Bird's Eye

Ugh. Church. Fun.

Pete scowls and rolls his eyes in typical teenager fashion as he files into the pew behind his mother, stepfather, and brother. This is what happens when he stays at his mom’s for Christmas; more family, more presents, and…church.

Somehow, he’s not quite sure the presents make up for the church part.

Settling himself onto the thin cushion that barely keeps the hard wooden pew from flattening his skinny teenage ass, Pete reflects that it could be a lot worse. He could have to do this every Sunday as opposed to twice a year.

The thought doesn’t cheer him up much.


The service passes by in a dull blur, punctuated by harsh jabs in the ribs from his brother whenever it’s time to stand up and sing. If you can call the off-key mumbles that filter from Pete’s mouth singing. Fortunately, no one else in his family is exactly Liberace, so he just blends right in.


Pete almost drifts off as the preacher—priest—pastor—minister—the dude who stands up front and talks, whatever you call him, gets up and starts his drone about Jesus Christ and his mom.

When the preac—um, sermon-giver dude gets to the part about the Virgin Mary, Pete wonders vaguely how the hell anybody believed that she was actually a virgin. Like, seriously, who was she kidding? She obviously just had some fun with one of the camel herders and told God that it was his…

Eyes half closed, Pete momentarily wonders if these are the right thoughts to be thinking in a church on Christmas Eve. Maybe God will just smite him right now.

Ten minutes later, no lightning has pierced the roof of the church and fried him to a crisp, so Pete figures he’s okay for now.

Ten minutes pass, and Pete exhausts the topic of the likelihood of the virginity of the Virgin Mary.

Ten more minutes pass, and the crack in the wall over there has lost what little interest it once held.

Ten more minutes slide by, and Pete’s bored of imagining the girl in the pew across the aisle with no clothes on.

Ten minutes later, Pete’s wishing God would just go ahead and smite him already. At least he wouldn’t have to go to church anymore.

And ten long, long minutes later, the talking dude at the front steps down with a few words Pete doesn’t bother to listen to.

The organ at the back of the church starts up with a faint creaking of keys, and Pete sighs internally. It’s not over yet. But it looks like music now; maybe he can drift off to sleep and no one will notice.

A quiet rustling fills the church, rising above even the noise of the organ. Glancing around with half-lidded eyes, Pete sees that everyone is turning around in their pews to look at something coming down the aisle. Pete figures he can just wait until whatever it is reaches him.

“Oh, aren’t they just darling?” Pete’s mom coos as the line of boys trails down the aisle and up onto the risers at the front of the room. Draped in white and red choir robes, the boys range in age from seven years old to fifteen; Pete’s age.

“You should be in church choir, Pete,” his brother snickers, nudging him in the ribs. “You sing so nice…”

“Shut up,” Pete growls.

Before his brother can respond, the director gets up in front of the boy’s choir and starts waving his arms around wildly. Magically, they understand and start singing, amazingly in tune.

After the initial surprise of the ability of the kids to decipher the crazy old man’s mad arm signals, not much else interests Pete. Sure, the guys can sing nicely, but it’s the same old crap. Sappy old Christmas songs, ranging from Silent Night to One Little Christmas Candle and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

That is, until the younger group of boys files off, leaving only two rows of the older guys, from about twelve to fifteen. Pete raises his eyebrows as they start singing, in increasingly complicated two and three-part harmonies. The mix of voices has an oddly ethereal sound, ringing out in the cavernous church.

But what really gets Pete is the Latin song. It’s in minor key, unusually for Christmas songs, and the harmonies blend beautifully. Even the church’s creaky old organ gains some passion as it plods along underneath the swell of young voices.

Pete lets his eyes slide shut, letting the music take him and buoy him away; out of the church and into the icy winter skies outside.

His eyes flicker open as the voices pause, letting the organ do its thing for a few seconds. A flutter of movement disturbs the serenity of the choir’s ranks, and Pete watches a small boy stumble down the risers and step to the front of the choir.

Eyes wide, back rod-straight with nerves, robes slightly rumpled, the boy turns to face the congregation, takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth to sing. Pete’s barely expecting to hear a thing from this prepubescent little blond baby, but he nearly falls out of his seat as music, pure music soars and tumbles forth from those plush lips.

The boy’s voice, high and clear as melted snowflakes, pours out and straight into Pete. Or so Pete thinks, wrapping his arms tightly over his skinny chest as if to hold all this sound inside himself forever.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the sound ends, and Pete’s head jerks up to see the boy slipping back into the ranks of the choir. When all the boys start to sing again, it sounds almost heavy to Pete’s ears after that soaring solo.

