echo into silence

GABE'S EPIC QUESTION [1/1]

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 22:52:13 GMT

Title: Gabe's Epic Question
Author: echointosilence
Pairing: Gabe/Alex
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I only own the words. The rest is not mine and is completely fictional.
Author's Notes: A drabble written for Lexi in half an hour for the prompt "Fruit" if you couldn't guess hahaha.

“Alex?”

Damn, he’s back. Gabe had been pushing Alex way past his breaking point today purely from just being hyper and irritating. One of those days where Alex can’t stand him. His fuse reached it’s end and earlier today he had demanded that Gabe left him the fuck alone and went to find somebody else to pester.

Fuck, isn’t somebody keeping him occupied?

Alex’s eyebrows raise a little at the interruption and his gaze moves over the book he had his nose buried in to see Gabe sat opposite him, adorned in his usual seizure-inducing array of colours.

“What?” he replies, the tone of his voice impatient, short and somewhat intimidating to Gabe. A normal person would note the tone as one that tells them that they had better not be wasting his time. Unluckily (or luckily, I’m not sure) Gabe is useless at body language and the art of reading people as a way of detecting people’s emotions - especially when intoxicated.

“Can I Ask you something?”

“Sure.” Only not really, Alex thinks. This had better be a question riding along the epic scale towards the end which holds “To be, or not to be?” or there will trouble.

“Something really important.” If only Alex could believe it was as important as it sounded, then maybe he would put down the copy of Cloudstreet by Tim Wilson (he’d found it next to Ryland’s bunk one morning and snatched it up for himself) and give him his full attention.

“Okay so,” Gabe started with intent. “If I was a fruit… what fruit would I be?”

Epic.

“Go away.”

“That’s not a fruit.”

“It’s an exotic fruit from the country pleasestopbuggingme which I believe is nestled somewhere in eastern Africa. Maybe Madagascar.”

Gabe narrows his eyes into slits.

“Don’t be sarcastic. I’m asking a genuine question. People have been giving me shitty answers. Give me a good answer.”

Alex just stares back at him, long and hard, letting the book fall open onto the leather of the couch next to him. He sighs because he figures humouring Gabe is the best thing to do at a time like this.

“Okay, fine. A kiwi. You’d be a kiwi,” he nods as if there was a correct answer to Gabe’s query and he had just uncovered it.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why would I be a kiwi?” Gabe asks with an excited grin. Alex looks perplexed.

“I don’t know. Because they look pretty gross and the little black pips are really annoying and it leaves me with a horrible furry feeling on the top of my mouth.”

Gabe is stunned, his lips apart and his eyes widening.

“Alex…” he starts, his tone pleading and child-like. Alex has to hold back a smirk which would completely ruin the hard demeanour he had been holding up since Gabe walked onto the bus.

“What?” he asks innocently, earning a resigned huff from Gabe. “Are you staying here?”

“Yeah. Travis and the boys are coming over to drink my whiskey.” Alex stands.

“I’m out of here.”

Alex returns to their bus a few hours later after heading out to the barbeque for some food and to hang out with Mike and Siska for a while. Everyone was exceptionally drunk tonight and Alex felt like he had missed some kind of bulletin that was sent out to everyone ordering them to intake extra alcohol tonight. Except him.

The first thing he notices when he returns is the kiwi.

What the fuck?

“Gabe?” he says timidly, eyeing the kiwi on the middle step as if it was about to morph into a bomb and blow up in his face. He’s met with silence and he looks up to see that all of the lights on the bus have been shut off. He picks up the kiwi and climbs the steps onto the dark bus, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He calls out for Gabe again with no response, turning the corner into the front lounge. Through the dark bus he can see a small light in the back lounge, making one corner of the room glow. Gabe is sat topless on the couch.

Alex moves closer. Oh shit he’s naked.

“What are you doing?” Alex asks once he’s at the doorway, his eyes wide but his lips curling into a very tiny smirk.

