Torn between falling off sharp edges and falling in love

Birthdayfic for Chelsey

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 03:02:04 GMT

Title: None, Slave!au snippet
Pairing: None
Fandom: Panic at the Disco (With surprsie!Suarez)
Rating: PG-15, there's swearing and ~*~adult themes
POV: 3rd
Writer: patchworkwounds
Beta: perspexsea
Warning: Slavery! Mentions of possible sexual slavery!
Summary: Ryan and Brendon get bought by the Smiths
A/N: lolol all started here

Ryan forced himself still as they held him down, leather straps pulled tight across his wrist and shoulder, pinning his arm out at an awkward angle, his chest already burning from the strain. He squeezed his eyes shut; the men were talking about him again, fingers jabbing into his arm over and over. Suddenly a sharp pain was shooting down his arm as the tattoo artist got to work, adding his new master’s mark beside those of his four previous ones. He swallowed hard; fighting back the tears that welled up in his eyes. He sent out a silent prayer that it would be over soon, that by some wild stroke of luck his new owner had a small insignia but judging by the cold mirthless laughter he was out of luck again. After a while, he couldn’t hold back the faint whimpers every time the needles traced a new line into his skin; and a rough hand cuffed him around the back of his head, every muscle in his body protesting at the forced movement as darkness rushed up to claim him.

---------

It was easy to loose track of time, huddled in the dark, keeping as still and quiet as possible, trying not to move and aggravate his injuries. The fresh tattoo on his arm stung and itched like mad, but with his wrists bound tight together there was nothing Ryan could do about it. The heavy wooden doors were flung open and light streamed in as a line of slaves were lead inside, Ryan curled further in on himself, hoping to remain unnoticed by the others.

It was hard to make out any details in the faint light, but Ryan could tell they were all other than him, although it was impossible to tell weather they were male or female, at that point it didn’t matter much. Ryan could feel despair welling up inside of him, but he couldn’t give in, he made and easy enough to be a target for everyone else’s fear and anger as it was, so he tried to remain unnoticed.

More slaves were thrown into the transport, and once or twice others were dragged away, limp and defeated. Ryan had no idea how long he’d been lying there, and the dull throbbing in his arm slowly driving him to the edge of a breakdown. Two more slaves were forced into the transport, one landing with his knee crushing Ryan’s hand. He couldn’t help the strangled cry that escaped his lips and he twisted back and away, freeing his hand.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to hurt you kid.” Ryan blinked up at the man; his dark eyes the only distinguishable feature in the dim light. Ryan just nodded jerkily, drawing in on himself again. There was a pause while the man shifted around so he wasn’t sitting so awkwardly, and Ryan sucked in a sharp breath; he was so close that he could feel the heat rising from the man’s skin.

The sudden jolt of the transport starting to move spooked Ryan badly, and he jumped, tears welling up in his eyes. Brendon, fuck, Bren. He quickly crushed those thoughts, it didn’t matter anymore, they’d never see each other again and he wouldn’t last more than five minutes if he broke now. The man beside him reached down and curled his fingers around Ryan’s, squeezing lightly. Ryan stared at their hands for a moment before looking up into those dark eyes, they were kind, Ryan thought, there was none of the barely-hidden menace he was used to seeing in his fellow slaves’ guarded faces.

It would be a long journey, wherever they were going, and it only a few minutes later a low murmur of chatter started up around them, despite the fact it was hard for anyone to see who they were talking too. The man squeezed Ryan’s hand gently to get his attention.

“My name’s Alex, what’s yours?”

“M’ Ryan.” He whispered, shifting a little closer to Alex and resting his head against the man’s chest. He could barely keep his eyes open, exhaustion, fear and pain leaving him completely drained. Alex sighed and moved so they could both be more comfortable.

--------

Ryan hated it, hated the hands running down his side, nails digging into his bare skin. His face burned with shame as he was forced to his knees, rough hands pressing down on his shoulders. He didn’t dare lift his head as he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel. Wishing he knew where Alex had gone, Ryan had never in his life felt so exposed, especially as a pair of shiny black boots and a pair of red heels stopped right in front of him.

A hand reached down and grabbed his chin, forcing his head up, but Ryan kept his eyes down, remembering all the old lessons about how to behave in front of your masters.

“This one for my son.”

Ryan trembled, but whether with relief or fear even he couldn’t tell. The red shoes stepped closer and a long nailed hand moved into his eye line, thumb pressing into the soft skin of his cheek, forcing his head to one side as they scrutinised him. He felt so utterly worthless like this, held down and examined with his torn clothes and blood crusted on his arm.

After what seemed like hours to Ryan they moved on, examining each of their new slaves in turn. He heard the occasional soft cry or broken whimper but there was nothing he could do so he stayed as still as possible and hoped for it to be over soon.

He tried to keep track of where he was being taken in the massive building that was now his home, but there were so many identical corridors and doors that it was a lost cause. At one point he stumbled, only to receive a sharp lash with the riding crop the man was carrying. He cried out but forced himself back to his feet, stumbling down the corridor.

Ryan caught a brief glimpse of the other new slaves huddled together before he was shoved into a small room, knees kicked out from under him and head pulled back to expose his throat. Sucking in a deep breath when a piece of cord was wrapped around his neck for a few seconds Ryan fought to stay calm above the rushing in his ears.

“Medium,” there was a ‘click’ of something metal being placed on the desk, “details?”

Ryan gasped in shock as he was hauled to his feet, a clammy hand pushing his trousers down over his hips, exposing the words and numbers burned into his skin.

“August 30th, 1792. No name.”

Ryan crumpled to the floor when he was released, swallowing down the sobs that threatened to escape. Collared, they’re going to collar me. Every slave knew what that meant. Now Ryan was old enough, he could be… taken, and the collar was a sign that his master had him singled out for the future, when he grew bored of his current slaves. Ryan felt sick, everything had changed so fast and so drastically that he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to think.

--------

Ryan was left alone in a small room to wait for instructions, and he couldn’t help the low whine that escaped into the dry air, he tossed his head, scratching at the leather band of the collar, hating the tight, restricting feel of it. He whimpered again, shaking his head from side to side, working himself up into a state of near panic. A knock on the door startled him into going completely ridged, light spilled into the room through the doorway temporarily blinding him.

