simp[leigh]

The Flower Shop AU

pfor — Sun, 25 May 2008 23:40:29 GMT

Title: The Flower Shop AU
Pairing: PxP, implied Panic GSF
Dedication: Written for angelcakes694 for her birthday. This is kind of belated xD
Author's Note: The little town is based off of my hometown.

The local flower shop was at the very end of Main Street--well, not the very end, but the end of everything that was important. The only thing past the flower shop in Spring Waters was a gas station and a fireworks shop, the latter of which was only open half of the year. Needless to say, it wasn’t a very big town.

Patrick Stump was twenty-four and he owned the flower shop in a completely unironic way--it had been his mother’s shop and it was left to him when she died the previous year. He was taking a break from college to keep the shop until someone finally showed some interest in the faded “Help Wanted” sign so he could take the half hour commute to the technical college the next town over.

Most days, Patrick was even surprised at how much business he got. It was a little strange--being the only full-time worker at the small shop. But he got all of the orders for local weddings, bridal showers, birthdays, parties, etc. When he was particularly busy, he could normally get Brendon from the smoothie shop, sometimes Ryan, to come and help him.

Their little eatery, Panic it’s a Disco, was the only ‘hip’ establishment in town---there was no mall, not even a Starbucks. It was owned by four guys who had graduated just a little bit after him. They were in a similar position to Patrick--only Ryan had had the store renovated, clearing out mostly everything that was left of the pub-style restaurant that his father had owned, with the rest of his inheritance. Ryan and his three best friends were the only workers at the shop, and they lived above it in the attic that most of the small buildings in the Main Street strip had. They were good neighbors, and the only complaint Patrick had ever heard about them was the neighbors on the other side (it was an old mini-department store, stuffed up ladies mostly) of the shop because they would sometimes get a little loud when they pulled out their instruments every Tuesday and Friday night.

Really, Patrick can’t see why Ryan wanted so badly to keep it. Ryan didn’t have any particularly good memories of the tavern, Patrick assumed--the only reason Patrick was even keeping the flower shop was because, he lived above it and he had lived their for his whole life before he moved out to college, then dropped out and came back home when his mom was diagnosed. He couldn’t even fathom selling the shop, even though he stared at the map in his room every night--with Chicago starred and push-pin marked.

________________________________________________________________________

“How about you get him a cactus?” Three boys were sitting in Panic it’s a Disco on a hot summer evening, sipping (or just holding) their smoothies (in clever black and white checkered cups with dome tops), lounging around. The one who had spoken was excessively tall (and skinny) with short dark hair and well tanned skin.

A shorter man scowled, “I am sure if Patrick wants a cactus, he could order a better cactus than I could buy him around here.”
“For serious Gabe.” A second lanky man with short-ish brown hair said, jokingly, “Pete, you should just run on in there and profess your undying love for the man and kiss him. It’ll be totally romantic.”

“Until I start coughing, my throat closes up and I die.” Pete hisses out, glaring and thinking something along the lines that Gabe and William were really not helping.

“You’re being melodramatic.” William shrugs, taking the last sip of his smoothie before hopping up and sauntering over to the counter. “Jonny Walker~ can I have another?”

One of the boys behind the counter raised a skeptical eye, “Do you ever intend on actually paying for one?”

William rolled his eyes, “I’m the one who brought him to you! Come on Jon, please?”

“You totally have to sing with me tonight then~!” One of the boys chirped from behind the counter.

“Brendon, sing your own vocals. People are gonna start thinking William’s actually in the band.”

“Hey, hey--no fair Ryan. I sing your lyrics. Sometimes I just want some Disney duets, and William is perfect for those! Come on Jon, make him his smoothie--I really want to sing ‘A Whole New World’ tonight!”

Jon stood up, chuckling at Brendon (whom was very hard to resist when pulling the pouty face) and getting up to make William another smoothie.

“Can we focus on my dilemma here?” Pete yelled from his own booth.

“I think he would like a cactus.”

“No, Just no.”

“Get him a hat.”

Pete twisted his head around to Ryan, who was now leaning on the counter, reading some music magazine.

“He’s always wearing one.” Ryan explained, “And that way you don’t have to die and he gets something he really likes.”

“Aww, thanks Ry--I didn’t know you cared about me~”

“I don’t. You just keep us in business.” Ryan shrugged, turning the page nonchalantly, shrugging at Pete’s injured look, “What? You bring all the little fan girls and those two. One of these days they’re going to have to pay us, and we are taking their tab seriously, just ask Spencer.”

Gabe was actually kind of scared of Spencer sometimes (mostly just when discussing his and William‘s epic tab), because he pulled a wicked bitchface and Ryan totally knew that or he wouldn’t have threatened him in such a manner, so Gabe felt no need to ask whether or not Spencer was keeping the tab. He knew.

______________________________

“I didn’t say I was going to come hat shopping with you.” Ryan said, as they sift through the hats in the mall, about forty minutes away from Spring Waters.

“You’re here, dude.”

Ryan was quiet, but picked up a fedora with a fucking flower on it and showed it to Pete. “How about this one?”

“If he wants a flower on his fedora, he can put a flower on his fedora. But in the mean time I am not going to be reminded of why I can’t just rush into his shop and ravish him until he says he’ll go out with me!”

“Now you’re being melodramatic.” Ryan groaned, rolling his eyes at Pete, then plucked the flower off of the hat and handed it to Pete, “He’ll like it.”

For Ryan’s “expert fashion advice” Pete ended up buying Ryan a new vest, and lunch before they went back to Spring Waters.

_____________________________

That Friday night the smoothie shop was packed. Patrick closed up the flower shop and slipped in before the crowd got too big, and he got a place up front, like he usually did. Spencer was on, and the crowd was a little rowdier than usual (school had just let out for the summer) so he was grinning so wide. Jon was standing on top of his flip flops and rocking back and forth as he played, Ryan kept on walking over to Brendon and Brendon was singing his heart out and they were on.

Patrick was grinning back at them, laughing as William bounced up on stage the third song in to sing “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” with Brendon while the other guys grabbed something to drink. After that song, during Brendon’s breather, Patrick was startled by an abrupt sneeze right behind him. Patrick turned around and there was, what would you know, Pete Wentz. The guy had a shit-eating grin on his face as he pulled Patrick’s hat off of his head, swiftly replacing it with a new one.

“For you.” He grinned, putting the other hat on the table in front of Patrick. He turned away and sneezed again, sniffling a little.

Patrick was, of course, red faced and a little confused. “Are you okay?” He asked.

Pete shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “I’m allergic to flowers.”

“Oh--umm, sorry.” Patrick said, about to move away--because, really, it was Pete Wentz and he was already embarrassed enough by the hat.

“No, no--” Pete said, grabbing Patrick’s arm as he tried to get up and move. “I was wondering if you might want to go out and get some coffee or something, see a show?”

Patrick ducked his head a little, he was totally on the spot and Brendon was gesturing wildly across the counter at him and people were starting to stare.