The song ends, and Pete realizes that he’s still clutching at his chest. When he tries to move his arms, he finds an ache in his chest cavity that only dulls slightly when he holds on as tight as he can.

What the fuck, Pete? he demands of himself. You’re even crazier than they think. How in hell did that have such an effect on you? It was just a damn song, for crying out loud. What’s wrong with you?

But Pete can’t answer his own questions. He can only sit hunched over in the pew and stare at the solo kid. Almost hidden up in the back, the tiny blond boy can’t be older than thirteen, and his pale face has got a wide-eyed, puppy-dog look that makes Pete’s stomach flip flop even at this distance.

Pete could almost cry when the choir leaves the stage and files back down the aisle to the back of the church. Fortunately, it’s a sign that the service is almost over, and in a matter of minutes Pete’s brother is elbowing him in the ribs to stand up and get the heck out of that pew.

Pete drags himself to his feet and shuffles down the aisle, unable to unwrap his arms from around his chest. As they arrive at the back doors of the church, his mother looks at him with concern.

“Are you alright, honey?” she asks anxiously.

“Yeah,” Pete grunts, hunching his shoulders slightly. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” she persists. “You look a little feverish. Is something hurting?”

“No,” Pete says firmly, lowering his eyes to glare at his feet.

“We’ll go home soon,” his mother says comfortingly, patting his shoulder. “There are just a few people I’d like to say hello to, and then we’ll leave.”


This translates into Pete standing awkwardly in a corner of the church’s large meeting room while his mother chats happily away and eats the homemade cookies that the various church grandmas baked. His stepdad is deep in some uninteresting conversation with a group of heavyset men, while Pete’s brother chats it up with a few teenage boys in suits and blushing girls in fancy Christmas dresses.

Pete’s very out of place in his ill-fitting suit and dark, coarse hair that covers most of his face. He’s hiding behind it now, avoiding the curious looks from passing adults. People his age don’t even bother glancing at him.

He looks up disinterestedly as the double doors at the end of the room open and the boys of the choir crowd in, neat and smart in their best Christmas suits. Pete searches the crowd for the solo boy, but there’s no sign of him.

Then, one door opens just a crack, and the blond boy slips into the room, eyes downcast and hands stuffed into his pockets. He’s an odd contrast with the well-groomed boys in the choir; his blond hair is a bit too long and extremely mussed, with fine strands floating around his head like a halo. His hair has the floppy, shapeless look of an overgrown buzz cut that will soon be hacked off again. For now, Pete’s happy with the shagginess.

The kid’s even more underdressed than Pete; he obviously wasn’t expecting to make a public appearance out of his choir robes. He’s wearing a pair of giant, baggy black pants with a chain hanging from the waistline and an overlarge black Pantera shirt that highlights his skinny chest.

Huh, Pete thinks in surprise, The angelic soloist turns out to be a metalhead, eh? I guess it just goes to show that you never can tell…

The boy’s obviously just as lost as Pete; he’s wandering about awkwardly, staring up anxiously at the sea of people towering over his tiny frame. He passes by Pete, turns to look at him curiously, and, to Pete’s surprise, flashes him a weak smile.

“Hi,” the boy calls out, his speaking voice surprisingly soft. Pete expected more from the kid’s astonishing singing.

“Hey,” Pete mumbles hoarsely, searching desperately for something to say as the kid approaches.

“I liked your solo,” Pete blurts out as the boy comes to stand in front of him. “You have a really good voice.”

“Oh…thanks,” the boy says, pale cheeks flushing a deep fuchsia. Pete feels his heart do a weird little flip flop. “I’m not much of a singer, really…” The boy trails off and looks at his black-sneakered feet.

“You were good,” Pete says bluntly, all the while wishing he could come up with a better way to put it.

“My name’s Patrick,” the kid says quietly, a faint smile gracing his face. “What’s yours?”

“Pete,” Pete grunts.

“Cool,” Patrick says happily, his smile widening and pushing his chubby cheeks back until they half obscure his eyes. It’s quite possibly the most adorable smile Pete has ever seen. “How old are you?”

“Um…fifteen,” Pete admits. Then he wonders why he was just so embarrassed.

“I’m thirteen,” Patrick announces proudly.

And his voice hasn’t even started to change yet, Pete observes dryly. Poor kid. On the other hand, Pete knows that the day that Patrick’s voice cracks will be the day that heaven loses one of its angels.

“I…haven’t seen you around here before,” Pete ventures, unsure of what to say.

“We just joined,” Patrick shrugs, burying his hands in his pockets again. “Mom got sick of our last church. We don’t seem to stay at any one church for too long.”