“Come with me.” The voice was slightly accented, soft but clear all the same. Keeping his eyes trained on the floor Ryan followed the man through the maze of passages, almost jogging to keep up with the long strides. From what Ryan could see he was well dressed, the shiny black shoes and long coat tails pointing towards a high ranking slave, maybe a groom, or even the butler. They ended up in a small reception room, doors on all sides, and finally his guide turned around to face him even though Ryan kept his eyes trained to the floor.

“You’re to clean the young master’s chambers before he returns home.” Ryan nodded shakily, mumbling a ‘yes sir’ to the floor. Suddenly a warm hand rested on his shoulder and Ryan looked up in shock, wincing as the leather collar started to itch again. The other man had a handsome face, dark hooded eyes that seemed to look right through him from under an unruly mop of tightly curled hair. He smiled down at Ryan, scruffing a hand through the boy’s hair, “Through that door,” He pointed over his shoulder, “down the hall and seventh door on your left takes you in through the slaves’ entrance, okay?”
Ryan nodded, murmuring a thank you before darting out of the room, not wanting to give anyone an excuse to punish him.

--------

It was the line of his shoulders and the way he stood and Ryan just knew, just knew it was him.

“Brendon, Bren, fuck.” Brendon whirled around, his dark eyes wide with shock as he stared, disbelieving, at Ryan. With a soft cry the younger boy flung his arms around Ryan, fingers digging into Ryan’s shoulders as he pressed their cheeks together, breathing hard and fast, his whole body shaking as he started to cry. Ryan felt like all the noise and chaos of his thoughts had been turned off, and he let his eyes slide closed, hugging Brendon back as hard as he could, overwhelmed by the feel of the other boy, his boy, pressed so close.

It was the tacky feel of leather against his face that made Ryan finally pull back from Brendon. His eyes widened with horror as he traced his fingertip over the collar on Brendon’s pale throat. Words died in his throat, and he blinked down tears as Brendon shivered, turning away from Ryan, his face burning with shame.

---------

Spencer sighed, ruffling his hair, only to have his hand slapped away by his mother. He sighed again, but didn’t comment, not wanting to start yet another tirade. He listened half-heartedly to the long list of things he’d missed in his several months’ absence. His aunt and uncle had visited, they had a new son, oh that’s nice, the doctor in town had died suddenly, rumour has it he was shot for committing adultery, they had had to… dispose of some of the older slaves. Spencer sat blot upright at that, his jaw tight and his hands balling into fists, his father sounded so bored by the new, sipping from his brandy without a trace of regret on his face.

“Of course that means we had to purchase some new ones, they’ll need training up and some of them are… quite desirable.”

Spencer couldn’t stand it, he stood up and strode out of the room, ignoring his father calling him back. He knew he’d pay for it later, but he couldn’t just sit there and listen to that.

He’d never felt so disgusted by his family before His worldview had been changed so drastically when he stayed with his aunt that every little thing about his parents’ attitude repulsed him.

There were two boys in his room, and in the few seconds after he stormed through the door they stared at him with huge eyes, one pair of coffee black and the other honey gold before they slid to their knees and bowed their heads. Spencer froze, staring at them, they’re new, they’re new here, fuck. Making sure the door was shut behind him Spencer padded over to the huddled figures, before kneeling down in front of them, trying to think of something to say. It was then he realised they were shaking.

He stormed into the room still furious from the conversation with his parents, and they’d been sitting on the end of his bed talking, oh fuck they think I’m going to punish them! Spencer felt sick to his stomach, this wasn’t fair, he sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to calm down.

The smaller one, the one with the dark eyes and even darker hair was shaking so badly that Spencer just wanted to reach out and steady him.

“I’m not, I won’t,” he signed in frustration at his inability to find the right words, “I’m not going to punish you, you haven’t done anything wrong.” They both looked up at that, the sandy haired boy ducking his head down almost immediately, nudging his friend in the ribs to stop him from staring. “It’s okay, can you tell me your name?” neither boy moved, but as the darker haired boy turned his head to the side he caught a flash of collar, and frowned. “Just let me…” he trailed off, sliding his hand around the boy’s neck, tilting his head up so Spencer could see the tag.

The metal was warm from contact with the boy’s skin and he rubbed his thumb over the disk, reading aloud. “April 12th 1792, Brendon. Your name’s Brendon?” A nod and a small shaky yes and Spencer pulled his hand away, shifting so he was sitting cross-legged in front of them before he turned to the other boy, cupping his jaw and guiding his head up before curling his fingers under the tag and leaning in to see better.

“August 30th 1792, no name. You don’t have a name?” The boy flushed red, and Spencer bit his lip, a surge of pity running through him. Brendon looked up though, opening his mouth to say something but snapping it shut at the look in his friend’s eyes. Spencer watched the small exchange with a frown on his face, still holding the other boy’s chin in his hand. “I need to be able to call you something.”

Those huge golden eyes flashed with anger as he hissed out “No other master does,” and then this small broken noise escaped his lips as he realised how much danger he’d just put himself in. Spencer flinched, jerking his hand away from the boy, not wanting to make things worse for him than they already were. They shared another look before bowing their heads again and Spencer could feel the frustration building even though it wasn’t their fault.

“Okay,” he started slowly, not sure how to phrase what he wanted to get across, “I… my name is Spencer, not master or anything like that okay? I don’t want- I won’t hurt you, for any reason, and I promise.” Again the two slaves shared a look, but they seemed to have calmed down, Brendon, at least, had stopped shaking and Spencer counted that as a win.

--------

I WILL MAYBE CONTINUE THIS AT A LATER DATE, BUT IT IS ALREADY INSANELY LATE/TOTALLY SHIT

OverheatedOverenergisedOverexposed

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 16:57:54 GMT

Written for zarah5's The boys-helping-each-other-dress meme
Although this is technically boys helping each other UNdress. Oh well it's sweet and only 244 words.

Title: OverheatedOverenergisedOverexposed
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Fandom: Panic at the Disco
Rating: PG
POV: 3rd
Writer: patchworkwounds
Summery: Boys helping each other undres, surprisingly unporny
A/N: Written for the The boys-helping-each-other-dress meme

Brendon was trembling with nervous energy, his hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks with stage sweat. His hands shock as he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, feet tapping an uneven rhythm on the hardwood floor.