“Well, we’re already at a show.” Patrick said, gesturing to the seat next to him, “So maybe we can get some coffee later.”</div>

disturbia [ 2/5]

pfor — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 00:20:48 GMT

title. my mind holds the key
pairing. pxp (like my mind knows something else), implied petexryan
rating. r, overall, a later chapter may be nc-17.
summary. Patrick has just moved to the middle of nowhere, from Chicago, as his parents try to save their marriage. In suburbia, he meets Pete Wentz--his 'vicious' next door neighbor who's under house arrest.
author's note's. I do not like this story anymore. I will finish it, but it's too Romeo and Juliet esque--it rushes into things WAY too quickly. Umm, yeah. That is all.

"Patrick?"

   "That's some greeting, Pete." Patrick muttered into the receiver, rolling his eyes as he opened the flaps of the box on top of the last stack to be unpacked, "What do you want? It's practically midnight, I have school tomorrow, asshat."

   "Dude, what the fuck? I've called you like, every night this week."

   "Yeah, generally earlier though."

   "Whatever, you totally don't care."

   Patrick rolled his eyes, and went over to his window, peeking through the blinds. "Fucking stalker. Do you have to sit at that window with those obnoxious binoculars every time you call me?"

   "Come on, just pull them up, 'Trick."

   Patrick bit at his lip, "No way. I'm about to go to bed, Pete. Listen I'll come by after school tomo--"

   "I wanna see you."

   Patrick furrowed his eyebrows and looked out across the gap towards Pete's Window, but he couldn't see anything but the glint of the binoculars and know Pete was behind them.

   "Why?" Patrick asked.

   "Fuck, Patrick--just open your damned window." Pete growled out. A chill ran down Patrick's spine and he bit his lip before grabbing the cord for the window, opening it and reaching up to click the switch so that the blinds wouldn't fall back down.

   "Pete?" Patrick asked, thoroughly confused until a light moan slipped through the speaker and a tinge of red crossed Patrick's face.

   "Shit Patrick--say something, keep talking--do something, anything."

   "What the fuck Pete?"

   "Touch yourself." Pete growled through the phone line.

   Patrick turned red, and he choked out his next words, "I have school tomorrow, Pete, I have to go to bed."

   "Patrick . . ."

   Patrick groaned softly, he wasn’t doing this. He couldn’t be doing this. He was not doing this. Something low in his stomach at the short breathes over the receiver was making him believe otherwise though. Pete growled out some unintelligible mess, voice getting lower and then--

   “I want to touch you. I want to taste you and touch your skin, fucking soft and pale.” He hissed out, groaning softly into the receiver again.

   “Fuck,” Patrick hissed softly, “Pete--you can’t just do that to--”

   Pete hissed something low that turned Patrick even redder, his pants uncomfortable.

   Patrick shifted, awkwardly.

   “Come on, Patrick. Just do this for me.”

   Patrick’s face couldn’t get much redder, he had shifted the phone so it was held to his ear by his shoulders--trailing his hands low and undoing the button on his pants, dragging the zipper down and wiggling out of his jeans, and pushing them down past his knees before stepping out of them.

   “Boxers too.”

   “Shit, Pete.” He slipped his thumbs under the waist band, eyes darting up to make contact with the binoculars through the windows. He sighed softly and pushed them down before sitting back on the bed.

   “Touch yourself.” Pete said, with as much authority as he could considering what he was doing and how his voice sounded and Patrick couldn’t say that hearing his voice so rough and low and barking out orders wasn’t doing things to him, because it was.

   Patrick let his head fall back against the wall, slumping comfortably against it and wrapping his hand around his cock, groaning softly.

   “God, gorgeous.” Pete grumbles as Patrick starts moving his hand, and Patrick can hear a distinctive, strangled moan and the rest is just a blur of more noises and grunts (his own, at that point) and then slow, lingering goodnights.

***

   Patrick does like he promised and does go to see Pete after school the next day. Both of their parents are at work, so the first thing that Pete does is pull Patrick in the door and push him against the door and kiss him so hard both of them are gasping for breath when they finally part.

   Then they go watch Spongebob, because Pete’s mom cancelled Fuse and the movie channels and nothing better is on. Patrick’s tired from school, and he halfheartedly tells Pete the gossip before half napping on his shoulder until he has to go home before his mom starts calling him.

***

   “Hey, Patrick!” Patrick shoves a book into his locker and closes it, and turns to look at Joe, “So, you’re parents are out of town this weekend, right?”

   Patrick regrets telling Joe this, because if he knows anything about 90’s sitcoms, then he knows exactly what’s happening next. Patrick doesn’t want to even begin to think about what’s going to happen if Joe says the words that Joe says next.

   “Let’s throw a party.”

   So Patrick shrugged, and said yes because he knew he would never live it down if he didn’t agree.

***

   “Joe is throwing a party at my house tomorrow.” Patrick says to Pete, that Thursday, when he slings his backpack down against the armchair in Pete’s room, and plops down on it.

   “What?” Pete responds, a delay evident as he takes his other iPod headphone out of his ear, listening to Patrick completely now--an incredulous look on his face.

   Patrick shrugs, “Joe is throwing a part at my house tomorrow. There will be people there.”

   “Who?” Pete asks, and Patrick can’t quite pinpoint whether that was curiosity or something more.

   “Oh, just Joe’s friends I guess, and then everyone that comes with them. Travis, Spencer, Brendon, Ryan--”
   Pete makes a face at that, and Patrick catches him, “What?”

   “I can’t believe you’re throwing a party with those kids, what--planning on getting lucky or something, Stump?”

   Patrick’s jaw drops, almost comically, and he narrows his eyes. “What the fuck Pete?”

   “I asked if you were planning on getting lucky? Those are the kids to hang out with if you are, you know!” Pete shot out, clearly jealous and so many other things that Patrick was too mad to see.

   “Fuck you Pete, maybe I am!” Patrick hissed out, grabbing his backpack, and then going by Pete’s desk, just to grab his binoculars before storming out of the house. Patrick drops them in the bush, just outside of Pete’s range on his way back to his house. Pete calls him ten times that night and Patrick shuts all his blinds and keeps his light off and never answers.

***

   The next night the music starts early. Patrick and Joe are laughing over CD’s and play list’s that are spewing out of the speakers Joe brought, flooding the pool area of the back yard with sound. Cars start pulling up, people start spewing out. Patrick is the life of the party and Pete is practically scowling from his watch point behind the bushes.

   Patrick is walking the walk and talking the talk--just like all of the popular kids, and he’s got such a fake smile plastered onto his face--and Pete just knows Patrick knows he’s watching him flirt with pretty much everyone who goes his way. And he knows that for sure when Patrick pulls Ryan aside to talk, and they end up making out, not five minutes later.

   And so Pete pulled out the leaf blower, cranking it up with some effort and then aiming it in the direction of the party.

