Hey There Delilah
Title: Hey There Delilah
Author: Sue (
pseudonumity)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick and Andy/Joe
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and mild sexual references.
Summary: “Patrick’s a singer who can’t sing. Pete’s a lyricist who can’t write. Andy’s a brain who can’t read. I’ve got my own damn problems… it’s like we’ve lost our biggest talents.”
Author’s Notes: I don’t know where this came from. I truly don’t. Also, the journal names are both fake and unimaginative. Don’t try to look them up. You won’t find anything.
Disclaimer: Not true and not mine.
Dedication: For
clippedwings (I expect my sex now) and
gamblore (it's pretty fucking tame as far as crack goes, but it's about as odd as I get).
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah, it’s great. It’s… short, but it looks… good.” Pete turned his head left and right to get a better look at his own reflection. Short could be good. And besides, it wasn’t like it wouldn’t grow back. He looked down at the floor; the bits of cut hair lying there couldn’t have been more than an inch and a half long. That would be back in no time… right?
“Great.” Joe, Andy, and Patrick grunted out various forms of “thanks” and “bye,” but as soon as they were out the door, hands began to weave nervously through some very short styles.
“I just… I mean, she was right, the sides would have looked funny if I'd kept them, but I feel sort of naked now…” muttered Patrick, running his hands over his very smooth face.
“I don’t mind when you’re naked,” commented Pete, his lips smiling at the thought while his forehead furrowed at his new near-buzz cut.
“You don’t, we do,” amended Joe, running his hands over his scalp. “This is what my face feels like when I don’t shave for two days. I shouldn’t get that feeling on the top of my head.”
Andy didn’t contribute anything to the discussion. He was still picturing the 6" long strips of hair he had seen being swept away.
“It’s fine. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back,” asserted Pete, trying to will himself to make a convincing defense.
“Dude, you don’t grow muttonchops, you cultivate them.”
Andy muttered something about “you don’t have as much to grow back” under his breath, but Pete seemed to be too busy frowning at his reflection in a nearby window to notice.
* * *
To: Patrick
From: Pete
Subject: more lyrics
Date: July 15, 2006 - 4:29 am
im sad a lot
i love u even though u suck
the sky is very black but also nice and it makes me think of stuff sometimes
u suck a lot
…
* * *
“Uh… Pete?”
“Yeah?” Pete came out of the tiny hotel bathroom and curled back up in the bed next to Patrick, who was looking at his laptop like it had just told him he was made of flan.
“What the hell is this?”
“This what?” asked Pete, absently. He was far more interested in how the skin on Patrick’s elbow tasted.
“This e-mail.”
“What, the lyrics? What about them?”
“Are you kidding me? I mean, this is a joke, isn’t it?”
Pete pulled back and gaped at Patrick for a few second. “A jo… Fuck you. If you don’t like them, don’t fucking use them but don’t ask me if it’s a joke! That’s just…”
“’I don’t like you ‘cause you’re stupid, and I want to hurt you or something…’?”
“What? I…”
“That’s the last line. That’s what you sent me.”
“I didn’t…”
“Yes, you did.”
Pete craned his neck to look at the computer screen. “I… it sounded better when I wrote it. Seriously. What the…? Dude, I’m fucking serious, I don’t remember it sounding like that when I wrote it.”
“Yeah, okay,” sniggered Patrick. “I’m sure it was brilliant at 4:00 in the morning.”
“Dude, no, really…”
“I think this line about how she should ‘die or something like that’ would make a great bridge.” Patrick went to improv the line, but his breath caught in his throat and sent him into a coughing fit.
“That’ll teach you not to believe me,” commented Pete, grinning to himself. As if to prove him wrong, Patrick tried to sing the line again, but just broke into another fit.
“Dude, I think I might be coming down with something.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” asked Joe, letting Andy and himself into the room.
“Patrick’s just coughing because he tried to make fun of me. He caught karma,” replied Pete.
“Why’s he making fun of you?”
Patrick continued to cough into his fist, but turned his laptop to face them with his free hand. Joe started to chuckle but Andy just stared at the screen, confused.
“Why did you send gibberish?” he asked.
“It’s not gibberish, it’s just… really fucking bad,” commented Joe though his laughter.
“I… it’s not… that’s not even English.”
Now everyone turned to look at Andy.
“What do you mean, it’s not English? I know my grammar is shit, but it’s still English…”
“I… oh. I don’t…” Andy took off his glasses and polished them with the hem of his shirt, then put them back on and tried again. “I just can’t read it.”