Spencer’s fingers curled over the nape of Brendon’s neck, his thumb running in slow circles against Brendon’s hairline. Brendon sighed and let his hands fall to his sides, but his overheated skin still thrummed underneath Spencer’s palm.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” There was a pause and Brendon sighed again, his hands gesturing aimlessly. “I mean, I don’t know, I just can’t… just can’t get these fucking buttons undone.” He huffed causing Spencer to smile. He squeezed his fingers gently and Brendon twisted his head around to lean briefly against the other’s hand. Spencer rested their foreheads together for a moment, letting Brendon settle himself before turning the smaller boy around and sliding his hand around Brendon’s shoulder and over his chest. As he leaned forward to get a better look at the fastenings Brendon snorted out a laugh.

“See it’s not that easy is it.”

“Shut up.” Spencer replied, rolling his eyes. Finally he got the first of the little buttons open and made short work of the others, smoothing his fingers over Brendon’s still sweat damp abs when he was done.

“You know,” Brendon started, a wicked little smirk sliding across his face, “I don’t think I can manage that belt on my own.”

I Traveled With The North Wind

Fri, 30 May 2008 07:06:16 GMT

Title: I Traveled With The North Wind
Pairing: Pete/Mikey
Fandom: Fall Out Boy/My Chemical Romance
Rating: PG
POV: 3rd
Writer: patchworkwounds
Summary: The second ficlet from the Dawn Series. Mist and sunlit boys.
A/N: Title and cut text from Across the Line by Bellowhead, which can be downloaded here. It's completely unrelated to the fic, but it's just a beautiful song.

The light drizzle filled the air, the very finest of mists, beading on the grey sleeves of Pete’s clan hoodie. Everything looks pretty in this list, movie screen pretty, over exposed and over sensationalised but still beautiful in it’s own right. Mikey exhaled slowly, watching the pale stream of smoke get split and rearranged by the falling water, he was cold, but not enough to be uncomfortable, the sort of cold that makes you grateful for someone pressed warmclose against your side. Drops of water fall from the guttering above their heads in an unsteady pattern, occasionally splashing across Pete’s bare feet and making his toes curl.

Sometimes Pete will turn; skim his lips over Mikey’s collarbone (the only part he can reach without standing on tiptoes) and Mikey’s lips will quirk up, not a smile, but enough, something secret and hidden and just for them (just like the curve of Pete’s fingers on Mikey’s wrist and the soft risefallrisefall of Pete’s chest against Mikey’s side).

Mikey stubs out his cigarette with the heal of his shoe, curling his hand over Pete’s and breathing deep, ignoring the mist clinging to his glasses in favour of tucking his nose against the fabric of Pete’s hood. They stay like that way into the morning and the heat of the summer sun, cold fading to warm to too hot, but neither of them wanting to pull away and go back to the noise and motion of a working tour.

(eventually they’re called away, gaze-sealed promises of further meetings before they drift their separate way)

Sloshed

Tue, 13 May 2008 04:49:09 GMT

Title: Sloshed
Pairing: Heikki/Adrian, sort of
Fandom: Formula One
Rating: PG (if that)
POV: 3rd
Writer:
Word Count: 531
Warning: A very very drunk Heikki
Summary: Empty hotel rooms, and empty wine bottles
A/N: I was bored, slightly drunk and couldn’t think of anything else to write

The deep red liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass, and the occupant of the oversized armchair cursed, trying to dab out the wine from his scruffy jeans. It was futile anyway, everyone knew that wine stained everything, besides he should have been paying attention, it was his own fault. He just counted himself lucky he hadn’t got any on the plush hotel carpet - he really didn’t want to foot that bill. Hotel rooms always had this kind of affect on people, they’d either fill it with people to make it seem more familiar, or they’d get sloshed which was what Heikki was aiming for.

He hiccupped and then giggled, alcohol streaming in his blood, it was good wine, and there was a lot of it. Or rather, there had been a lot of it, now there was only what was left in his glass and half a bottle on the table.

There was a sudden knock on the door and Heikki frowned at the noise, his mind taking a moment to realise just what the sound was. And then it took another few minutes for his body to get everything working in the right order and pull himself out of the chair and stagger over to the door. He fumbled with the handle as whoever it was kept knocking.

“Shush, it’s shush loud.” He mumbled, finally getting the door open. Adrian was standing there frowning at him and Heikki grinning flinging his arms around the other man his a sloppy embrace.

“You’re drunk!” Adrian exclaimed, wrinkling his nose at the smell of alcohol.

“And you’re, uh you’re something!” Heikki giggled, breathing in Adrian’s face and trying to kiss him. Adrian rolled his eyes and dragged the Fin over to the bed, pushing him over on to the soft surface. Heikki toppling over with an excited ‘Weeee’ and stretched out his arms and legs. Rolling his eyes again Adrian started to pick up the assorted wine bottles and throw them into the bin.

Eventually he finished and walked back over to the semi-conscious Fin, kneeling down and tugging off his shoes and socks, Heikki pulled himself upright and peered down at the German. “’Ullo, wats that you’re doing?” he slurred, “Are, is, you, we gettin’ naked? Cos cos see, um, ‘m tired, and and somthin’” Adrian ignored him and tugged of the other man’s socks.

Pushing at Heikki’s feet to try and get him to lie down properly wasn’t getting him very far at all so Adrian gave up, grabbed Heikki’s ankles and just spun him around on the shinny bedspread until his head was at the right end of the bed. Heikki was giggling badly, flailing his hands a little, Adrian sighed again, his friend could be so useless sometimes (most of the time) but he loved him all the same, Heikki had rolled onto his side, singing a little under his breath, something in Finnish that he couldn’t understand.

Toeing off his own shoes Adrian climbed onto the bed beside Heikki, wrapping his arm around the drunken man’s waist and hugging him close. He kissed the back of Heikki’s neck murmuring a soft goodnight over half-mumbled phrases.

Crashed Out Fury Red

Tue, 13 May 2008 03:50:32 GMT

Title: Crashed Out Fury Red
Pairing: Pete Wentz/Mikey Way
Fandom: Fall Out Boy/My Chemical Romance
Rating: PG
POV: 3rd
Summary: Tours and early early mornings
A/N: FOR onneonlights because she's stressed about her exams and Pete/Mikey is her OTP. Title and cut text from Big Big Love by the Foals which can be downloaded here

“Hey.” Mikey’s voice was tired, rough in the grey-ish light. Pete gave him a small smile, his hands tightening around the Styrofoam coffee cup, even though the coffee was long past cold. Taking a drag of his cigarette Mikey leaned himself against the wall, scuffing his bare feet in the dust. In the distance the tour busses were indistinct shapes, their outlines just starting to show in the pre-dawn glow.