   As predicted, Patrick came over to his house, yelling at him and getting closer to him before Pete finally turned it off. “Hey, hey--Patrick just--come on, just come upstairs--just for a minute.” He hissed out.

   And Patrick does, just to get Pete to shut up and quit talking, they’re both silent on the way upstairs, and it’s very tense. When they finally reach Pete’s room . . .

   That’s when the yelling starts.

   “What the fuck!?” Pete yelled, “Why were you making out with Ryan?”

   “Maybe I actually want some one who I can go out with.”

   “Like fuck he’s going to go out with you!”

   Patrick punched him, and Pete launched himself back at Patrick, and they went back and forth back and forth--rolling around and wrestling and screaming at each other. And Pete kissed Patrick and it was hard and bitter at first, all teeth and sharp bites and clawing at skin.

   But after a little while, the tension and the anger melted away, and they clambered up, Pete helping Patrick onto the bed, kissing him hot, wet, and passionate. “Want you.” Pete muttered against his mouth, “Please.” And Patrick hesitated for a few moments, before he pulled Pete’s shirt away, Pete starting to work on Patrick’s belt, undoing it. Patrick shimmied his hips a little, getting out of his pants.

    “Pete.” Patrick groaned, softly, “Pete, I--I have to get back to the party--” He muttered, groaning softly.

    “Come on, ‘Trick, please.”

    “No, I don’t want you to get in trouble-”

    “Pe--”

    Pete shifted his hand, cupping Patrick’s crotch, grinning softly as Patrick moaned.

    “What the hell?”

    Patrick’s head snapped towards the door--and his eyes were wide as he stared at Ryan in the doorway. He scrambled away, grabbing his discarded jeans and covering up with them, the best he could. Pete just turns around a little, looking at Ryan.

    “Hey Ry.”

    “What the hell is going on here Pete?! Are you two fucking?”

    “That’s none of your business.” Pete replied coldly, “Get out of my house, please, Ry.” He said, “You’re kind of ruining--”

    “Fuck that, what about us?”

    Patrick looks confusedly, “What do you mean what about ‘us?’” He asked.

    “Pete and I were together!” Ryan hissed out, and Patrick looks kind of betrayed for a moment, but he hadn’t seen heads or tails of Ryan around here.

    “Obviously not.” Patrick scoffed, defensively, “I haven’t seen you on this block since I moved here! You can’t be a very good boyfriend.”

    And Ryan narrows his eyes, “Fuck you Pete! I thought you and I --”

    Pete narrowed his eyes, “Get out of my house Ryan, you thought wrong.” He said, firmly.

    And Ryan narrows his eyes and spits something out under his breath, and he glares at Pete and then at Patrick. He’s livid, anger running around behind his eyes and under his skin, “I’m going to fucking destroy you.” He wheels around, and storms out.

    Patrick just sits there for a moment, silently, before standing up. He puts his pants back on--red faced and embarrassed. “I trusted you Pete.” he said softly, “You should’ve told me about him--you should’ve handle this.”

    “Patrick--I--you have to listen to me--!”

    “The only thing that I have to do is go home.” Patrick replied shortly, cutting a glance back at Pete before turning out the door.

    “Patrick! You can’t just leave!” Pete hissed out, hopping up, running to catch up to Patrick, he grabbed Patrick’s arm and tried to pull him back, to get leverage and find out how to fix it.

    “Will you leave me alone? I don’t want to hear how you used to go out with Ryan fucking Ross and how I was just some fuck.” Patrick snarled jerking away and hurrying down the steps, grabbing his bag and then going to open the front door, “So you can just erase my number, and forget you even knew me when you get back to school.”

    “No! You’ve got it all wrong. He wouldn’t even be seen with me outside of school, he didn’t come to visit me at--”

    “I don’t want to hear it Pete!” Patrick yelled out, storming down the walk way and out the gate, towards his house.

    “Patrick I don’t care about him like I do about you!”

    Patrick wasn’t even listening.</div>

disturbia au, pxp [1/4]

pfor — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 03:41:14 GMT

title. my mind holds the key
pairing. pxp (like my mind knows something else), implied petexryan
rating. r, overall, a later chapter may be nc-17.
summary. Patrick has just moved to the middle of nowhere, from Chicago, as his parents try to save their marriage. In suburbia, he meets Pete Wentz--his 'vicious' next door neighbor who's under house arrest.
author's note's. Originally intended to be a one shot, this got out of control. I decided to make it a mini-chapter fic. Inspired by the movie Disturbia, and some elements from the movie will be present. Except for the serial killer. Many, many, many thanks to both angelcakes694 and lkd_n_gabesbsmt for various AIM conversations and help at various points in time!

x-posted to communities later, in the morning. also, if there are any mistakes, i'll fix those in the morning--just be kind f-list so please point them out.

        "Patrick, honey, there is something we need to tell you about our new neighborhood."

   The teenager rolled his eyes, his face still squashed up against the cool glass of the back seat in the SUV that was beginning to pull into a residential area--away from the strip of what this place apparently called "Main Street." Patrick was far from impressed with what he had seen.

   "Yes ma'am." He said, giving the signal for his mother to continue with her worried tone.

   "Next door--well, there's a boy under house arrest. I think he got into a scuffle with one of his teachers. Now, I don't want you getting near him. There's no telling what he would do to someone his own age."

   "Yes ma'am, I will stay away from the blood thirsty boy living next door to us in suburbia." Patrick said with a sigh of frustration. He had his fingers crossed out of his parents line of sight, childishly. He was pissed enough at them for dragging him out of Chicago to this little shit town.

   "Patrick." His father warned, and Patrick mumbled out an apology as they pulled into the drive way of a two-story completely respectable and three-times too big house. The moving van pulled up right in front of the yard, and everyone started pulling out of their seat-belts and cars. Patrick grabbed his duffel-bag and laptop case and informed his parents that he remembered which room was his and he took the walk way to the back of the house--taking the black metal stairs towards the back room on the second floor.

   He looked to the house next door, over the shrubs, and could have sworn he saw a teenage-sized blur pass by the open window.

***

   "Do you need some help with that?" Patrick was very amused at his neighbors current situation. The "blood thirsty boy" was currently bending his arm at an odd angle trying to reach his mailbox--that had an oddly sized package sticking out of it.

   "No." He replied with a grimace as he grabbed the corner of the package leaning forward just a little more. A loud beeping emitted from behind the shrub and the boy leaned forward quickly grabbing the package and jerking back, disappearing for a moment before his head popped back up again. "You're the new neighbor."

   Patrick nodded, "And you're the blood thirsty teacher-puncher that my Mom warned me about."

   The tan boy laughed bitterly, a bit of a grin slipping over his lips, "Yeah, that's me. Pete. Care to divulge a name for me?"

   "I dunno." Patrick shrugged, "My mom told me not to talk to you."

   Pete chuckled again, this time much more lightheartedly, "Oh, yeah. And every teenage boy who gets dragged out to Suburbia always listens to his mom."