* * *
You are viewing dontcallmepat’s journal
Posted July 17, 2006 at 7:06 pm
My face itches. I’m never shaving again. I had to put on a hoodie this morning just to feel less naked, and it’s too hot for a fucking hoodie.
We’ve had to put a hold on recording until my throat gets better. Every time I try to sing I just end up hacking up a lung. I tried to write some new stuff, but Pete hasn’t been able to give me anything worth putting music to. My newest favorite: ‘u suck cuz u dont suck only u do but suck at it.’ It’s not quite as clever as his usual fare…
* * *
“This fucking blows!” announced Andy, storming into the hotel room.
“What did the optometrist say?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, there’s nothing wrong with my prescription, I just can’t fucking read for no goddamn reason!”
Andy flopped down next to Joe, who put down his guitar and threw a supportive arm around his shoulders. Pete and Patrick were sitting on the nearby sofa, Pete staring angrily at his laptop and Patrick trying to open the childproof lid on yet another bottle of cough syrup.
“What the fuck!” Pete slammed his computer closed and drummed his fingers across the top of it. “I can’t even… I’ve got tons of ideas but they all turn into shit as soon as I go to type them out. I can’t even update any of my journals without sounding like I’ve had a fucking lobotomy!”
“It’s not like you’re the only one,” commented Patrick, finally getting the cap off and taking a swig. “I mean, you live and breathe lyrics and you can’t write any, I’m the lead fucking singer and I can’t get a note out, Andy’s the token genius and he can’t read, and Joe… wait, no…”
“I got nothing. I can still play guitar, I can still get high…”
Andy smirked. “Yeah, but you can’t…”
“THAT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE!”
Pete and Patrick just stared blankly. “Oh. I really didn’t need to know that,” muttered Pete.
* * *
July 18, 2006
Dear Diary, To Manly Journal,
Patrick’s a singer who can’t sing. Pete’s a lyricist who can’t write. Andy a brain who can’t read. I’ve got my own damn problems… it’s like we’ve lost our biggest talents.
Hehehe, “biggest”…
I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but it’s annoying as all hell. It’s been four days and I could really use a good I’ve got needs. Four fucking days. Ever since that Friday when we all got our ha
* * *
“Holy shit!” Joe jumped up from his chair and threw the notebook aside. “We got our hair cut!”
“Um, yeah, we know. We were all there,” replied Pete, not even looking up.
“Yeah, but… I mean, it’s like… okay, I know this sounds… whatever… it’s like Samson and Delilah!” Joe suddenly found himself caught in the crosshairs of six unblinking eyes, three of them under cocked eyebrows. “I know, I know, but come on, it happened that day. Right then!”
“You don’t know that it was right then. The first thing I noticed was Pete’s e-mail, and he wrote that early the next morning.”
“Yeah, but on the way over Andy and I…”
“Another thing I didn’t need to know,” muttered Pete.
“Yeah, but the point is, there were no problems.”
“There really weren’t,” grinned Andy from the corner chair.
Joe smirked. “But after, on the way home I couldn’t…”
“Jesus, how fucking often do you two…?”
“Just… a lot,” answered Joe. “That’s not the point. The point is that’s the exact moment. That’s when it happened. When we got our hair cut. Patrick, sing something.”
“Dude, you know I can’t.”
“Have you even tried the last few days? Look your sideburns are patchy, but they’re coming back. Just try to sing something.”
Patrick cleared his throat and warbled out something vaguely resembling a scale. “See?”
“Yeah,” began Pete, leaning forward a little, “but up until today you’d just cough until you couldn’t breathe.” He threw an arm around Patrick and kissed the corner of his mouth excitedly. “This is progress!”
“So, then do we just wait it out?” asked Patrick, dubious but hopeful. “I mean, another half week and I should be good, Pete might take a month, you a little longer, and Andy… uh… I guess we could buy some picture books or something…”
* * *
You are viewing drumsrlife’s journal
Posted July 20, 2006 at 4:54 pm
:(
* * *
Patrick came out of the studio grinning. A month had passed since Joe’s revelation and they had finally finished recording all the vocals. Patrick’s voice seemed to be working as well as his muttonchops looked.
“Okay then,” declared Pete, looking up from his laptop at the very self-satisfied singer as he emerged from the sound booth. “No more choosing stylists from the phonebook.”
“Agreed,” said Patrick, sitting down next to Pete, who had just hit “post” on his first journal update in almost six weeks.
“What’s agreed?” asked Joe, walking into the room a little awkwardly. Andy seemed unwilling to untangle his arms from the younger boy’s torso.
“Ah, so… you’re… doing better?”
“Much better, apparently,” grinned Joe, and Andy nodded into the back of his neck.