"everything is borrowed"
title; everything is borrowed
pairing; pete/patrick
word count;~1,500
disclaimer; don't own 'em, unfortunately.
title from the streets.
I sit, curled up, in the centre of my living room for hours, but the horrible beeping that I used to hate but now eagerly anticipate never comes.
My mind has slowed, so I only hear my heavy breathing. And, of course, the silence. Once you begin to think about, no sound is really just another noise. I analyse it carefully, and you begin to hear things; the vibrations that echo from every surface, emerging from the longing of wanting a noise to catalyse your entire existence.
My hands shake as I wrap them around my knees, hugging them to my chest as if somehow that can save me. Once, a few hours ago, I had tried singing to myself, just to break the quiet, but it only served to remind me how painfully scratchy and whiny my voice was, cutting through the silence with a wail that could break glass. This was the voice that he preferred over his own, the voice which he’d pushed to the forefront. I had caught him singing once, and was mesmerised at its simplicity, a beauty that enthralled me.
I longed to hear it now, for that wretched telephone to squall out its incessant computer tones, but all I could reassure myself with was that there must be some kind of problem not letting him call. Surely, picking up the receiver and dialling eleven digits wasn’t too much of a thing to ask?
The sun is high in the sky, beating down through the chink in my curtains to settle on the carpet next to my bare foot. My stomach rumbles, and with my ears still focussed on the phone, I contemplate getting some food. It must be, what, 20 hours since I had last eaten, but there’s a small knot of pride in my chest that I’ve managed to last so long. Even though my arm is numb from being clutched against my knees for hours, I slide it up my thigh to my hipbone. There I gently pinch the small roll of fat and mentally wish it away. This is why it sickened me to even consider the prospect of eating.
And still the phone doesn’t ring. I ignore the persistent pain in my stomach, but my resolve is beginning to weaken. Why should I stay here, waiting for a call that might never come?
But the tiny part of me that still has faith in cries out. He promised! It calls, he wouldn’t forget! So still, in vain hope, I wait in the chance that he’ll remember me. He had to.
I wrap my scrawny arms around myself, planning what I would say. I’d been in this situation many times before, and this time I was going to say everything right. I am so single-mindedly focussed on this that I almost don’t hear the phone ring.
When I do my world slows down in an instant, the breath caught in my throat. How long had it been ringing? My limbs unfold as if in slow motion, and I struggle to my feet, the air rushing out of my lungs with a soft sigh as I regain my balance.
I stumble for the table where the phone lies, eventually tripping and falling barely a foot away from my destination. Pausing for a second, breathing heavily, I take a moment to acknowledge how pathetic I must look before I reach up blindly for the phone. I find its smooth shape easily and bring it to my ear.
“Hello?” I’m speaking too close to the receiver, and my voice is accompanied by static crackles.
“Pete?” Its him. I bring my hand to my mouth and bite down hard on my knuckles, hard enough to hurt.
“Hey.” I ignore the mixture of saliva and blood, quickly wiping it away onto the dark denim of my jeans.
He pauses for a moment. “Are you okay?”
Its easy to pretend I’m alright, functioning normally, to the rest of the world. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I reply brightly. “What about you?”
“Same.” He dismisses my question easily. “Have you slept?”
I consider lying, but then give up. What was the point? “No. Sorry, Pat.” I fiddle with the zip of my filthy hoodie, hoping to make it sound less serious.
Patrick chooses to pass by this error. “Eaten?”
The guilt starts to stir in my stomach. He cares about you, I tell myself, enough to know I don’t like eating, don’t like the pain and anxiety that comes with it. So I have to lie. “Yeah, ‘course.” I poke myself in the few places where flesh still lies and remember why I do this. “Why didn’t you call?”
“Oh. Sorry. I slept in.” What if he’s lying? What if he just didn't want to call me? The thought rushes through my head, and my whole body seems to tense, the terror washing through every nerve. He wouldn’t, I force myself to think. I miss the next few sentences.
“I missed you.” I blurt out, interrupting whatever he was talking about now.
He sighs. I wonder whether it’s because he agrees with me or because he’s tired with my pitiful whining. “I know, Pete. But I’ll see you in a week, yeah?”
A smile is dragged up from my core as I remember; Patrick’ll be staying with me for a fortnight. After that… well, that was as far as I’d got.
Talking on the phone, the problems of the morning seem to fade away. Even his voice comforts me, the very knowledge of his being there keeping me sane.
Its maybe half an hour later when he slows to a halt. “Sorry, man, I gotta go.” He hangs up seconds later. I peel my fingers away from the receiver and wipe my hands on my jeans, my hands sweaty from clutching the phone too tightly.
I straighten up, and glance around the apartment. It’s a mess, to be honest, but I don’t care. Light-headed, I wrench the door open and run down the stairs, all five flights.
I almost don’t make it down the last few steps. I’m exhausted, I realise as I slump against the wall, struggling to breathe properly. Exhausted from doing the same thing I used to do each morning. I wonder whether I should begin to listen to what Patrick has to say, that I don’t eat enough. I almost giggle, before abruptly. Silence reigns again briefly, until its broken by more of my giddy laughter.
Afterwards, I need a minute or two to regain my composure, and then I open the door into a whole other world.
The sun is out. I blink from the harsh light, and raise a hand to shield my eyes from the persistent glare.
It seems the whole town is out. Children pack the streets, dressed in the bright colours that their mothers pick out for them, the same mothers who are standing in groups, one eye on their children while their attention is focussed on whatever gossip is being discussed. Businessmen speed down the pavement, in another reality, their worlds encompassed in their smart leather briefcases and the latest mobile phone. A young couple pass me, hands clutched in a sweaty embrace. I stare after them. An awkward girl and boy, they’re barely into their teens, and are unsure yet as to how relationships configure. But as I watch, she raises a hand and ever so gently touches him on the side of his face. It brings the boy to an immediate halt, and he pulls her to face him, and then, ever so slowly, he leans down until his lips meet hers.
I’m dazed at these two. The simplicity in which they live, the sugar-coated images of love that they believe in. so I wander away, the bitter truth of loneliness and resentment lying restlessly on my tongue.
But even so, hours and days afterwards I find myself thinking about them. A week later, as I slump beside the door waiting for the knock that would bring me back to the resemblance of life I breathe in, I find that suddenly I wish I was in their world. Assured and happy. How did it matter if they were living in a lie? But then the doorbell rang, and thoughts of that couple fly out of my head.
Two days later, I’m lying on the sofa next to Patrick, head resting on his shoulder. His head gently strokes my hair away from my face, and for a second his lips press against my forehead. We’re not speaking. We don’t have to. We’re together, at last. And I know that I am living the lie that the boy and girl in the street are living. But how does it matter, when I’m in love?
Thank you so much!