I Will Sing You Lullabies
Nightmares.
He wakes up in a cold sweat, heart palpitating and almost-black eyes dilated. The nightmares, he thinks wildly, trying to slow his heartbeat back to a normal rate, before it shatters his porcelain bones or jumps straight out of his chest.
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
In an instant, Patrick is standing over him, worry painted boldly all over his panic-stricken, pale face. He places the back of his icy hand against Pete’s fiery forehead.
“It was just a nightmare. I’m not sick. It’s no big deal.” Pete mumbles, lying back against the freshly washed sheets and sighing, hands over his aching head.
He was still shaken by the lifelike images of the nightmare, though he could not recall what had scared him in the first place. Most night, he was able to repeat every detail back to Patrick when he woke up in a violent fit of sobs and screams, but some nights, his mind drew a blank.
“No big deal? Those fuckin’ pills are supposed to be doing something for the nightmares. Do you even take them any more?” Patrick asks coolly, wondering why someone would prescribe Pete something that does shit for him every night.
“Yeah, every day,” Pete lies smoothly, peeking up through a slit of light between his index and middle finger.
Patrick doesn’t reply for a few minutes, but soon shoots back, “Maybe a lullaby would work…”
Pete sits up immediately, black eyebrows knitted together, “A lullaby? What the hell?”
“A lullaby, dumbass. You know, your mother probably used to sing them to you when you were a kid?”
“I know what a lullaby is,” Pete rolls his eyes.
“Well, let’s give it a go,” Patrick replies swiftly, his mouth morphing into a grin.
“Fuck you. A lullaby isn’t going to do anything.” Pete growls softly, letting his head smack against the baby blue pillow once more.
Silence, and then an enthralling sound fills the air. Pete peeks through his fingers again, only to see Patrick’s delicate fingers dancing across the neck of his acoustic guitar, belting out a familiar tune – giving it all the energy a person could possible possess at 3:47 in the morning. Pete’s eyes are wide again, like when the chilling nightmare had first made him stir, but soon he finds that his eyelids are far too heavy and droopy to keep open for long periods of time.
Blink. Blink. Black.
---
The hyperactive chirps and calls of the birds perched outside their window mixed with the lively roar of a neighbor’s lawnmower stirs Pete to life the next morning.
“Sleep well, sunshine?” Patrick chirps from across the room, putting down his worn book, smiling warmly.
“Fuck yeah,” Pete yawns, stretching out his long, tanned arms until he hears them crack.
“Hmm, maybe I should sing you a lullaby more often then?” Patrick coos, climbing over the mountains of pillows to plop besides Pete.
“Damn straight. Every night,” And on that note, Pete softly presses his lips against Patrick’s and then begins to mumble a distorted “thank you” into the crook of his neck.
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
In an instant, Patrick is standing over him, worry painted boldly all over his panic-stricken, pale face. He places the back of his icy hand against Pete’s fiery forehead.
“It was just a nightmare. I’m not sick. It’s no big deal.” Pete mumbles, lying back against the freshly washed sheets and sighing, hands over his aching head.
He was still shaken by the lifelike images of the nightmare, though he could not recall what had scared him in the first place. Most night, he was able to repeat every detail back to Patrick when he woke up in a violent fit of sobs and screams, but some nights, his mind drew a blank.
“No big deal? Those fuckin’ pills are supposed to be doing something for the nightmares. Do you even take them any more?” Patrick asks coolly, wondering why someone would prescribe Pete something that does shit for him every night.
“Yeah, every day,” Pete lies smoothly, peeking up through a slit of light between his index and middle finger.
Patrick doesn’t reply for a few minutes, but soon shoots back, “Maybe a lullaby would work…”
Pete sits up immediately, black eyebrows knitted together, “A lullaby? What the hell?”
“A lullaby, dumbass. You know, your mother probably used to sing them to you when you were a kid?”
“I know what a lullaby is,” Pete rolls his eyes.
“Well, let’s give it a go,” Patrick replies swiftly, his mouth morphing into a grin.
“Fuck you. A lullaby isn’t going to do anything.” Pete growls softly, letting his head smack against the baby blue pillow once more.
Silence, and then an enthralling sound fills the air. Pete peeks through his fingers again, only to see Patrick’s delicate fingers dancing across the neck of his acoustic guitar, belting out a familiar tune – giving it all the energy a person could possible possess at 3:47 in the morning. Pete’s eyes are wide again, like when the chilling nightmare had first made him stir, but soon he finds that his eyelids are far too heavy and droopy to keep open for long periods of time.
Blink. Blink. Black.
---
The hyperactive chirps and calls of the birds perched outside their window mixed with the lively roar of a neighbor’s lawnmower stirs Pete to life the next morning.
“Sleep well, sunshine?” Patrick chirps from across the room, putting down his worn book, smiling warmly.
“Fuck yeah,” Pete yawns, stretching out his long, tanned arms until he hears them crack.
“Hmm, maybe I should sing you a lullaby more often then?” Patrick coos, climbing over the mountains of pillows to plop besides Pete.
“Damn straight. Every night,” And on that note, Pete softly presses his lips against Patrick’s and then begins to mumble a distorted “thank you” into the crook of his neck.