“Nothing.” Gabe can still pull off innocence even when he’s stark naked with a semi-erection. What is in this boys blood? Alex holds up the kiwi which was still firmly clenched in his palm.

“What’s the deal?”

“I thought you’d like to taste me,” Gabe comments and those words snake up Alex’s spine and forces a shiver back down. Alex’s pent up frustration with Gabe from earlier in the day starts to melt away.

“Sure,” he smirks, walking towards the kitchenette and carefully slicing the kiwi in half. He grabs a spoon and goes to sit down near Gabe, scooping some of the green fruit out and eating it. Gabe watches with heavy eyes and after Alex has eaten some of the fruit, saunters over and straddles his hips.

“I’m sorry I annoyed you earlier,” he purrs, attaching his lips to his neck to suck gently, wanting to mark him but not so bad that everyone would ask questions.

“Good,” Alex replies, because, yeah, Gabe had been really annoying today. Gabe just smirks and grinds his hips down teasingly, arching back a little so that Alex could eat some more of the fruit, rather seductively.

“Why did you say I was a kiwi?”

“Because they look horrible. But then you taste them and they’re really sweet and juicy,” he smiles wide, putting the kiwi down so he could wrap his arms around Gabe’s waist.

“Gross.”

“Me?”

“No. The kiwi.”

“You don’t like kiwi’s?” Gabe shakes his head.

“Hate them.”

NO DAY BUT TODAY [1/1]

Mon, 26 May 2008 13:27:42 GMT

Title: No Day But Today.
Author: echointosilence
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Rating : PG
Summary: The boys learn to cope with Pete's disease.
Warnings: Death.
Disclaimer: I only own the words. The rest is not mine and is completely fictional.
Author's Notes: Thank you to zigzagseams for reading through this as my BETA. Also, a thank you to raverbear64 for just generally being amazing with giving me encouragement and confidence. Oh, and for letting me talk her ear off the last week or so.

Patrick wishes he had been there the day Pete was told he had HIV. He wishes it more than he has ever wished for anything in his life. Pete still has nightmares about that day. For years, Patrick has wondered what troubles and torments his friend’s mind so much when he closes his eyes and drifts into that other world. Pete always says that he can’t really remember. That it’s just an unexplained fear. Patrick puts it down to his anxiety and doesn’t question it. He never would have thought that behind those beautiful twitching eyelids was a scene of a doctor, replaying and replaying in his mind like a broken video.

* * * *

The truth comes out when Pete finally buckles under the weight of those three enormous letters playing havoc with his sanity and tries to end his life in his sisters car.

Patrick doesn’t comfort him. He doesn’t say a thing to him. He runs from the hospital and cries for what feels like weeks. He only breaks free from his selfish wallowing when Andy comes over three days later to give him an abrupt reality check.

“He’s dying, Patrick. In every way possible. I can’t help him. Joe can’t help him. Even his parents can’t help him. But you? You can keep his heart alive.”

Patrick’s stuck in a habit. Stuck in a routine of denying and defending. Even at such an honestly heartening moment, he opens his mouth to downplay. Andy beats him to a reply.

“Stop it. Don’t,” he orders “We all know you love him. He loves you. Make something out of it.”

Andy drives him straight to the hospital and Patrick’s legs barely carry him up to Pete’s room before they buckle and he falls to the floor next to his bed. Pete lets him cry. Doesn’t say anything, just silently curls his fingers into Patrick’s soft hair and lets him get it out of his system.

Before Patrick leaves, they share a sloppy tear-soaked kiss which is too desperate and broken to be romantic. But it’s enough for them to exchange a quiet I Love You and a silent vow to carry each other through this.

* * * *

The fans aren’t told. It’s kept hush. The biggest secret in the scene. Pete likes to joke that it’s the second biggest after Shaant’s homosexuality. Really though, it’s rarely mentioned. Pete likes it that way. Only discussed in the quiet corners of his blossoming relationship. The four years Pete had kept his personal hell to himself had only been made worse by his longing to call Patrick his own. Patrick was his bridge from fear to acceptance. He’s the one thing that makes complete sense. Those nights they spend alone, silence covering them as their warm chests press together and their fingers curl and grip. It’s so perfectly comfortable that Pete’s hands feel foreign to him when they eventually let go. Those are the nights Pete can say he is truly home.