They didn’t speak for a while, Mikey taking slow drags until there was only the very stub of the cigarette left, eventually tossing it away so the little red glow was just a pinprick on the ground. Pete drummed his fingers against the side of his cup, making a slight hollow sloshing sound in the process. Mikey raised an eyebrow and Pete shrugged, yawning widely and shivering a little as a chilly breeze caught him off guard.

Birds were singing somewhere near where they were leaning, surprisingly loud for such small things, Pete glanced around to see if he could spot any but gave up when his neck clicked. The wind was cold, but after the heat of the previous day it was more than welcome.

Shifting so he was leaned in closer to Mikey, Pete swung his foot, tapping against Mikey’s shin, tap tap pause, tap tap tap pause tap, over and over, humming under his breath, snatches of choruses from one song and verses from another. Mikey sighed but didn’t say anything, after all it was Pete and complaining was just a waste of breath.

The sky was getting lighter, the buses becoming more distinct was the sun rose behind them. Mikey bumped his elbow against Pete’s side and Pete looked up, grinning lopsidedly. “Romantic date at sunrise then?” Mikey snorted and rolled his eyes, but shifted so he was leaned fully against Pete, tucking his arm under the other boy’s. Pete turned his head to the side, breathing in the MikeyCigaretteCoffee smell of his coat and letting some of the sleep-deprived tension spill from his shoulders.

Pulling another cigarette and his lighter from the recesses of his coat Mikey yawned, and pushed his glasses back up his nose, exhaling a stream of pale blue smoke into the damp air. He scuffed at the ground again, curling his toes into the dirt and beside him Pete wrinkled his nose and rested his head on Mikey’s bony shoulder.

(In the end they did watch the sunrise, Pete threw away the cold coffee, but only after Mikey stopped him from drinking it, and maybe, they kissed, but that’s another story)

The Fall Of Grace

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 14:13:45 GMT

Title: The Fall Of Grace
Pairing: Mikey Way/Pete Wentz
Fandom: My Chemical Romance/Fall Out Boy
Rating: PG-13
POV: 3rd
Writer: patchworkwounds
Summery: It is the cruellest of fates to love someone who only loves the glory of despair

-It is the cruellest of fates to love someone who only loves the glory of despair-

Gerard was easy. The broken frantic consumption of booze and drugs. The way it raced through his system and destroyed parts of him so efficiently. But most of all Mikey remembers him fighting to regain himself, clawing at his friendships in search of a foothold, a way to steady himself, someone to help him re-piece the fragments of himself again.
(Frank’s hand splayed across Gerard’s back, Ray always there for reassurance and Bob still finding his place with them but already constant and reliable)

Mikey himself was harder. Watching the almost fall of his brother, fighting with his own destructive tendencies, with media eyes trained on them all the time, always searching for a tiny gap in their defences. He collapsed in on himself, hiding it all away inside hoping someone would care enough to notice and praying to keep it tucked away, and skeleton buried forever in the closet.
(And really the closet was half the problem)

And then there’s Pete. Mikey watches him fling himself into destruction, courting it like a one night stand still living on his couch, a permanent reminder of giving in. Mikey tries, he remembers he flat ugly press of depression against the inside of his mind. He teases, coaxes and cajoles honest smiles and simple laughs from Pete only to see him spiral down again into self-pity and apathy.
(And in the end it’s all Mikey can do not to get pulled down along side him)

It Was In Another Lifetime, 4

Fri, 07 Mar 2008 21:50:29 GMT

Title: It was in another lifetime
Chapter Title: Fear becomes the colour of exposure
Pairing: Unknown
Fandom: The Horrors
Rating: NC-17
POV: 3rd
Writer: patchworkwounds
Beta: the_sidewinder
Summery: All his life Joshua has suffered from vivid nightmares, about white rooms and the smell of his own blood. But now the lines between dreams and reality are starting to become blurred.

Warnings: Violent content. Insanity. Blood. Serious about the blood for this one (mild bloody-play)
A/N: OMFG I BRING YOU MORE MOTHERFUCKERS. About time too.

A dull panic raced through him, his heart thundering in his chest. So loud, too loud. Joshua spun around again, wrenching open the cupboard, spiders scuttling away from the intruding light. Something caught his eye, a glint of something metal. He reached out, pulling the object from the cupboard. It was a cheese grater.

Slowly he ran his fingertips over the ridges and plains of the cheese grater, hissing in shock at the light pain when he pressed too hard. Blood welled up, ruby bright and intoxicatingly real. Only real people could bleed. He repeated the action, this time deliberately pressing too hard, peering at his fingertips afterwards. The skin was torn back, tiny ribbons of see-through flesh, raw around the little scrape, the little beads of blood.

Josh licked his cracked lips, his whole body tense and waiting, mind blank. Then he slammed his fingers against the blades, tearing, ripping the skin away from his hand. He snarled, doing the same over and over again. Blood staining everything he looked at, the grater, his hand, wrist, palm, now the floor, everything. Staining his whole fucking life. He switched to the other hand screaming in undirected frustration and anger; he wrenched himself back, holding his hands out in front of him.

The white was closing in at the edges of his vision and Josh shrieked, scrubbing at his eyes and face to keep himself awake, the still air in the flat pressing heavy on his lungs. He had to get out.

&&&&&&

It was so cold outside that Josh physically recoiled, tossing his head back, clean air burning his nose and throat as he breathed deep. The rumble of traffic was terrifyingly loud, and Josh turned to focus on the flash flash flash of cars passing by. They were close enough that Josh would barely have had to reach out one bloody hand to touch them.

There was a screech of tires and strong arms wrapping around his waist and dragging him back. Josh blinked at the front tire of the Audi, right where he’d been standing just seconds before. People were yelling, so much yelling. And then Josh realised he was still being held by someone. His arms pinned to his sides, immobilising him. He panicked.

He could feel the growl of his captor’s voice against his back and he snarled, trying to twist free, kicking out as he was dragged away. He wondered briefly what the man holding him had said to the crowd to stop them from following. Then suddenly he was spun around and slammed back against a wall.

“Fuck, what were you thinking? What the fuck’s happened to you? Josh?” My name. Josh blinked, going still as he looked into a pair of dark eyes, confusion and anger burning in them. So familiar. The name eluded him and Josh couldn’t stop staring at those eyes, fighting for a name, fighting to remember this man. Dark eyes narrowed and he was shaken violently, pushed back against the wall. The voice yelling at him was so frighteningly familiar he could almost taste the name on his breath.