“That’s…too bad,” Pete says helplessly.

“I hope we stay here,” Patrick smiles, glancing at the happy crowd of people around them. “It’s nice here.”

“Yeah,” Pete gulps. An odd lump is building in his throat, and it’s hard to force words out around it. “Yeah, it is.”

“Patrick?”

Pete’s heart leaps into his throat as Patrick turns and smiles at a short, dark-haired woman hurrying towards them. She has Patrick’s nose and eyes, so Pete assumes that he’s about to meet his new friend’s mother.

“Hi, mom,” Patrick says brightly.

“Goodness, where have you been?” his mother asks, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, this is Pete,” Patrick tells her, flashing Pete a smile. “He liked my solo.”

“That was sweet of you, dear,” Patrick’s mom says to Pete. “He was so nervous, you know.”

“Mom!”

Pete forces a smile as Patrick glares at his laughing mother.

“You really were good,” Pete says weakly.

“Thanks,” Patrick grins.

“It was nice meeting you, Pete,” Patrick’s mom says kindly, “But we really have to go.”

“Aw, moooom,” Patrick whines.

“I’m sorry, honey. Maybe you two can talk more later, okay?”

“Okay,” Patrick sighs before turning back to Pete. “Bye, Pete! See you around.”

“Yeah,” Pete mumbles as Patrick’s mother leads her son away. “See you.”




Pete’s eyes shoot open, and he finds himself staring blankly at the ceiling of his bunk. He glances at his watch. One thirty. But he’s got to tell someone what he’s just remembered.

Tumbling out of his bunk with a thump, Pete slides across the bus’s floor in his socked feet and reaches up to poke at the lump behind the curtains of Patrick’s bunk.

“Patrick!” he hisses when the lump doesn’t move. “Patrick! Patrick! Patrick! Patrick! PatrickPatrickPatrickPatrickPatrickPatrickPatrickPatrickPatrickPatrickPa-”

“Whuuh?” Patrick grunts, shoving aside his curtain and blinking at Pete with sleep-heavy eyes.

“I have something really, really important to tell you!” Pete says excitedly, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Um…okay,” Patrick yawns, running a hand through his hair. “Shoot.”

Pete bounds up into Patrick’s bunk, settling himself on his best friend’s sheets without invitation just because he’s an asshole like that.

“Okay, so you know how when we met for the first time,” Pete begins breathlessly, “One of the first things I said to you was-”

“‘Have we met somewhere before?’” Patrick choruses with him, a faint smile on his lips. “Yeah, I remember.” He picks his glasses off the narrow, junk-covered ledge beside his bunk, slides his glasses onto his nose, and sits up, drawing his legs in their plaid pajama pants up to his chest.

“Kind of funny,” Patrick muses, eyes fixed on his kneecaps, “That one of the first things you ever said to me is commonly used as a pick-up line.”

“Yeah, well, I think I just remembered where I’d seen you,” Pete says, ignoring that comment for the moment. “Were you ever in a church choir?”

Patrick thinks for a few seconds, then nods slowly. “Yeah. When I was pretty young…thirteen, I think. And only for a year, before my mom decided to switch churches again.”

“Did you ever have a solo?” Pete demands, his heart thumping.

“Yeah…yeah, I did,” Patrick says thoughtfully. “At Christmas. It was in Latin. God, I think I still remember the words to that song…”

“Laudate dominum omnes gentes,” they say together, voices vibrating with the harmonies of a half-remembered melody.

Patrick looks at Pete with curious eyes. “Wait, how do you know…” He trails off, and Pete’s relieved to see a light of recognition flicker on in Patrick’s gray eyes.

“I remember you,” Patrick says happily, his smile still just as adorable as it was when he was thirteen. “From…from that little party thing! You said you liked my solo!”

Pete nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“That’s so weird,” Patrick laughs, leaning his head back against the back wall of his bunk.

“Yeah,” Pete says again.

“Coincidences...” Patrick says faintly, a huge yawn swallowing half of the word. Pete watches as his friend’s eyes flutter closed and his body slides slowly down the wall until he’s lying flat on his bed. Patrick pulls his sheets up to his shoulders and buries his face in his pillow, a faint sigh escaping his throat.

Pete clasps his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling of Patrick’s bunk. This is the first time he’s been in here; normally Patrick’s too shy to allow anyone else into his private little sanctuary. Now Pete wants to stay here forever; he’s falling in love with the bunk’s warm darkness and the ambient smell of Patrick. The air smells of warm skin, laundry detergent, and the strawberry shampoo Patrick uses, with a touch of the licorice he munches on whenever he thinks no one’s watching.

