A Pillowcase Correspondence, Letter 4
Title: A Pillowcase Correspondence
Authors: megyal and lesinnocents
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: PG-13 at the moment
Summary: Dear Pete...
Disclaimer: 100% Untrue..
Letter One
Letter Two
Letter Three
My Dear Pete (yes, much better),
I have a theory about that Gordian Knot. I think Alexander was so anxious to pull it, to prove that he was fulfilling destiny, that he just took matters into his own hands and made one sharp slice so that the strands fell before him in defeat. But...okay, have you ever actually tried to pull a knot? It's like the greatest satisfaction to see it unravel, undamaged. Therapeutic, even. One day we should sit down after practice and tie the laces of your sneakers together, and make you pull them out. Although it's very likely that you'll knaw at them with your teeth.
The thing is, if it's destiny we're talking about, then if he was meant to pull the knot, it would have been unraveled as easy as anything. He forced the issue, that's all I'm saying.
It seems to come so easy to you, prose and tenses, phrases and compositional beauty and I had only the slightest idea that you and words appear to have some sort of love/hate relationship, as in they love you, and you hate to be loved. Do you? Because bleeding your heart out on a page is sometimes better than thinking that everything is about mastery, and there is no room to let something just be itself. Maybe that's what corrupted Alexander: a false assumption that he had to have it all his way.
What is with you and depth? Why is it so important for you to go around denying it? Is this some sort of false modesty, because I sorta don't appreciate my compliments being backhanded at me like that, and by the way, did I actually compliment you? Because if I did, I take it back. Really. And I have no stars in my eyes. Just vitreous humor, from what I remember in Bio class. What in the world could you do to me that will make me change how I think about you? I don't think there is anything short of murder that I will not forgive you of, eventually.
A word of advice to you: I'm not enamored.
Patrick paused at this point, his heart beating uncomfortably in his chest. He was sure that if he straightened out his bent legs, unfurling himself from the corner of sofa he was currently squashed into, then the heartbeat would thump outwards from his chest, brushing across the strings of the guitars which were leaning against the basement wall, setting them off into discordant strums before tapping hurriedly on the ride-cymbal that stood alone, waiting patiently for the rest of the kit to be brought in. He was suddenly deeply afraid of the blue-inked words marching neatly across the sheaf of paper. He was especially wary of the last sentence he wrote. He was sure Pete's sharp brown eyes would see it for the lie it was, and he almost crumpled the paper in his hand, ready to scoff at himself and start over.
Before he could fold his fist up over it, the basement door flew open and Pete marched in with other parts of the drum-kit, a thick black cable slung like a protective snake around his neck; he grunted as he bent down to carefully placed his load on the floor, and Patrick's eyes were locked onto the slice of toned back that was revealed as Pete's tight shirt rode up. Patrick looked away quickly, before Pete got up to face him, and gazed down at his letter, the pad placed on top of his thighs and he marveled at how easily his personality had oozed through his pen onto the paper. Whenever he was talking to Pete, his speech was shy and low, because this was Peter Wentz, formerly of Racetraitor, His Royal Prankster of Suburbia. How he managed to now end up in a sort-of band with Pete was actually quite beyond Patrick; but writing seemed to draw out the slightly insulting and flippant side of him, the one his mother was eternally amused with and that his older brother referred to as 'the brat'. He gazed at the paper, feeling the weight of Pete's gaze prickling at his ear, and he hated the paleness of his skin, positive that Pete could detect the flush darkening his face and arms.
He held his breath, almost sure that Pete would say something to him, maybe ask him what he was writing; instead, the soft creak of the door closing caused him to snap his head up and stare at it. Patrick bit at his lower lip, and then screwed up his courage. He finished the letter, fearing that it was too forward, too open, mostly, on his part, but there seemed to be a strange compulsion to respond to Pete's eloquent self-destruction, to try and lighten it enough so that the implosion wasn't too devastating. He got up and poked the carefully folded wad under the strings of Pete's bass, at the second fret.
Another word of advice, but I have a feeling you won't take it: Don't apologise for the words. I personally think that the messy sprawl of thoughts have a more persuasive beauty than the pristine state of unused paper. To me, it's not about spoiling the paper; it's liberating the words, and the paper is so much better for it. AndI would rather you live free than save a tree...man, that rhymed. Ten cool points for me. The thing about it is, the straight lines are never as straight as you think they are, you know. There is no such thing as true perfection. And if there was such a thing, I don't think it would be beautiful. Marvellous, maybe. But not beautiful. Where did I get all this awesome philosopical commentary? I'm not sure, ask Joe.
I've got a thick skin, I suppose, so we're probably like a matched set, or maybe puzzle-pieces. You with your constant self-flagellation, and me with an inclination to write half-assed letters to some dude that I play in a band with...probably so I can figure out how comes he is under the impression that he's the Sahara of emotion, when the fact is, in each word he puts down, the weight of his unconquered world is knotted in it.
I'm not sorry.