Pulling back a little the other man ran his thumb over Josh’s cheek and studied the red liquid left behind. He raised the digit to Josh’s eye level. “Is this yours? Your blood?” Josh tilted his head and darted out his tongue to lick at the sticky substance, his lips closing around the man’s thumb before pulling back, his senses overwhelmed by the metallic sting of blood. A sneer pulled at the other’s lips and that gesture was so perfect, sliding into place with practiced ease. And Josh knew. Faris. The name rang in his mind over and over, a hundred memories of that same sneer blazing across the inside of his eyes. He couldn’t hold back the laughter that bubbled up in his chest. His bloody hands itched and he squirmed to free at least one arm, threw his head back against the wall and curled his hand around Faris’ wrist, griping like a vice.

Josh could feel his blood hot, wet and slick on Faris’ skin, oozing from between his fingers and winding its way down to Faris’ shirt sleeve. The taller man jerked at the sensation, trying to wrench his hand free. “What the fuck Josh! What’s wrong with you?” The words came out as a low growl, and Josh relished the sound; it was nothing like Them.

With a furious snarl Faris slammed his shoulder into Josh’s chest, driving the air from his lungs and pinning him against the wall. He worked his hand free from Josh’s loosened grip and caged the smaller man’s wrists above his head.

“Fucking listen to me!” Josh felt a dull terror growing in the back of his mind and sucked in a deep breath, the bricks digging into the raw skin on his hands as he fought. “What the fuck were you doing in the middle of the fucking road? What the fuck have you done to yourself? Where did you go for three fucking weeks?” Josh hissed, bucking his hips up to try and shove Faris off him, but he didn’t have enough space to move crowded up against the brickwork.

Shaking his head wildly Josh twisted again, lunging forward and slamming his lips against Faris’. It was awkward and clumsy, their teeth clicking together, but it gave Josh the advantage. He dropped his shoulder, digging it into the soft space underneath Faris’ collarbone, pushing away from the wall as he drove Faris backwards.

Faris’ hands had relaxed their grip on Josh’s wrists and he used that to his advantage, pressing his bloody palms to the side of Faris’ neck, driving his full weight against the taller man until they slammed into the opposite wall of the alley. They were still kissing, Josh’s blood slick on their lips as they moved together.

Josh wrenched himself away, feet scrambling as he staggered back. His blood shone sapphire red on Faris’ lips and neck, the tastesmellfeel of it too much for him. A high desperate whine of confusion boiled up from his chest before he turned and fled.

This Place Should Feel Like Home

Fri, 07 Mar 2008 04:56:55 GMT

Title: This place should feel like home
Rating: PG-15 (Advanced, some swearing and mentions of sex)
Author: patchworkwounds
Beta: None (seeing as they’re all sleeping because it’s nearly 5am here)
Pairing: Kimi/Fernando, Nico/Nelson, Heikki/Adrian, David/Mark, Jenson/CK, Nick/Robert
Fandom: Formula One
Genre(s): Romance, angst, fluff, humour, and a little of everything else.
Word Count: 2,103
Warnings: Um some homophobic remarks and hell of a lot of angst and general weirdness.
Disclaimer: If you’re daft enough to believe, that’s your problem.
Summary: If today is to be our last then we’ll make sure the whole world remembers us.
A/N: Set sometime in the future and focuses and many different drivers as they look back on the past, consider the present and look forward to the future.

-I built this empire from the foundations of my dreams-
David rubbed at his eyes, trying to force himself alert again. The screens showed telemetry and a million other pieces of possibly vital information, all blurring before his eyes. He sighed and turned to look at his mechanics in the garage behind him, everyone was working to find those last few tenths that could take RBR all the way to the top. Ten years and they hadn’t claimed a single win until David took over at the start of the season; Horner had done a damn good job as Team Principle, forging Red Bull Racing into a fully functioning team, ironing out the little snicks in the work force. And when David took over he immediately carried on where his predecessor had left off. He kept the team basically the same, promoting within the network; building up from the inside. And now they had a car and a pair of drivers capable of winning championships, and he was determined to get them there.

A couple of journalists snapped his picture and David turned back to the screens, searching for those little pieces of information gold.

-I’d trade this cynicism for innocence-
“Do you ever… Do you ever hate the person this sport has turned you into?”

Silence fell over the two of them, Fernando playing with the cap on his water bottle, Kimi leaning against the crumbling wall, surveying the paddock from behind his shades. Fernando nodded to himself, his own eyes seeing suits and frowns, team clothes and business, business, business. Kimi watched Fernando watch everyone else. Someone glanced over to where they were standing and both men shifted, moving deeper into the shadows.

“Sometimes.” Kimi finally replied. Fernando sighed and took a gulp from his water bottle; he glanced at Kimi again, his friend’s eyes hidden behind the large sunglasses, before letting his eyes slide down to the floor. It was their last season and they’d both stayed longer than they ever planned, neither of them able to find the right time or place to make the final break.

-I can’t remember how I used to be-
Felipe shifted and stretched out his leg, easing the tension in the scar tissue with his fingers. He sighed, it was still difficult walking long distances and having to fight his way through the swarms of people in the paddock had been a trail. The familiar flash of Ferrari red drew his eyes and he watched the mechanics grouping together and talking animatedly, their hands gesturing furiously.

He used to be all about the ebb and flow of life in the F1 mainstream, the dirty politics and glorious on-track action, but now he was happy enough to find some secluded corner and bask in the sunlight. A crash like his would have changed anyone’s perspective on life.

-I’d undo falling in love with you if it could save us-
“Oh the Scandal!”

“This is not a sport for Queers.”

“Oh the Shame.”

“It’s Disgusting, it Shouldn’t be Allowed.”

Nico closed the door on the world outside, leaning back against it and sighing heavily, a million words still screaming through his mind. He looked up and met Nelson’s worried eyes, a lump forming in his throat and his eyes stinging with threatened tears. Neither of them moved, Nico’s back still against the door or the motorhome, his palms spread across the cool surface. The hum of the air-conditioning and the low murmur of journalists camped outside the Renault motorhome the only sounds to be heard until Nico gave a shaky exhale.

