's mouth this morning, so he cheerfully acknowledged his inferiority to delicious desserts.
When Patrick's mom came home, she asked Pete to stay for dinner, and Patrick surprised him by saying, "Pete's staying over tonight, if that's cool. We're working on a song."
Pete looked at him, questioning, and when they'd gotten back upstairs to Patrick's room, Patrick shrugged and said, "If I'm only going to remember this day until you fall asleep, I want to make the most of it."
Right. Pete's heart thudded dully in his chest at the thought of starting all the fuck over again in the morning. "Let's get back to work," he said quietly.
They were all business after that, Patrick making Pete memorize and recite notes and chords, so they would be able to recreate all their hard work. Pete's brain hurt, but by the time they finished the song around midnight, he could play it backwards and forwards.
"Well," Patrick said, putting his guitar away carefully. "I guess this is it."
Pete didn't say anything; he just dove for Patrick, knocking him onto the bed and curling up next to him. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said softly.
"You got it," Patrick whispered, hugging him closer.
It was so fucking unfair that Pete, who couldn't usually sleep without enough tranqs to knock out a horse, fell right asleep.
Morning. Sunshine. The sound of a lawnmower. Fucking Creed. Pete sighed rolled over and -- wait, he couldn't roll over because someone was there and oh God, Pete did not even want to open his eyes, because it was too good to be true.
"I fucking hate this song," he heard Patrick mumble, and then the bed dipped as everything shifted and Pete couldn’t take it anymore, so he cracked his eyes open just enough to see--
Holy shit.
Patrick's room.
The alarm clock, no longer blaring Creed, read 11:15.
Patrick crawled back into bed and looked at him. 'What? Oh, wait, shit. Is it--it's fixed?"
"Dude!" Pete yelled. "Dude, I am free! Take that, Ridley Scott, you motherfucker!" He sat up and bounced on the edge of Patrick's bed. "It's Tueeesdaaayy and I remember the soooong and I get to jump yoouuuu!"
Patrick laughed. "Crazy motherfucker," he said, trying to sit up on the lurching bed.
"Yeah, but I'm your crazy motherfucker." Pete shoved him back onto the pillow. "This is the best day of my life."
Patrick grabbed him and pulled him down for a quick kiss. "Promise me we can record the song later."
"That is going to be our song," Pete said, enthusiastically yanking off his jeans. "Forever and ever, even when we're famous."
"Forever and ever," Patrick agreed. "Now get over here and jump my bones, asshole."
And, as he now realized that his life was being directed by an eighteen year-old kid from Glenview, Pete jumped.