   Patrick grinned in response, "Patrick from Chicago. I hate this place, frankly. I'm just glad that I don't have to go to school until after the Winter break is over."

   "Haha. I've still got two months out of that hell hole. Before I get a load of shit from my ex-ex-bestfriend about punching his cousin."

   "Wait--ex-ex-bestfriend . . . wouldn't that mean you're friends again?"

   "No. It means that we're not even ex-bestfriends anymore. We've stooped down to the level of being mortal enemies until next year when we forget the whole thing and laugh and go out and grafitti behind the shitty bar on the bad end of Main Street."

   "Main Street isn't big enough to have a shitty end." Patrick said, flatly.

   "Oh-ho-ho. You have a lot to learn about small town life. Oh, hey, you know what--your mom is down the street." He said, squinting. "Hey--hey, got a cell phone?"

   "Yeah. Why?"

   "I want your number new kid, duh." He said, rolling his eyes. Patrick chuckled softly and gave him his number and then tore off up the drive way.

***

   "Patrick from Chicago, is this you?"

   Patrick laughed and made himself more comfortable in his chair at his desk, "Yeah, this is me. Is this the blood thirsty next door neighbor?"

   "Yup, that's me. So, hey. Look outside of your window. No--not that one. The other one. Yeah, facing my house."

   "Dude, that's fucking creepy." Patrick looked over, leaning a little bit and squinting--he could see a vaguely-Pete shaped blur with what looked like binoculars.

   "Maybe. D'you wanna come over to my house for pizza and a movie tomorrow?"

   Patrick paused for a moment--not quite sure if he was hearing right. "I dunno--You are a blood thirsty teenager. That can't be safe for me--besides tomorrow is Saturday. I do have new school friends you know.."

   "Oh whatever. But, Yeah, maybe not. You can lock up all the kitchen knives if you want too." Pete chuckled through the slightly fuzzy phone signal. "Seriously dude. I have blankets and hot chocolate."

   "What exactly?"

   "Do I have to spell it out for you, new kid?" Pete chuckled, "I'm asking you on a date--but I can't exactly leave my house for, like, a month and a half and I really don't want to wait that long to ask you."

   Patrick couldn't help but turn a little red, "I gave you my number, like, two weeks ago."

   "Yeah, but the thing is--you're cute and you look pretty damn straight. I spent all of that convincing myself that it was a good idea to call you."

   He smiled a little. "Yeah, sure. What time?"

   "Umm, my Mom's out for the rest of the weekend at some kind of convention--so anytime is cool for me. You?"

   "Heh. My Mom has no clue if I'm here or not." Patrick said, rolling his eyes, "But dude--it's totally sketchy that you're inviting me when you're home alone."

   Patrick could almost hear Pete's smug grin, "Yeah. But seriously, you can trust me."

***

   The movie ended up being more of them talking--about music and songs and Suburbia, and then, hey--there were ending credits in the background.

   Patrick was a little stunned when the music started playing--he didn't realize that much time had passed, it was only five-thirty, but as the Winter months were, the sun was already pretty low.

   "Wow. Dude, you're totally stealing away my un-packing time." Patrick complained, half-heartedly.

   Pete rolled his eyes, grinning bright and wide in a way that Patrick realized he did when something really amused him. Pete was pretty easy to read, but Patrick had a feeling there would never cease to be something new for him to learn about how to read Pete. There was just something about him.

   "So, new kid. Am I safe enough for you?"

   "I'm pretty sure you're not going to pull out a knife on me."

   "Can I test my limits?"

   "What do you mean?"

   "Tell me when I'm not safe." Pete replied, shifting on the couch so he was closer to Patrick, and Patrick instinctively pushed back into the couch as Pete leaned forward, tilting his head and breathing on Patrick's neck.

   Patrick took a moment, "Safe."

   Pete trailed his nose up Patrick's throat, moving his head and ghosting his lips over Patrick's jaw bone, until they were right over Patrick's lips.

   "Safe." He whispered, softly, barely opening his lips to say the words before Pete was kissing him, for the first few moments soft and light--but Patrick's lips parted around the word once again and then Pete had no restraints--kissing him hard and fast, shifting so Patrick was on his back and Pete was leaning over him.

   Suddenly Patrick's phone started ringing from his pocket, a distinctive continuous chorus of "Dun dun dun." Pete pulled back and chuckled a little, letting Patrick pull his phone out of his pocket, flipping it open and putting it to his ear.

   "Hey Mom, yeah. I'm just walking around, yeah. I'll be fine. No, you don't have to come and get me from anywhere. I'll be home soon, promise. Bye." He said, closing his phone, turning back to Pete red faced, "Umm. Sorry about that." He laughed nervously.

   "Yeah, Mom's ruin everything." He said, softly, leaning back down, pressing his lips against Patrick's again, "You still have to tell me when I'm in a danger zone." He chuckled.

   "You are now, Pete. If I'm not home, Mom will tell Dad and then Dad will freak out and life will be horrible."

   Pete scrunched his nose up, "You're such a goody-two-shoes." He said grinning, "So, you should totally come over again tomorrow."

   "I can't." Patrick said, "I really have to get some packing undone. I hate boxes piled up in my room. I really want to get everything knocked out."

   "I'd help you if I could." Pete said, laughing a little.

   "I don't really think that you would."
</div>

this week on viva la cobra . . .

pfor — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 02:31:18 GMT

a little snippet written while waiting on patrick to make his tv appearance on law and order.

this is based off of the little spot on mtv with the viva la cobra stuff. the pregnancy one. i'm not going to post it in any comm's cause it's so short so no proper format.

"guys, i'm pregnant."
cobra starship.
pg-13 for mentions of sex.

“I think I’m pregnant.” There was a moment of silence, “What does this say? What does a plus mean?” he asked, shoving a piece of paper at Ryland as he stared at the pregnancy test.

“A plus means positive, pregnant. Are you late . . .?” Ryland asked, looking at Gabe.

The silence was longer, they shuffled around a little.

“How can this be?”

Gabe bit his lip, sighing and looking around awkwardly. “Ummm.”

“Well--who was the last person you had sex with?”

Gabe clicked his tongue.

“You got pregnant from the--this is why we should not have band sex!”

“We should’ve never listened to Pete--”

“I hope it’s a girl.”

Everyone looked at Vicky-T blankly.

“Our lead singer is pregnant.”

“And you’re worried about what sex the child will be?”

Vicky T shrugged, “I’m going to go groceries, who’s coming with me?”

Gabe’s eyes lit up brightly.

the most excellent and lamentable tragedy of patrick and peter (oneshot)

pfor — Sun, 30 Dec 2007 23:42:14 GMT

title: The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of Patrick and Peter
pairing: PxP
rating: PG-13
warnings: language, violence, character death
summary: "You belong to the gang, and you say you can't break away"
author's notes: i got bored today. and i just bought "O Valencia!" off of iTunes. "O Valencia!" is a song by the decemberists that this fic is mostly based off. also, this is short and mostly just a writing exercise in preparation for doing some requests and such.