“I…” he stopped, because he couldn’t say sorry. He wasn’t sorry, not for loving Nelson, not for daring to say it, not for anything. Except, he was sorry. Sorry for destroying Nelson’s budding career, sorry for bringing the eyes of the whole world into their personal lives. Sorry for all of it and none of it. Meeting his eyes Nelson just nodded, he knew, knew so well the way Nico thought and acted. Slowly Nico pushed away from the door, almost afraid he wouldn’t be able to stand without it’s support, and stepped over to his lover, enclosing his arms around the darker man. Nelsinho sighed against him, bringing his arms up to wrap around Nico’s shoulders.

“Don’t,” he whispered, “I need you to get through this with me.”

-I’d be twice the man if I had only a fraction of that courage-
Heikki gritted his teeth at the sound of taunts and insults ringing through the paddock, even some of his own mechanics joining in. Moving through the swarm of media he saw Nico and Nelson hand-in-hand, their heads held high, jaws clenched against the barrage of insults, and he just had to turn away. Across the McLaren garage Adrian caught his eyes, and they held each other’s gaze before they both flushed and turned away, expressions shameful. Heikki swallowed hard, trying to pay attention to what was showing up on the screens in front of him, forcing himself to remember the times the other teams had been setting through free practice.

But his mind kept drifting, thinking back to the night in the hotel, the way Adrian’s eyes lit up and the way they moved together, remembered the morning after full of casual touches and lazy smiles, remembered Nelson’s knowing smirk from two tables over and Nico’s stupid wink and thumb’s up. Guilt burned low in Heikki’s gut and he closed his eyes, breathing deep and clenching his hands into fists, they were his friends and he couldn’t even walk out there and tell them he supported them. He twisted on his heel and stalked into the back of the garage, trying to get away from the disgust that poisoned the air.

-I wouldn’t forget your smile in a million years-
Mark grinned at David’s frazzled expression. “So is the paperwork as wonderful as you thought?” he joked, laughing as David gave an over dramatic groan. The Brit huffed and poked at a stack of files with a pen, groaning again and looking up at Mark in hopes of getting some kind of sympathy, but his friend just rolled his eyes and shoved the papers off the desk, jumping up to sit in the space. David stared at the floor where everything had fallen before he shrugged and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head, sighing as the joints in his back crackled.

“Worst part of the whole thing. I should probably hire a secretary.” David scanned his eyes over Mark, pretending to consider him for such a job, the Ausie laughed again and shoved his shoulder playfully.

“Not a fucking chance mate.” They both smiled, laughing as they caught up with each other’s lives, it always seemed they’d been apart longer than they had, both of them always so constantly busy, Formula One rushing forward as ever, Mark’s new business ventures in endurance equipment and event organisation taking up all his time.

“Even though you’re an idiot I still missed you.” Mark said, his voice quieter than usual.

“Yeah, same here.” David replied. “Now lets go see how my team is doing.”

-I don’t regret my choices only the outcomes-
Nick plugged his ears against the scream as a Williams shot past the pit wall, once the car was around the first corner he pulled his hands away and picked up his drink again. It was weird being back, there were so many faces he didn’t recognise and he missed the familiarity of being a permanent fixture of paddock life. Every time he caught a glimpse of someone he raced against a tiny pang of longing shot through his heart, but as soon as a photographer jostled past him, snapping a photo in the process, or the clamour of so many voices got too loud he remembered why he left, and turned back around to watch the track.

A hand falling on his shoulder startled Nick from his daydreaming and he turned to meet the familiar eyes of his old teammate Robert. He was stilled dressed in his racing overalls, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat; he looked a little older, a little wiser but otherwise still the same. Nick turned and hugged him, grinning for the first time in what felt like months.

“How have you been?” He said, pulling back to get a better look at Bob, the Pole grinned and ran a hand through his hair.

“Still chasing my win.” Nick shook his head, there’d been plenty of times over the past few years when Rob had deserved a win, technical failure and other things always snatching it away at the last moment. He grimaced and bumped their shoulders together, knowing the feeling all to well.

“You’ll get there, trust me on that.” A voice called over from the BMW pit wall and Robert rolled his eyes, saying a hasty goodbye to Nick before running over to see what was needed of him, Nick watching him go with regret in his eyes.

-I wouldn’t ask for more even if I given it for free-
Jenson scratched at his stubble, it was getting a bit long in places, he’d never been able to grow a beard evenly, something that caused endless amusement to his friends. The Honda garage was air-conditioned and a welcome relief from the scorching heat of the track, he knew he’d have to be back out there in a few minutes so he was determined to enjoy the cool air while he could. Christian stepped back out of the bathroom, drying his hands on one of those ineffective paper towels. Jenson smiled at him as they walked back through the garage and just before they stepped into sight Jenson pulled his lover in for a quick kiss. It was part of their pre-race routine, a quick kiss, a few jokes and Jenson worrying too much.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Christian rolled his eyes and punched Jenson playfully, but he was smiling as they kept walking.

“Yeah and don’t yell at anyone on the team radio if you freak out again.”

-I will fight you for an empty glory no more-
Their final race together and Kimi and Fernando head to the title decider with equal points. Kimi was tired of the rumours and politics and the petty, petty businessmen, everyone asking the same question of him over and over: “do you think you can beat Fernando?” He wanted to tell them no, he didn’t want to fight for it anymore. It had been nine years since his first title and he’d claimed another four since then, he and Fernando matched exactly. Five titles each, a down to the wire fight for their sixth.

He pushed his sunglasses up his nose and rubbed at his tired eyes, the tension was building and broiling through him; a band in the crowd playing a hard fast and furious rhythm and Kimi gritted his teeth as another journalist approached. “Do you think you can beat Fernando?”

Across the grid, his car lined up in pole position Fernando rolled his eyes and tilted his head at the journalist who’d just finished asking him, “do you think you can beat Kimi?” The Finn smirked and repeated the motion at the man who was just leaving the swarm of Ferrari mechanics. Their eyes locked, and Kimi’s breath caught in his chest at the look Fernando was giving him, slowly he nodded and turned back to his car.

-If today is to be our last then we’ll make sure the whole world remembers us-
They cross the line together. No difference, not even down to a thousandth of a second.

Kimi stood on the top of the podium and pulled Fernando up with him, Nico was to their left, his Nelson standing right beside him, looking so fucking proud of him, Adrian to their right, looking flushed and pleased with himself. The media were scrabbling around trying to find out who’d won, the organisers almost panicking over the amount of people on the podium, too many, to much confusion over the results. Kimi grinned, relishing in the chaos he and Fernando had caused. No one knew what anthem to play, Kimi couldn’t stop smiling and Fernando was almost doubled over with laughter beside him, then he straightened up and took a bow, and it was just so, so funny that the last time they’ll be here it felt like the first win, the first championship, and when Fernando turned and smiled at him like the first love.