Yours Sincerely,
Patrick.
Authors: megyal and lesinnocents
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: PG-13 at the moment
Summary: Dear Pete...
Disclaimer: 100% Untrue..
Letter One
Letter Two
Letter Three
My Dear Pete (yes, much better),
I have a theory about that Gordian Knot. I think Alexander was so anxious to pull it, to prove that he was fulfilling destiny, that he just took matters into his own hands and made one sharp slice so that the strands fell before him in defeat. But...okay, have you ever actually tried to pull a knot? It's like the greatest satisfaction to see it unravel, undamaged. Therapeutic, even. One day we should sit down after practice and tie the laces of your sneakers together, and make you pull them out. Although it's very likely that you'll knaw at them with your teeth.
The thing is, if it's destiny we're talking about, then if he was meant to pull the knot, it would have been unraveled as easy as anything. He forced the issue, that's all I'm saying.
It seems to come so easy to you, prose and tenses, phrases and compositional beauty and I had only the slightest idea that you and words appear to have some sort of love/hate relationship, as in they love you, and you hate to be loved. Do you? Because bleeding your heart out on a page is sometimes better than thinking that everything is about mastery, and there is no room to let something just be itself. Maybe that's what corrupted Alexander: a false assumption that he had to have it all his way.
What is with you and depth? Why is it so important for you to go around denying it? Is this some sort of false modesty, because I sorta don't appreciate my compliments being backhanded at me like that, and by the way, did I actually compliment you? Because if I did, I take it back. Really. And I have no stars in my eyes. Just vitreous humor, from what I remember in Bio class. What in the world could you do to me that will make me change how I think about you? I don't think there is anything short of murder that I will not forgive you of, eventually.
A word of advice to you: I'm not enamored.
Patrick paused at this point, his heart beating uncomfortably in his chest. He was sure that if he straightened out his bent legs, unfurling himself from the corner of sofa he was currently squashed into, then the heartbeat would thump outwards from his chest, brushing across the strings of the guitars which were leaning against the basement wall, setting them off into discordant strums before tapping hurriedly on the ride-cymbal that stood alone, waiting patiently for the rest of the kit to be brought in. He was suddenly deeply afraid of the blue-inked words marching neatly across the sheaf of paper. He was especially wary of the last sentence he wrote. He was sure Pete's sharp brown eyes would see it for the lie it was, and he almost crumpled the paper in his hand, ready to scoff at himself and start over.
Before he could fold his fist up over it, the basement door flew open and Pete marched in with other parts of the drum-kit, a thick black cable slung like a protective snake around his neck; he grunted as he bent down to carefully placed his load on the floor, and Patrick's eyes were locked onto the slice of toned back that was revealed as Pete's tight shirt rode up. Patrick looked away quickly, before Pete got up to face him, and gazed down at his letter, the pad placed on top of his thighs and he marveled at how easily his personality had oozed through his pen onto the paper. Whenever he was talking to Pete, his speech was shy and low, because this was Peter Wentz, formerly of Racetraitor, His Royal Prankster of Suburbia. How he managed to now end up in a sort-of band with Pete was actually quite beyond Patrick; but writing seemed to draw out the slightly insulting and flippant side of him, the one his mother was eternally amused with and that his older brother referred to as 'the brat'. He gazed at the paper, feeling the weight of Pete's gaze prickling at his ear, and he hated the paleness of his skin, positive that Pete could detect the flush darkening his face and arms.
He held his breath, almost sure that Pete would say something to him, maybe ask him what he was writing; instead, the soft creak of the door closing caused him to snap his head up and stare at it. Patrick bit at his lower lip, and then screwed up his courage. He finished the letter, fearing that it was too forward, too open, mostly, on his part, but there seemed to be a strange compulsion to respond to Pete's eloquent self-destruction, to try and lighten it enough so that the implosion wasn't too devastating. He got up and poked the carefully folded wad under the strings of Pete's bass, at the second fret.
Another word of advice, but I have a feeling you won't take it: Don't apologise for the words. I personally think that the messy sprawl of thoughts have a more persuasive beauty than the pristine state of unused paper. To me, it's not about spoiling the paper; it's liberating the words, and the paper is so much better for it. AndI would rather you live free than save a tree...man, that rhymed. Ten cool points for me. The thing about it is, the straight lines are never as straight as you think they are, you know. There is no such thing as true perfection. And if there was such a thing, I don't think it would be beautiful. Marvellous, maybe. But not beautiful. Where did I get all this awesome philosopical commentary? I'm not sure, ask Joe.
I've got a thick skin, I suppose, so we're probably like a matched set, or maybe puzzle-pieces. You with your constant self-flagellation, and me with an inclination to write half-assed letters to some dude that I play in a band with...probably so I can figure out how comes he is under the impression that he's the Sahara of emotion, when the fact is, in each word he puts down, the weight of his unconquered world is knotted in it.
I'm not sorry.
Yours Sincerely,
Patrick.