WHEN FIRST, WE LAID EYES
I SWORE TO NO COMPROMISE
TILL I FELT MY CARESS ON YOUR SKIN

    Pete understood why Patrick was always so edgy now, and he didn’t blame him. But the problems were a lot bigger than him understanding Patrick’s near-constant paranoia. Because, see, the thing was--Pete had just found out he and Patrick’s brother were mortal enemies.

    Which, y’know, hey--that was going to make meeting the family interesting.

    And, well, Patrick didn’t really want to be in a gang--and his Dad was dead set on him joining “the family business.”

    “Let’s leave, Pete.” Patrick said, one day, “Let’s get out of Chicago and go some where else, any where else.”

    Pete bit his lip--it wasn’t like he didn’t have connections too (the whole he and Patrick’s brother being mortal enemies, thing). But he was in a position where he could just get up and go if he asked nicely and quickly. Gerard liked him well enough, after all.

    “Okay.” Pete asked the next day, Gerard gave him a car.

***

    They get half way to no where before Patrick breaks down in the middle of a conversation. “Megan told Dad.”

    Pete cursed, loud and angry--turning to Patrick, “What the fuck?”

    “She saw me packing and she said if I left she’d tell Dad. She did. She called me at the last rest stop. They don’t know where we’re going though.”

    “Fuck they do!” Pete snarled, “Your phone’s got GPS-tracking in it dude, they’ll be able to track you down like a rabbit. He pulled off on the next exit and they ditched Patrick’s phone in the open window of an SUV and pulled out onto the high way, Pete looking around anxiously. Patrick sinking down into his seat.

    They spend the next hour and a half, cruising down the interstates like that, nervous and paranoid and unsure where the future is going for them.

        Pete pulls off the highway, finally, and into a gas station. Patrick goes inside to pay and grab some coffee, he comes out with two cups and a receipt sticking out of his pocket. Pete rushes over to meet him, all smiles and big grins because they’re getting away. They haven’t come after Patrick and they can go off and have their relationship to themselves.     He takes a cup of coffee from Patrick, taking a long sip from it before reaching over to press a quick to Patrick’s lips.

    Patrick smiled softly, “We should go start a band somewhere. I’ve always wanted too.”

    “That’d be great.” Pete replied, jovially, taking another drink from his coffee. “We can spread our sappy romantic love over the airwaves.”

    “I’m not singing any lyrics to your goofy love poems, Pete.”

***

    They pulled up to a motel somewhere in some state (they didn’t remember which one, anymore) around two a.m. and checked in. Pete went to go grab their bags while Patrick got the key from the front desk.

    And then things happened insanely fast and all of the sudden Kevin had jumped out of a black SUV with too-tinted windows (how had Pete missed that? He checked to make sure there were no even remotely suspicious looking vehicles) and yelling out his name, angrily--pointing a gun at him and mentioning something about kidnapping Patrick.

    Pete growled a curse, low and under his breath, as he dove behind the car Gerard had given them--leaving their luggage to take a bullet for him while he pulled his gun from beneath his hoodie--standing up just enough so that he could take target at the man responsible for the bullet in his side and the jagged scar on his shoulder.

    “Pete, where the fuck is he?!”

    Pete snarled, looking around anxiously for Patrick. And there he was, making a dart to the door of the motel office--coming out of it with a horrified look on his face. Pete cursed, “Get the fuck out of here!” He yelled out--looking at Kevin but talking to Patrick.

    “Damn you Pete!” Kevin yelled out, and Pete ran out of his cover--distracting him, anything so Patrick would have a few extra seconds to escape, to get away from his brother and the Gang-life.

    But Patrick ran out in front of him, like it was in slow motion , skidding to a halt right in front of Pete before Kevin could stop himself, pulling the trigger.

    Pete reached forward, catching Patrick as his knees buckled and he put a hand in disbelief to his chest--pulling it away slowly, crimson red blood dripping from his fingers. Pete was horrified, shaking numbly as Patrick looked up at him.
    “Patrick--no--”

    “’ts my fault, Petey.” He breathed out, exhaling a shuddering breath--tears (of what, Pete didn’t know) filling his eyes as he looked up, “Love you . . .” He whispered, and Pete cursed, holding him closer.

    “No, Patrick--you fucking stay with me. I can hear the ambulance, someone must have called--Patrick you stay with me.” He hissed out, tears falling as Patrick’s eyes slipped shut.

    Kevin closed in on them, eyes wide in shock and disbelief at who his bullet had hit.

    Pete wrapped his arms around Patrick, head on his shoulder as he cursed and muffled his tears. He was in a gang. Pete Wentz didn’t cry when people died. He killed people and then went on with his life.

    But Patrick was dead.

    And he was crying.

    Because he loved Patrick. And Patrick loved him.

    And Pete didn’t think to put the gun to his chest before the police came.

    He just clutched Patrick as close to him as he could, and wondered if Gerard could get him out of this one--since Kevin was scampering off, back to his expensive tinted SUV--and he had some unfinished business to take care of.

    Pete just pressed his lips to Patrick’s temple and swore that he’d burn the whole city down if it meant he could take his revenge.

</div>

cross my heart and hope to die (epic vampire au) part two, 3/3

pfor — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 04:26:50 GMT

part two of part two

When Pete gets back to the loft, he pushes his way through the door (past Mikey and Alicia, almost knocking him down) and runs up the stairs. He’s never moved that fast in his life or death—nothing but a dark blur.

Patrick is gone. The bed is made and his bag is gone and there isn’t even a whiff of Patrick carried on the breeze through the open windows (all of them are open). There was blood, Patrick’s blood on the floor. It was only a little bit, but still. It was the only area unclean in the room.

Pete’s knees buckled and the next thing he knew he was on the floor and the floor was shaking under the pounding of his fists and the roar of his voice, “DAMN YOU to HELL!!” and other various insults and just growling and roars of frustration—and suddenly there’s Mikey holding his arms behind his back and pinning him to the ground and Alicia with her hand over his mouth.

“What the fuck Pete?” Mikey hissed, “This apartment isn’t built to withstand a temper tantrum, what’s wrong?”

“Your fucking bastard of a brother got him.” Pete snarled, voice nothing more but a low growl against Alicia’s hand as he struggled to break free—sending a glare at Alicia to back off and make Mikey do the same.

Alicia glanced from side to side and took in a deep breath, “Asher told us that you and William were taking him to his house.”

“What?”

“Asher, Victoria.” Alicia snarled the name, “She took him.”

“Gabe was with her, upstairs.” Mikey said, “I can smell him a little, they cleaned up behind themselves . . .”

“Dammit.” She cursed, “I knew something was wrong!”

“Let me go.” Mikey stood up, releasing Pete’s arms and looking over to Alicia, “It’s not your fault.”

“Where did William go?”

“To feed. He couldn’t stand being in a room with Patrick any longer without going to do that, he said.” Alicia said. “We have to go find Patrick.”