The End

A/N: I know it’s kind of weird and in a different style from most of what I’ve seen around here, but I’m actually quite pleased with how it turned out, I couldn’t seem to get it to work to start off with. But basically this is my first F1 fic ever, so I hope you guys enjoyed it!

Tue, 05 Feb 2008 17:53:31 GMT

Because I am shameless, and it's my birthday, have a snippet from the long abandoned FOLKSINGER AU.

Bandom: Panic at the Disco
Characters: Ryan Ross
Rating: PG-13

The first drop landed right on his fingertip. Ryan lifted his hat from over his face and peered up at the sky through the bare branches. The clouds were thick, dark rolling grey. He blinked rapidly as some rain got into his eye.

“Buggerit.” He sat up, placing his hat on his head and stretching his arms up and back, cracking the joins in his shoulders. The rain started to fall faster and heavier, his small campfire hissing and spluttering. Ryan sighed and picked up his instruments and bag, slinging them over his shoulder, clutching his walking staff and tugging his coat close about his face. The leaves crunched under his feet as he headed into a patch of holly bushes, hoping the prickly leaves would offer more shelter than empty winter branches.

He dropped to his knees and crawled up to the trunk of the nearest holly, stacking his belongings in front of him to block the worst of the wind. Briefly he considered lighting another fire, but he’d personally prefer not to burn down his recently acquired shelter. He’d guessed right though; barely any rain was able to get through the thick covering of leaves. Unfortunately the branches were low to the ground and Ryan had to stay down or risk damaging his trilby (or his head).

The spiky holly leaves of past seasons were digging into his clothes and his skin in awkward and uncomfortable places. He tried to flatten them out but only succeeded in getting more of them caught up in his clothes.

He huffed, kicking and squirming on the ground; pushing the dead leaves out of the way and scooping out a hollow for himself. In the dim light Ryan could barely see where the leaves were snagged in his clothes, but after a few more minutes of frantically plucking at shadows he managed to get rid of the leaves. Finally satisfied Ryan curled up, bringing his knees and arms close to his chest and hiding his face in his hands. He hummed, a vague self-satisfied noise, pleasantly surprised at the warmth of this new shelter.

The Story Of WilliamandMike

Thu, 31 Jan 2008 01:10:14 GMT

This is a repost as the fic was deleted from the community I posted in originally. (9th August, 2007)

Title: The story of WilliamandMike
Author: patchworkwounds
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: William/Mike, some platonic William/Pete
Warnings: Totally weird style, something I’ve never done before.
Disclaimer: They are not mine.
Summary: Some stories have a clear beginning, some don’t. Some start on rainy days, when the whole sky seems so much closer. Some start on sunny days where anything seems possible. This one doesn’t
A/N: So this is must first EVER TAI fic. Wow, be proud of me I am unlurking in this fandom! So like, please excuse any ooc qualities in the boys.

Some stories have a clear beginning, some don’t. Some start on rainy days, when the whole sky seems so much closer. Some start on sunny days where anything seems possible. This one doesn’t

Mike isn’t quite sure when it did. But he thinks the best place to begin would be the day there was no bright sun, no sky crushing rain. There was just him, and William. And William was crying.

Mike had shifted uncomfortably, not knowing how to cope, how to deal with this. William had curled over himself, hair fallen, scattered across his face, shoulders, knees, folded arms. Mike shifted again. William sobbed harder.

++++++

The story continued. Another city. Another setting. Another heartbreak. This time it wasn’t William, but Pete, and it was William who was left to sit with him. Mike watched them outside the back window of the bus. Two people far too alike and yet so stupidly different they fitted. Their sky isn’t WilliamandMike’s sky, it’s not a dull sky with nothing in it, this sky; WilliamandPete’s sky is heavy, brooding sunlight bleeding poetically all over the clouds. Mike knows that their story isn’t his, know he doesn’t have a claim to whatever words have passed and are passing between them as he watches Pete rest his head on Williams shoulder; under WilliamandPete’s brooding sky.

Mike had then turned away, giving the story of WilliamandPete the privacy it needed to write itself.

++++++

The next chapter of the story of WilliamandMike was written on a day where things should begin, not just continue. It was Mike sprawled on the couch, William standing beside the table smirking down at him. It was a chapter about two boys who joked and laughed and wrestled until one hit his head. Mike had rubbed the sore spot and pouted while William cooed from behind his giggles. Mike frowned when he was called an idiot and sulked until William clambered on top of him and tickled Mike until he accepted William’s apologies.

++++++

Mike knows that maybe somewhere between TheCityOfTooMuchDrink and TheVenueOfTooManyRoaches there are hundreds, maybe thousands of other chapters to story of WilliamandMike, but he also knows that hotels and dressing rooms and buses don’t make a fascinating read. Well the hotels might, but that’s really beside the point. Although what the point is Mike forgot somewhere under the miles and miles of other peoples’ skies.

++++++

When William turns up at Mike’s door when their sky is gone and there’s a star outside (city lights kill most of them) with those big eyes all dark and intense and he points and Mike’s heart and says: “I’ve seen the end,” before promptly bursting into laughter Mike knows there’s something going on. He ushers William inside, hands making little shooing motions and settles the still laughing boy on the beat up couch. Mike demands to know what’s happened, but William just laughs. And laughs. And laughs. Laughs until Mike screams at him to stop being a fucking idiot and tell him what’s wrong. When William’s big eyes all dark and intense look at him and William’s soft voice tells him, Mike wishes he’d never asked.

++++++

Mike ignores William for a very long time; stories and meanings gone. It goes very suddenly from being the story of WilliamandMike to the story WhereTheRestOfTheBandTryNotToTakeSides. It hurts that William doesn’t look at him and Mike figures it hurts William when Mike tells him to ‘leave me alone’ or ‘get the fuck out of my space Beckett’ which, when he thinks about it, is probably a lot worse than William’s muttered ‘please, don’t hate me for this,’

Mikes hates the new chapter of the story of WilliamandMike. It makes him cry, curled in his bunk, bundled in his covers, glaring tearfully at the little window. It makes his friends ignore him. And honestly, Mike is pretty sure he deserves everything.