Patrick holds him like he’s never been held before. With tenderness you rarely find. That perfect compromise of protection and love is what gives Pete the energy to smile every day. The energy to take morning walks and midday drives around the city that he both loves and hates for making and breaking him respectively.

Patrick never asks how it happened or who it was. That information is exclusive to Pete and Pete alone and Patrick knows it’s something Pete won’t talk about.

* * * *

They keep on writing. The notebook that Pete keeps by the bed to spill the thoughts that clutter at nightfall healthily fills up. Patrick’s laptop pulses with beats and melodies and for a few months, Pete almost manages to forget. Almost gets completely lost in what it feels like to write a record with his best friends. His heart beats stronger for it this than it has done for anything for a long time.

They have four songs completed. Two songs need lyrics. Patrick bugs Pete for more but he’s hit a dry spell and the writing process grinds to a halt for the best part of a week. When Pete finally comes to Patrick with four scruffy pieces of note paper, he sighs at the words scrawled in black ink.

“When are you going to write a love song?” he asks. He’s not sure if it’s a criticism or a request.

“You mean, when am I going to write a song about you?” He retorts.

“No, that’s not what I mean at all.” It’s exactly what he means, actually. He’s desperate for Pete to give him something that reminds him of how he used to be. Pete’s lyrics were always somewhat miserable. Downcast and downtrodden. But there was always that undertone of a grin and a big middle finger to world. It was hidden well, but Patrick never missed it. Now, he can’t form these words into an image of Pete anymore, no matter how hard he tries.

“I’m not writing you a love song, Patrick. The record doesn‘t need it.”

In two seconds, Patrick’s eyes are brimming with tears. They don’t spill. They just gloss his eyes enough to make the lights around them dance in his pupils.

“Have you ever thought that maybe I need a love song, Pete?”

Infinity On High is released four months later; without Patrick’s love song.

* * * *

They tour more than ever for this album. Three North American tours, two European tours and shows in Australia, New Zealand, Africa and Asia.

For the most part, they seem the same as any other tours; Joe smokes too much weed, Andy works out for two hours before every show, Patrick is glued to Garageband and Pete eats three bowls of lucky charms a day. Only really, things are very fucking different and it only starts to become apparent on their second European tour. The shows aren’t as tight. Pete’s bass lines are sloppy and the electricity between him and the crowds starts to die. Joe steps in and tries to double up with Pete for on-stage banter but it’s not the same.

He weakens so rapidly. Patrick spends every second by his side. Pete’s at his best when the sun is highest in the sky. The mornings are as difficult as the nights and the few hours in-between are the hours their souls rhyme. They are always alone, often spending it curled up in the back lounge, watching Thundercats or James Bond films on DVD. Patrick decides about two weeks in that Pete needs the fresh air. Needs to see the sun in the sky, watch the clouds bunch and gather above them or feel the rain falling on their faces. Their days spent curled up on a leather couch merge into days curled up on a blanket in nearby parks. Patrick decides that this is the best ever decision he ever made. Pete opens up more to him. They talk about anything and everything and Patrick absolutely loves it. This is why he loves Pete. Although the fresh air causes Pete to feel more alert in the evening, he does usually fall asleep. Patrick is thankful that England is usually cold and wet. It covers the terrified tears he cries every time Pete drops into a slumber and he realises they’re a day closer to that fall that Patrick wishes he had the power to carry him across.

Every day, he takes Pete back to the bus with a heavy heart and a lump in his throat.