Pete turned to Mikey, hopeful, but he stared at the ground—fists clenched. Pete knew what he was thinking about—that Gerard was his brother and he owed him his loyalty. But at the same time, he and Pete were friends.

“Mikey.” Alicia said, softly, and he snapped his head up—looking at her for a long minute. Pete could practically see the gears click into place.

“We’ll both help.” Mikey announced, gliding across the room and sniffing carefully at each of the windows, “Gabe and Vicky T. Maybe someone else? But they never came in.” He paused for a moment, “Why do you think it was Gerard?”

“Why else? He caught me at the pharmacy and told me to keep an eye out on him.” Pete snarled, also sniffing at the window and the door.

Mikey’s lips fell into a grimace, “They wouldn’t have gone to Jersey. We need to go back to the pharmacy and see if we can catch Gerard’s trail. He wouldn’t have bothered to cover it up or take an alternate route. He’s over confident, and will assume we’re behind him.”

***

It had been a sleepless day and night later, and they were just catching Gerard’s trail again (they had lost it for the seventh time hours ago. The damned busy city) and Mikey realized where he was. “His old apartment. He watched the attack from the Twin Towers there. He almost killed himself because he couldn’t do anything about it. He hates wars, but he likes battles and challenges” He explained, “He never goes on that side of town anymore, though.”

“Where is it?” Pete snapped.

Mikey told him the address—and almost couldn’t keep up as Pete darted off.

Pete couldn’t help to be so quick to go after Patrick. His mind flashed back to their conversation (that he remembered so clearly) about hurting each other. Patrick had hurt him a hell of a lot, before and now . . . the only way Patrick could hurt him more was by letting himself get killed.

And he isn’t going to let that happen again.

Because this is different in a million ways from Ryan Ross, that was infatuation as in Romeo and Juliet infatuation. Only Pete hadn’t been a very good actor and filled his part and followed the script.

This? What he had with Patrick was stronger than infatuation or lust. It was love and need that Pete hadn’t felt in an obscene amount of years, if ever. Pete couldn’t live with losing that.

If Patrick died, he would die. But dying was difficult for a vampire, suicide harder. So the only option was to get to Patrick in time.

***

Pete darted up the steps towards the eighteenth floor extremely quickly. Their scent was here—Gabe, Vicky T, Gerard. He was snarling by the time he broke the door knob to the room the trail ended at. He had promised Mikey and Alicia to wait for them (they were a few minutes behind him, finding William) but Patrick was here.

Vicky T looked up from her magazine where she was sitting on an old couch, and licked her lips slightly. She practically bounded up, “Pete! Gabe! Gerard! Pete’s here.”

She smiled, “You finally found us. Gabe is going to be disappointed you came though.”

Pete narrowed her eyes, “Where is he? Where’s Patrick?”

She sighed a little, “He’s in the other room. What’s so special about him, Pete? You promised all of us you weren’t going to interfere in the lives of humans anymore aside from feeding.”

“He’s different.” Pete snapped, “He’s worth breaking a promise or two for.”

She looked like she was considering for a moment. “I think you shouldn’t have come for him. But you did, and since you did it’s a good thing you came now. Gabe’s getting impatient and Gerard is getting bored.”

And as if on cue, the two of them peaked out from the door. Pete was over to the other side of the room in a flash, snarling and growling—fangs bared and fists curled up. “Let me through.”

Gerard grinned and Gabe frowned.

“He smells nice and he’s very pretty.” Gabe began, “But he isn’t anything special. You should drain him and leave a bit for me, maybe.”

“You better be damned glad that you’re not in my coven anymore, Gabe, Victoria. And I know William isn’t going to take so kindly to this, either.”

Gabe shrugged, languidly, “William likes me, Pete, you know that. He won’t be to harsh.”

Pete growled, “Let me through to him, now.” He went rigid when he heard a cough from behind the door. A wave of relief and panic set over him at the exact same time. He was alive, but he was still sick . . .

Gerard shrugged, “Fine. You found us, you deserve that much.”

“Whether or not we’ll let you leave with him . . . is another story.” Gabe said, with a casually small grin, “You threaten our secrecy too much, Peter. He has to be turned or killed, one or the other.”

Pete narrowed his eyes, and pushed past both of them as Gabe moved to the side for him to go in.

“Pete!” Patrick looked horrible (well, he was fine)—skin sickly pale, bags under his eyes, and a scratch across his cheek. Pete was next to him, pulling him into his arms, before Patrick could even think about getting up.

“Oh God, Patrick. I’ve been so fucking worried. Are you okay?” Pete asked, relief flooding over his voice.

“Yeah, for the most part.” Patrick said, voice small. “I feel like shit, Pete.” He said, burying into his arms. “I’m sorry, when they came and got me—I couldn’t get to my gun, and they took it away and last night I just got so weak.”

“Don’t do that to yourself.” Pete snapped, “Keeping you safe is my responsibility, now. And I’m not going to fail at that again.”

Patrick coughed and sighed, “Gerard said they’re not going to let me leave here until you’ve turned me. The other one, Gabe I think? He said that if you take too long they’re going to kill me themselves.”

Pete snarled, “I won’t let that happen.”

“Which one?” Patrick asked, feeling so powerless in the situation. There was nothing he could do to help Pete—they had taken away his gun and it wasn’t like he could call on his company any more.

“I won’t let them lay a hand on you, Patrick.”

“But . . .?”

“Patrick . . . what do you want to do about that?” Pete asked, softly. He hadn’t ever really planned on giving Patrick a choice. But now that they were talking about it . . . he thought of the stories he had heard. What might happen if he didn’t have Patrick’s permission? Pete wouldn’t be able to bear letting him slip out of his fingers.

He coughed, and Pete rubbed his back, comfortingly. “I . . . I love you Peter. What I told Gerard was true. If you want it, I’ll give it to you. No matter what it is. And . . . I want to be with you, and I don’t want you to have to restrain yourself around me. I want every bit of you I can have, but there’s so much I can’t have because I’m human.”

“But would you be happy? I know how you feel about how we have to live . . .”

Patrick paused, “I . . . I could feed from animals. It works—there are—it can be done . . .”

“I don’t know that you’d be able to.” Pete said, softly. “It’s incredibly difficult to even be sated with humans in the first few months.”

There was a moment of silence, “I don’t care. I—I’m not even sure if the company was right, anymore. There was all this talk—it was supposed to be science, but—in science are you supposed to starve the predator of prey? It’s not all that different.” Patrick coughed again, and Pete could do nothing more but wait for William to get here and hold Patrick.

He felt so useless.

William got there a few minutes later, and they could hear the yelling from the other room.

“Gabriel. Victoria.” He snarled, growled at the two vampires in his coven. “I don’t know what the hell you were thinking. You should’ve known better than to do that. We explicitly forbid behavior such as this in our coven.”

“We’re doing what’s best for Pete!”

“He’s ruining himself! He doesn’t know what’s best anymore. He’s going to destroy himself and all of us if he keeps associating with humans like he has been!”