He hates that he can hear William crying in his bunk too, hates that William murmurs into his sidekick “All the stupid hurtful things he said to me, Pete, I don’t know what to do,” Mike hates that he can’t make himself apologise.

++++++

When Mike next looks out the window, actually looks, it’s a WilliamandMike sky. Just empty sky as far as he can see and his heart pangs in his chest, dull and constricted. He longs for there to be a WilliamandMike again, not WilliamAndTheRestOfTheBandThatTriedNotToTakeSides and MikeWhoFuckedUpTooBadly.

At sunset in this WilliamandMike sky William wanders over to Mike after the show, his head down and long hair tangled, unkempt, wrong. He pauses, shuffling his feet as if he’s waiting for Mike to say something first. But when Mike opens his mouth William swallows up all his words with a kiss. “You really fucking hurt me Mike.” Is muttered against his mouth, and the WilliamandMike sunset speckles them with gold. Mike thinks he’ll break if he hears William’s voice every sound like that again. “Pete told me you were probably just scared.” “Shush, shush.” Is muttered back, anything to make William’s voice not sound like he’s crying, he is crying, they both are. Mike kisses him again.

Mike makes a mental note to leave the story of WilliamandPete to it’s own devices more often.

Some stories end with a happily-ever-after, too many don’t. Some stories end when all the characters are grown old and all their lives stretch behind them like the miles and miles of tarmac. Some end like this, right here, right now, with a kiss at sunset. Under a WilliamandMike sky.

A/N: So I hope you enjoyed reading this, I think I wrote this faster than I have most things, and it’s rather weird, but I like it.

Studio Evening

Fri, 04 Jan 2008 13:13:01 GMT

Title: Studio Evening
Pairing: Spencer/Ryan
Rating: PG
POV: 3rd
Summary: Ryan was looking at him from across the studio with something like pride in his eyes
A/N: Ha my first real Spencer/Ryan fic.

Spencer wasn't sure what he’d done but Ryan was looking at him from across the studio with something like pride in his eyes. It was the end of the day and everything was sort of hazy, warm and comfortable, the last notes of Brendon's piano hanging in the air longer than normal. Spencer ducked his head down, twisting the drumsticks between his fingers, rolling out the ache in his shoulders.

He wasn't really aware of Ryan again until he was right there, folding himself onto the floor beside Spencer's kit. Ryan started playing with the edge of Spencer's shirt, the material pulling and stretching where it was plastered to the drummer's back with sweat. He tucked his drumsticks back into the little holder by his feet, batting away Ryan's hand, smoothing out the crinkles in his shirt. The guitarist smiled, ducking his head down, soft dark hair falling into his eyes. Ryan huffed, pushing it back behind his ears, grinning up at Spencer.

"Hey, me and Jon are going to Starbucks, you two want anything?" Brendon called over. Both Ryan and Spencer ordered cappuccinos (one with cream, get me cream you fuckers) seeing their bandmates out the door with a dismissive wave before lapsing back into hazy silence.

"You played good today," Ryan murmured, shifting around so he was leaning against Spencer's legs. "You always play good," he added, now fiddling with his own shirt. Spencer smiled at the compliment, dropping his hand down to rest of his friend's shoulder. Ryan leaned his head back against Spencer's thigh, a lazy smile on his lips.

Spencer frowned at the look in Ryan's eyes; it was the same one as before, that slight glimmer of pride and something else. He raised an eyebrow, squeezing Ryan's shoulder, working out the knots of tension. The older boy's eyes flickered half-closed as he hummed in satisfaction. Spencer laughed, the sound soft around the edges, fingers trailing up to tangle in Ryan's hair.

"So, what's up?" Spencer's low voice faded away into the fuzzy warmth of the studio. Ryan licked his dry lips, freeing Spencer's hand from his hair and weaving their fingers together.

"What makes you think something's 'up'?"

"That look you gave me earlier." Ryan rolled his eyes, squeezing Spencer's hand.

"You're just all grown up." The guitarist batted his eyelashes and pouted up at Spencer, who rolled his eyes and bumped his hand against Ryan's shoulder. They both laughed, a familiar and comfortable sound between the two of them.

"No, I sort of mean that, just I never noticed when you went from being the weird kid who played drums in his gran's front room to my best friend who everyone knows is fucking brilliant at what he does... and uh yeah you're looking at me weird so I'm gonna stop now. Um Spence?" Spencer blinked, thrown off by Ryan's little speech.

"Uh, okay." Ryan squeezed his hand again. Spencer blinked slowly, still confused. "So, what the hell Ryan?" Ryan just smiled, turning around so they were facing each other, and sitting up so they were at eye level. He tilted his head to one side, soft hair falling into his eyes again. This time it was Spencer who pushed the dark strands out of the way, his fingers lingering on Ryan's cheek.

Ryan's hands tensed on Spencer's thighs and Spencer shivered at the unreadable look in his friend's eyes. The older boy leaned in, resting their foreheads together, his breath hot against Spencer's face. This close he smelled like boy and warmth and working all day and the bass polish he'd stolen from Jon to use on his guitars.

They both leaned in at the same time, their dry lips brushing together softly at first before Spencer tilted to one side, the angle better for them both. Ryan's fingers kneaded his leg lightly, Spencer's hand stroking Ryan's side. The kiss stayed soft and slow, neither one of them wanting to pull away first. Eventually they did, their uneven breaths the loudest sound in the room. Spencer smiled, pressing Ryan closer to him, the guitarist's hands sliding up and around his shoulders.

"I hope they hurry up, I really need my caffeine fix."

I hijacked the soundtrack of someone else's life

Mon, 10 Dec 2007 22:56:41 GMT

Inspired by Chelsey and this prompt over at we_are_cities.

Title: I hijacked the soundtrack of someone else's life.
Rating: PG-13
POV: 3rd
Summary: It's always the might-have-beens that hurt the most.

Pete thinks of all the might-have-beens, all the possible loves and losses as he watches the sunset to the half heard music playing in the room next door to his. He watches the sunset and thinks the whole world is catching fire, rushing up to meat him, come crashing tumbling all around him. He thinks he'd welcome the finality of it.

Next door the song starts again.

He wonders if whoever it is who lives there is like him, stuck in this loop playing in their head. He thinks about all the love he doesn't understand and all the loss he does. Pete lies on his bed and feels like he's suffocating under the crush of everything he should be. He listens to the song playing through his walls and wonders what might-have-been.