clandestineind: (Default)
clandestineind ([personal profile] clandestineind) wrote2011-05-25 09:33 pm
Entry tags:

Dreams Like Mine

Title: Dreams Like Mine
Rating: PG
Pairing: Pete/Gabe
Summary: Homesickness drives him mad.
Warning: None I don't think, bit angsty feeling.
A/N: Uhhhhh, I'm not sure, just, yeah. Fic. Kinda for Bee.
Word Count: 1895

Pete heaves a deep breath, lungs filled with curling hatred and sleeplessness and frustration and he exhales it, closing his eyes and imagining it simply dissipating and dissolving into the sterilised air conditioning of the terminal’s air. He opens his eyes, a slow reluctance in it, not wanting to face the forced light and liveliness of the airport so early in the morning. Bebe is watching him, a frown tilting her arched brows and settled in the slight jut of her lip. He offers up a tired smile, almost consciously forcing the corners of his mouth the turn up for her. He doesn’t want to smile. 

He’d like to sleep, really. He closes his eyes again and he can almost imagine the soft feeling of cotton sheets under him; the sweet steady breaths of his pride and joy, little hands clutching his tatty much loved teddy, soft curly haired head tucked under Pete’s chin, safe; a warm solid body behind him, steady too hot palms on his stomach, arms around him, protecting him. 

He rubs his face a little, blinking eyes open again. He always has to open them and stop dreaming, always has to ruin it. The whole world always makes him wake up to the reality of it all, makes him get up and walk away from that bed and the people that he loves and the safety and the perfection of it and deal with the things he doesn’t want to. When he’s not there, it’s almost like he can’t quite accept that something so right and wonderful really exists, not for boys like him.

Pete stands, joints clicking and aching. He’s getting old. He can see it in the crows feet at the corners of his eyes and the way he has try that bit harder to connect up with the kids, to make sense of them, their world. It never used to be hard, it was always so easy. Sometimes he wonders if he grew up overnight some time, because he’d swear to you one day he was Peter Pan and the next his bones ached and looked all wrong in his skin. It’s hard. He’s not sure he’s adjusted to being an adult, a grown up. Not really. He’s just accepted it with the bad grace and clinging reluctance of a tired child being sent to bed. He’s tired, but he doesn’t want to let it go, he’s tried keeping his eyes wide open and tried to ignore it happening, but he has to relent, accept it, go with it, take the nudge life is giving him. It’s killing him a little to do it, but he is.

Spencer nudges him a little and he focuses in on the world, the terminal around him coming into steadying clarity, Bebe laughing at something quietly with Nate, red mouth in a wide perfect smile, Spencer’s curious sleepy eyes on him, checking he’s alright. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and shakes his head, murmuring low;
“Sorry man, I’m just tired.” Spencer nods like he understands but Pete isn’t sure he really gets what Pete means when he says tired. 

He drags his passport from his pocket and smoothes his thumb over the worn surface, flicking the pages absentmindedly, watching the flicker of colour and stamps and stickers that signal a hundred and one wonderful places and memories and trips and travels that seem a whole lifetime of on and off, seatbelt signs, airport terminals and bad in flight food. He’s been to so many places and there’s only one he really wants to be.

He walks onto the plane on autopilot, taking a seat and pulling his hood up. He doesn’t listen to the safety speech. He’s heard it so many times he could almost recite it and it never changes. If the plane goes down, nobody will follow the rules anyway. It’ll be every man for himself.

Pete digs his phone from the awkward confines of his jeans pocket and hesitates a moment, fingers smoothing over the screen, then he taps out a quick message.

‘miss u both. X’

He knows it’s simple, it’s stupid, but he sends it then switches his phone off, settling into the awkward aeroplane seat and closing his eyes. He knows he won’t sleep, but that isn’t the point. 


He feels like a zombie, a puppet, shuffling from place to place to place, moved by invisible guidelines and strings, tugged and teased into position and doing as he’s told. He’s done now, really, he’s ready for home. There was a time he could tour for weeks, months, years and he would never grow so restless and achy for home, but now he does. It gnaws at his insides and flourishes and grows in the time between interviews and the car rides to hotels and the quiet moments when anybody lets him think too long.

He needs peace of mind and he knows where he’ll find it. He’ll find it in that spot that’s always warm on the back patio in the early evening, just as the summer sunshine is fading, when he can hear the quiet murmur of little boy chatter and the gruff sounds of Hemingway herding Bronx about like some bossy and well meaning mother figure, a tall shadow slipping out to sit beside him and hold his hand. Peace of mind is not so far away really, but it seems to be taking forever to get there.