William did not reply, but Pete could practically feel his livid glare as he stomped into the room, expression softening considerably when he saw Patrick.

“Damn, kid. You’ve grown on me.” He spat, softly, as he went over to the bed—putting one hand on Patrick’s back. “Pete, if you could detach yourself for a moment?”

Pete uncurled himself from around Patrick and stepped away. “Yeah, sure.”

The taller vampire put his hand on Patrick’s cheek—closed his eyes for a minute, and the cut healed, “Lay down. I need to be able to hear your lungs better.” He instructed. Once Patrick was laying down, William put his head on his chest and listened intently.

He bit his lip.

“This isn’t good.” He said softly.

“What?” Pete asked, quick and sharp.

“There’s a lot of mucus in his lungs—and something else. I can’t tell what it is. I’m not x-ray. Pete . . . This is more than a little cold, now.”

“You can heal it!”

“Not without him aging to ninety by tomorrow morning.”

Pete’s face fell, and in that moment he had never felt more hopeless in his entire life.

***

“Pete, I don’t want to—“

“Shhh, shh. Patrick, you’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”

“You’re too stubborn, Petey. You’re not going to do what they say and turn me here, I know it!”

“You don’t worry about anything, Patrick. William and Mikey and Alicia and I will worry about everything. You just rest and eat. We’ll take care of you, ‘Trick. We’ll take care of you.”

“Pete how can I not worry? I might die, if what William says is true! I might have cancer or pneumonia! And I can’t go to the hospital! Pete this is serious! I mean, serious!”

Pete pulled Patrick into a hug, keeping his arms tight around him. “I won’t let shit touch you. You’ll be fine.”

“Your toy is breaking.” Gerard said, from the doorway. Pete was on his feet in front of Gerard, snarling, in seconds. “I think it’s about time you check in on the warrantee or take him back.”

“This is your fault, Way. If you don’t let us leave with him—“

“What? You’ll charge me with kidnapping. Even if you do, Petey dear, they’ll never catch or convict me. I have old, old friends who could do any number of things needed to keep me away from the government and press.”

“I’ll burn the whole motherfucking building down.”

Gerard laughed, “I’ll be able to get out before the spark even ignites.”

Pete growled at him, low and fierce. “I am tired of your shit.”

Gerard smiled politely, quirking his head, “I told you Pete. He’s a threat because of who he worked with and because he knows so much. You have to turn him or we’ll kill him. And we’re getting tired of waiting, maybe two or three more days?”

“Maybe not. You won’t lay one finger on him.” His voice was so low it was like an animal.

The elder vampire shrugged his shoulders, “I think I will if I want too.” Before a second had even passed he was next to the bed, arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “You can’t stop me.”

In a quick blur, Pete slammed Gerard against the floor and punched him multiple times. Gerard snarled and pushed up, spitting out discolored blood, as he aimed a hit at Pete.

“You don’t want to fuck around with me.” Gerard hissed, eyes almost on fire with the fierceness of his rage. “I will make your life a living nightmare.” He punched Pete in the stomach, sending him flying into the wall, a Pete sized imprint left as he peeled himself away.

“Don’t pull your punches, Gerard.” Pete snarled, flying back launching himself at Gerard and pinning him to the floor. Gerard quickly reversed their positions, lunging down for Pete’s throat and tearing at the skin with his fangs and ripping a gash into it

Pete yelled out an exclamation at pain, baring his fangs and gathering his strength to push Gerard off of him, only managing to get him half way off and get his nails (long and claw-like suddenly) into Gerard’s sides.

The others came into the room almost instantly. And in seconds they were darting every which way—William going right next to Pete and Alicia speeding off towards Patrick, pulling him into a corner and blocking him off with her own body. Pete was grateful, Alicia wouldn’t let an innocent get hurt.

Victoria headed in Alicia’s direction, and the other woman snarled, hissed and bared her fangs to her, lip curling up and eyebrows furrowing threateningly. “Just try and touch him.”

Victoria started to snarl back, going closer and poising her hand to strike.

“Vicky! Watch, don’t get into anything.” Gabe snapped, pulling her attention back to where they were each fretting over Pete and Gerard snarling at each other—all of it was happening so fast that Patrick blinked and the room full of people had shifted completely, making room for Gerard and Pete—everyone was a blur of color moving this way and that.

William guided Pete away from Alicia and Patrick’s corner, carefully—blocking them off when they slid that way or pushing Pete away. Gabe was about to jump in when William caught a hit from Gerard and Mikey sent him a hot glare.

“If we jump in to help they won’t ever settle this the right way. You know I’m right so back the fuck off.” He snapped not even moving to put his arm in front of Gabe.

Gabe grinned slightly, put his hands up and stepped back out of the way, “As long as Patrick’s around . . . I don’t think it’ll ever be over.”

Mikey grimaced, partially realizing it was true, and partly because he didn’t want to believe that. He wasn’t stupid though, Gabe was right.

And then Gerard tore into Pete’s throat again (while it was almost healed back up) and Pete dug his nails into Gerard’s chest—trying to push him back. Pete shouted an exclamation of pain and Gerard grunted and leaned forward to rip the wound open even further.

If there was one sure way to fight a vampire, it was teeth to throat.

“Pete!” Patrick yelled out, distressed, once they slowed down enough for him to see what was happening, “Pete god damn it, no! Get the fuck out of here!” he yelled, coughing but ignoring it—struggling to get past Alicia, “Get the fuck away!”

“Patrick!” Alicia said over her shoulder, as calm as she could—“Don’t make him worry about you, stay calm—you, you’re sick you don’t need to—are you okay, Patrick—are, breathe. Just breathe . . . take in a deep breathe.” She turned around to face him, back against Gerard and everyone else, rubbing comforting circles on his back, trying to get the coughing fit to calm down, “William?!”

William looked back and forth from Pete and Patrick, expression strained. It was easy to see the turmoil on his face—Patrick, who’s mortality, was even more obvious by the minute and Pete, who’s existence was at stake. He bit at his lip and tore off to Pete’s side, snarling at Gerard.

“The first part of the code is that we don’t kill our own unless they directly threaten our secrecy.” William hissed,, “Peter hasn’t done any such thing. Even if Patrick was to tell—he knew about us before!”

“And who would you turn me into?” Gerard asked—hands holding Pete to the wall—both of them were covered in blood, mostly Pete’s.

“Lazzara? Or maybe McCracken, hmm? Your friends might be loyal to you over me or Pete—but they sure as hell won’t want to keep company with you if you kill him for no reason. And if that doesn’t work? There are plenty of other people I can go to. Let Pete the fuck go and let Patrick out of here. Even for you Gerard, this is inhuman.” William snarled loudly—and if Mikey hadn’t moved to stand right next to William then he probably would’ve hit him too.

Gerard glared at William, turning back to Pete and swinging his hand at him again (catching his face with the edges of his nails, thin red marks bursting across his tan skin) snarling, “Don’t you fucking ever try and start a fight with me again. I will not stop next time, no matter who your friends may tell.”