Just like the best candy store in the world, Pete thinks sleepily, breathing in deeply. Turning on his side, he sees his blond singing angel fast asleep, a faint smile on his sainted lips. His glasses are askew and his hair’s rumpled, and Pete’s never seen him so adorable.

Inadvertently, Pete’s hand darts out, and his treacherous fingers gently stroke a golden strand of Patrick’s hair. One of Patrick’s eyes flickers open, and he gives Pete a one-eyed stare through his fair eyelashes.

“What’s up?” Patrick asks in a voice so soft it’s barely a whisper.

“Nothing,” Pete shrugs. “You’re pretty.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow, and Pete feels his cheeks warm as he curses himself for letting those latter two words slip out.

“Thank you,” Patrick says graciously, a faint smile hitching up one corner of his mouth. “You’re pretty, as well.”

“You’re too kind,” Pete responds in a gentlemanly tone that makes Patrick’s smile widen.

“I’m tired,” Patrick announces, breaking the silence that has formed.

“That’s nice, Lunchbox,” Pete yawns.

“Didn’t I ask you not to call me that?” Patrick asks with a faint frown.

“Yeah,” Pete says unconcernedly. “You did.”

A pause stretches into a silence as Patrick sighs and tosses and turns and tries to pound his pillow into a better shape.

“Uncomfortable, Lunchbox?” Pete asks lazily, casting a glance sideways as Patrick punches at his pillow uselessly.

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, flopping backwards onto his still-uncomfortable pillow. “Pillow’s not cooperating tonight.”

“Try a more comfortable one, then,” Pete suggests airily.

“Where am I gonna-” Patrick breaks off as he catches Pete’s eye.

“Oh,” he says faintly, a blush spreading over his cheeks.

“Only if you want, Trick,” Pete shrugs, afraid that he’s gone too far too quickly.

“Um…” Patrick chews his plump lower lip in indecision. “On second thought, that doesn’t really sound too bad…”

Pete smiles and offers his shoulder to his best friend. Tentative as a butterfly on a flower, Patrick slides gingerly over and rests his head gently in the little hollow between Pete’s chest and shoulder.

“Better?”

A shudder runs up Patrick’s back as he feels Pete’s low voice vibrating beside his head.

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes, voice sticking in his throat as he turns on his side and settles himself more comfortably beside the older boy.

“See? Don’t I make a better pillow than your pillow?” Pete asks softly. A smile spreads over his face as he feels Patrick’s chest shake slightly with a laugh.

“Much better,” Patrick grins. A thrill spreads across his scalp as he feels Pete’s fingers return to stroking his hair. When he was a kid, he hated it when people touched his hair, but somehow Pete manages to make it feel alright, even nice.

“You had a pretty voice even when you were a kid, Lunchbox,” Pete says quietly.

“You were a weird bastard even when you were a kid, Emoface,” Patrick retorts sleepily.

“Ouch, Trick,” Pete laughs softly. “Where’d Emoface come from?”

“It’s my new obnoxious nickname for you,” Patrick mumbles, snuggling closer to Pete.

“How very original of you,” Pete says dryly. “Honestly, I’d think you could come up with something cuter. I myself prefer Pete the Panda.”

“You’ve been reading fan fiction online again, haven’t you?” Patrick sighs.

“As a matter of fact, I have, Patty Boy,” Pete smirks. “What’s it to you? Isn’t Panda cute?”

“Sure it is, Pete,” Patrick laughs. Pete glances sideways and sees that his eyes are closed.

“Come on,” Pete persists. “You know you think it’s cute. You know you want to call me Panda.”

“If you insist,” Patrick says sleepily, “Panda.”

“That’s more like it, Lunchbox,” Pete smiles, leaning his head forward slightly so that his nose is just touching Patrick’s hair.

There’s a pause, and Patrick starts to drift off to sleep again.

“Uh.”

“What is it, Pete?”

“One more time? Please?”

Patrick chuckles slightly, the vibration sending shivers across Pete’s chest.

“All right. Good night, Panda.”

“Good night, Tricky.”

Patrick nestles his face deeper into Pete’s chest, and one arm slings itself around the older boy’s waist. Pete buries his fingers deep in Patrick’s soft hair and lets his eyes droop shut.

A last smile slides onto Pete’s face as he sees thirteen-year-old Patrick’s face floating behind his eyes, smiling happily.

“I hope we stay here,” young Patrick says inside Pete’s head. “It’s nice here.”

Yes it is, Patrick Pete thinks with a smile. Yes, it is.