Tour lasts long enough and Pete feels only half guilty saying he’s glad he’s going home, not that the feeling has settled in quite yet. He says his goodbyes to them in different places, airports, stops. They all hug, family do that. Even tour family.

Bebe smells like vanilla and she hugs him tight, small little frame holding him close, a mass of curls in his face. He doesn’t mind. She promises to speak to him soon and says to give Bronx a kiss from her. She kisses his cheek and he resists the urge to check for the lipstick mark she’s surely left, or to rub it off and she laughs at him, rubbing it off herself with her thumb.

Nate looks tired but happy to be going home, giving Pete a quick, soft hug, patting his back and telling him to stay safe and catch up on some sleep. Pete nods and tells him to trim his beard. They both smile.

Spencer pulls Pete in for one of those manly hugs, but they both linger, making sure to exert just enough tightness in the hold they each knows to take care. Spencer promises he’ll see him soon and pats his shoulder before disappearing off somewhere.

Pete is left, eventually, alone and with his own thoughts and finally, oh god finally, with this brimming golden feeling that’s chasing out the ache and drawing him out of himself and evaporating the hulking shadows at his back. He’s almost home and it has been far too long. He calls a cab and he spends the ride tapping his fingers restlessly on his thigh and almost smiling to himself. So close he can almost feel it.

When the taxicab draws to a halt, tyres crunching on gravel, Pete feels a sense of energy that’s been lacking and lost for at least a week and a half. He gets his own luggage from the trunk and declines the offer for help, paying the surly looking man his fare and not looking back again as he hears the car pulling away, just focusing on walking up his own front drive, familiar and tidy and bright, letting himself through the front door and putting his bags on the floor, toeing off his shoes and letting out a breath that he’s not sure how long he’s been holding. Home feels good.

The sound of the closing door brings the quick patter of bare little footsteps on wooden floorboards and Pete crouches ready, just in time for the squealing bundle of little boy that throws himself at him. Pete squeezes him tightly and smiles into tangled messy blonde curls and soaks up the excitable ‘I missed you daddy’s and the jumble of senseless questions about presents and does Bebe say hi. He just laughs and inhales the smell of clean clothes and kids strawberry shampoo, relishing in the feel of strong little arms around his neck and clutching sticky hands at his hoodie. This tiny excitable person who has missed him, it seems, as much as he has missed them, and it’s the best feeling in the world to hold him again.

He looks up over Bronx’s shoulder after a moment or so to see a tall leaning shadow watching them. He disentangles from the armful of little boy he has and directs him to which bag has his present in it, letting him dig in to look for it. Pete stands slowly, knees clicking and he barely takes two steps before he’s engulfed in a breathtakingly tight hug, incomprehensible and sometimes non-English words being murmured into his hair. He holds on tight; face pressed against soft worn cotton and breathes lungfuls of aftershave and washing detergent and Gabe. He feels so safe and held together suddenly and the relief sinks into his bones, turning him to liquid. He doesn’t realise he’s crying under he feels the wet material under his face and the low shushing and hands smoothing up and down his back. “I missed you so much,” he makes out eventually, voice catching a little.

It’s a few moments later that Gabe speaks.
“Bronx has run off with that game you got him. I think the shrieking and yelling had a thanks in it somewhere.” Pete nods slightly, pulling away carefully and rubbing his face, allowing Gabe to tilt his face up and smooth away the tear tracks with gentle thumbs, closing eyes and pressing finally and indulgently into the kiss finally pressed to his mouth.
“God I’ve missed you and the little dude so fucking much, it’s crazy. I’ve been dying to get home.” 
“I know, I know, we’ve missed you too.”


Later, with his little boy, tucked up in bed, Pete allows himself to relax, stretching out on familiar sheets, closing his eyes and breathing out slowly. He barely bats at eyelid at the bed dipping under solid weight and smiles when he feels the ghost of a kiss to his cheek and careful steady hands undressing him for bed. He stays easy and limp like a ragdoll, allowing somebody he cares about to simply take care of him. 

He’s manoeuvred and manhandled gently under the duvet and left for a moment, the weight leaving the bed. Pete waits and the light in the room is switched off, then the rustle of sheets and the weight settling on the bed beside him signals Gabe’s return. He rolls onto his side away from him, feeling him settle solid and reassuring, spooning along his back, smooth hot skin against his. Pete feels safe and loved and okay, suddenly and it hits him in this buffeting mass of content and he snuggles down comfortably, relishing the feel of fingers creeping to rest of his stomach and the kiss pressed below his ear. He almost doesn’t hear the whispered good night, he’s already half asleep.