* * * *

It’s a crisp, bone-chillingly cold night in London when they all realise Pete’s body is giving up the fight. The seven years he spent with HIV are suddenly put into perspective when they realise AIDS is finally attacking his immune system. He complains of a headache all day but insists it’s just from lack of sleep. When he doesn’t appear for lunch, Patrick excuses himself. The state he finds Pete in breaks his heart tenfold. The small man is huddled in the corner of the venue bathroom, his arms around his knees tightly as he shakes. It’s cold in the room but Pete’s sweating, his breath shallow and his lips dry. He’s rocking slightly and if Patrick didn’t know better, he’d think he was insane. There’s a small pool around him on the tiles below and Patrick can tell from the state of his jeans that he didn’t have the strength to move to the toilet. He rushes towards him; fingers flying straight to his lovers tear-soaked cheeks.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, dragging his soft fingertips over the warm, damp skin “It’s okay, I’m here,” he adds, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. His temperature stings his soft lips and he gets up to wet a few paper towels, pressing them to Pete’s head. “Feel better, baby?” he asks and Pete’s head nods slowly, his eyes rolling a little from the fever. More hot tears gather on his eyelashes and tumble onto Patrick’s fingers as he gathers the weak man into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Pete manages to croak out.

“What for?”

“For being a stupid kid and letting one fuck ruin everything.” his words are so broken and disjointed and straight after he says them his eyes roll again and his chin falls to his chest. Patrick gathers him in his arms and lifts him off the wet floor, carrying him outside as fast as he could.

“Charlie! Charlie!” Patrick shouts down the hallway, knowing Charlie was in a room down here somewhere. Patrick is bawling, tears falling down his cheeks in streams so steady that they’re not even falling into droplets. Charlie rushes out immediately, taking Pete’s weak body from Patrick and into his stronger arms.

“Okay, lets get him to a hospital.”

* * * *

Pete is admitted and treated instantly. He sleeps for the rest of the day and by the evening, he’s come around enough for Patrick to sit in with him. They sit silently for an hour, their hands linked together on the bed. There’s nothing to say. They both know what’s going through each others heads and neither dare speak it. Eventually, Patrick whispers a question he has been desperate to ask since the very first moment he knew he was going to lose him.

“How am I meant to live without you?” It’s followed by silence. Pete looks over at him and swallows the best he could with such a dry throat.

“It’s just like when Angel dies in Rent,” Pete replies, a small smile on his lips. Patrick wants to scream at him. Wants to thrash out and hit him. Because this is not a joke. This is nothing like that because he’s about to fucking lose the closest thing to him. It’s so typical of Pete to try and make this into a colloquial conversation. He doesn’t have the energy, though. Not one ounce of strength left in his body.

“Angel comes back when I press repeat. Life doesn’t have a repeat button.”

Pete smiles the widest smile that has graced his face since he fell ill. He leans over and taps Patrick’s temple softly.

“What do you think dreams are for?” he asks, his tone that of a mother reasoning with a small child. His voice is high and shaky with tears but he’s still smiling.

“Wishes that can never come true,” Patrick mumbles, his tears betraying him and splashing on the blue linen sheets of Pete’s bed. Pete shakes his head and rests a shaky hand on Patrick’s chest.

“You think I’m not in there?” Pete asks, his bottom lip quivering as his own tears threaten seriously to fall “You think I’m not part of you, Patrick? I’m in there. You can find me whenever you need me. Just close your eyes. I promise. I promise you, Patrick. I never said I would leave you.”

Patrick stares down at the ugly tiled floor, letting his tears splash onto them. He slowly looks back up at Pete, his lips pursed tightly together. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He hopes Pete is right. Something inside tells him he is, because he cannot believe Pete is smiling at a time like this.

“You’re beautiful,” Patrick manages to say brightly. It makes Pete giggle for the first time in so long. It warms and breaks Patrick’s heart all at once, making him lean forward for a short kiss. His heart couldn’t handle the weight of feeling what he was about to lose against his lips like some sort of evil tease and he chokes on the sob which forms as soon as he pulls away.

Nobody on the other side of the glass window steps into the room when Patrick decides to climb on the bed to lie down next to Pete. They hold each other, the same way they always do and Patrick can feel their hearts fluttering in time, fast and desperate, as if trying to touch eachother through their chests for one last song.

They can’t reach this time. They’re beating alone.

* * * *

They sleep together. The nurses and doctors don’t wake them. There’s no need to.

When Patrick wakes, his face is pressed against Pete’s neck. It’s cold and his stomach drops sickly. He looks up to see Pete’s eyes open in tiny slits. It looks like the blood is draining from him, his skin almost gray, his lips lacking any colour. Patrick’s eyebrows knit together and his fingers touch his rough cheek. Pete gives a tiny weak smile and swallows painfully.

“You know I can never sleep,” he says, his eyes the only things seeming to be alive, glinting as the sun from the window hits them. “But I think I’m going to now,” he whispers breathily.

Patrick instantly shakes his head, rapidly and urgently. “No.” he says stubbornly. “No, not now, Pete. Just a little longer,” he sobs, his throat sore from so much crying, making his words sound hoarse. Pete’s shaky weak hand lifts to touch Patrick’s face, his thumb running over the younger boys bottom lip.

“I love you. Not with every beat of my heart. Because I’ll still love you when it stops. I’ll always be your Pete. Always be right by your side. This is your love song, Patrick. Sing it.” His eyes are shining still. Even when his body is giving up on him. His words are weak and Patrick can see the pain it causes him to utter each one. He stops crying and stares at Pete as he slips away from him.

“I love you too.”

“Keep on playing. Keep it alive without me, ‘Trick.” he shakes his head slowly and his eyes finally fall shut.

Patrick rests his head on Pete’s chest, his fingers linked with his as he listens to his heartbeat slow down and eventually stop. He stays there for hours. Another tear doesn’t form until Andy tries to move him. Tries to unlink their fingers so that Pete can be covered and taken away. It takes four people to move and carry the devastated man away from the bedside of his lover.

Patrick doesn’t talk or eat for three days straight.

* * * *

It’s four months before Patrick begins to accept that Pete is gone. His mother sends him to a grief therapist when she realises her son isn’t coping and eventually, he starts to form himself back into that boy Pete fell in love with.

His therapist urges him to write that love song. He’s never entirely happy with it.

“We’re going on tour,” Patrick announces. “I need to sing my love song.”

* * * *

They book five shows across the US.

Patrick breaks before he even finishes the first song on the first date. That gaping hole to the left of him just got bigger and bigger with every word he sang and his heart clenched and stung when he realised Pete would never appear there again, twisting and bouncing and singing along.

He runs off stage, arms crossed tightly across his chest as his body is shook violently with tremendous sobs. He throws up on the back steps of the venue and Joe’s hand on his back fails to comfort him at all.

“We can cancel them if this is too hard. You know that. We have your back,” he tells him quietly, holding his friend close as he shakes softly.

“No. We’re carrying on. I can do it, just not tonight. We’re not playing my song, though,” he tells Joe, wiping at his red eyes.

“Why, Patrick? It’s beautiful. That’s why we’re here. So Pete can hear you sing that song up to him every night,” Joe says sadly, rubbing soothing circles on his back. Patrick just shakes his head.

“We’re just not, Joe.”

Joe reluctantly agrees. The shows goes on without Patrick’s love song. He never tells them why he can’t play it because he doesn’t really know himself. He just can’t bring himself to sing it because he’s sure part of his love song is buried somewhere deep inside Pete. He’ll never hear it. Never sing it. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe this was the one song Pete didn’t want to share with the world. The one song which was for Patrick and Patrick alone.

* * * *

One year later to the day, Patrick visit’s the grave for the first time since the funeral.

Joe and Andy are stood on either side of him, watching as he lays the flowers in front of the headstone.

“Do you miss him?” Joe asks. It’s a stupid question, really. Though Patrick manages to stun them both with his answer.

“No,” he smiles, running his fingers over his name engraved into the stone “I see him every night in my dreams.”