“Gerard.” Mikey said, face grim as he watched his brother pull back, “Go back to Jersey and get some rest. You haven’t been getting enough.”

The elder vampire laughed a little, his composure changing completely, “Yeah Mikes, I guess I haven’t. Maybe next time we see each other it will be under better circumstances. Bye Mikey, Alicia.” And like that he was out of the room.

“Gabe—you and Vicky T get the hell out of here. I don’t want to see you two loitering around right now. Find Travis and bring him here.” William said, before turning his attentions to Pete, “Oh Petey, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“Pete!” Patrick called, trying to get past Alicia (to no avail) who had him, still rubbing circles on his back, just having managed to get him calmed down from the coughing fit. He wasn’t concerned about himself the least bit.

“Bill, damn it I haven’t hurt this much—“

“I know, it’s been a long time.” William whispered, softly, “Come on, sit down—come on, Pete, it’s worse than it feels like it is. Oh God, You’re not allowed to do this ever again.”

“Pete!” Patrick called again, Alicia guiding him carefully over to where Pete was lying on the ground, William kneeling over him, “Oh God.” Patrick fell, to his knees, with a thud. “William—is he gonna be okay?”

“I’m going to make him okay.” William replied, “Mikey—Alicia, he needs blood, soon. Get him something, anything.” He turned back to Pete, “Damn it. You’re such an idiot. You let him provoke you.”

“He was going to hurt Patrick.” Pete croaked back, pitifully, looking up at Patrick and smiling in a pained sort of way, “Are you okay?”

Patrick nodded his head, brows furrowing together and lip trembling almost uncontrollably. “I’m okay, I’m okay. But—Pete, you’re not—“ He started coughing and crying about the same time.

“Patr—“

“Don’t you dare get up Peter Wentz.” William snapped, “It’s just another bout of coughs, he’ll be fine. If you move you might tear something and not be fine. It’s different when we hurt each other—than when we get hurt by human things or nature. You know that.”

“Patrick, you okay?” Pete asked, insistently, reaching a hand out to put on Patrick’s knee, the closest he could get. “I need you to be okay.”

“I’m okay, Peter. I—I can’t do anything to help you, can I? You—you need to—“

William shook his head sharply, cutting Patrick off, “No. He can’t take anything from you now. You’re sick and you’re probably just starting to recover from the last time he bit you. He would kill you if he took anymore, now. And he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Once he latches on to someone, now, he won’t let go.”

Patrick recalled that first time he saw Pete feed, and he didn’t want to be like that. He didn’t mind dying for Pete—but he didn’t want to be some screaming last-ditch effort meal. But, still, Pete needed . . .

“This is my fault—all of this is my fault. You wouldn’t be hurt if it wasn’t for me, and I should’ve just stayed where I was and I never should’ve come back here. I was stupid and selfish and I knew this would cause trouble for you but I came anyways.”

Pete sighed, “Patrick, I love you. I would’ve gone crazy if you didn’t come back to me. I’m glad you came back.”

And Mikey and Alicia came back—each of them carrying an unconscious person. They sat them down on the bed, and Alicia went over to Patrick and helped him stand up, “You’ll need to be out of the room Patrick.” She whispered to him, helping him out of the room.

William stood up and considered the two bodies for a moment—before picking up the boy and taking him down to Pete. “Be careful with yourself and take it slowly. He won’t go anywhere.” He put the body down and Pete carefully pulled himself up, sinking his teeth into the flesh and drinking.

***

“Patrick?” Pete was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling before he turned onto his side, squirming closer to Patrick to put a protective arm around him. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay I guess.” Patrick whispered, voice weak from exhaustion and hoarse from the incessant cough. “How are you?”

“I’m better.” Patrick turned onto his side, as well and lifted his arm to trace along the lines of the scar where the wound was slowly healing. “It’ll heal slower because it was inflicted by another vampire. There’s some kind of toxin or venom, the only thing that can really affect us . . . there might even be a scar.”

“I just want you to be okay. I don’t care how you turn out as long as you’re okay.”

“Don’t worry, ‘Trick. I’ll be fine.”

“You have to be. You have to be.”

Pete shifted so he was holding Patrick more, and they were silent. Pete was beginning to doze off when Patrick spoke again.

“I don’t think I’m getting any better Peter.” He said, softly.

“Don’t worry, ‘Trick. You’ll be fine, too. I won’t let you not be.”

“Is it worth it trying to keep me human anymore? I’m sick and I’m just getting sicker and Gerard—and . . . all of this. I’m a Doctor, Pete, I know how bad something is. This is bad, I should be in a hospital right now—or at least have some high powered medicine.”

The vampire sighed, and pecked a kiss to Patrick’s cheek, “As soon as I’m fully healed I’ll do it. If I try now I couldn’t promise the results.” Pete paused for a long few moments.

“When I turn you, you’ll be hungry. Very, Very hungry. You’ll need to feed almost immediately, and I don’t think animal blood would ever be able to sate that hunger.” He looked, cautiously, for a response.

Patrick sighed and burrowed into Pete more, carefully. “As long as you’re with me . . .”

***

William put his hands, lightly over the healed wounds at Peter’s neck and closed his eyes. After a few moments he spoke, “You’re healed—all the way through everything’s just like it was before. I’ve reduced the amount of scarring as much as I can.”

“Finally. ‘m tired of motherfucking bed rest.” Pete said, stretching out as he stood up. He looked over to Patrick, who was smiling tiredly. Pete knew he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

The taller vampire sighed, and leaned in close to Peter, muttering so low Patrick wouldn’t be able to hear, “He knows how bad it is almost as well as I do. He’s worried and that’s making it worse. You can’t stall much longer, Peter. Once you turn him, though, he’ll be fine.”

“Should I though? I don’t know that he’ll be able to function like the rest of us . . .”

“You promised him, Pete, you promised him. You can break your promises to me or the coven or anyone else, but if you love him anywhere damn near as much as you claim you do—you’ll turn him.” William snapped angrily, “I will not let you go back on this promise.”

Pete sighed, softly, “I figured as much—how much longer--?”

“No, now.” William replied, “You can’t wait much longer. You’ve said it yourself, he’s only human. There’s no telling when he’ll take a turn for the worse.”

William hugged Pete tightly and broke away, going over to Patrick, and sitting on the edge of the bed closest to him. “This isn’t going to be easy for you.” He said, softly, “Pete’ll be there for you, and I’ll be there for you, too. Mikey and Alicia are down stairs, it isn’t an easy transition for anyone—some people don’t even make it through.” He pulled Patrick into a quick embrace and then he left.

Patrick looked over to Pete, an anxious expression on his face, and coughed.

Pete went back over to the bed, and crawled over—kissing Patrick softly, “I love you. Know that, no matter what happens.” He whispered against Patrick’s lips.

“I love you too, Peter.”

***

Pete sunk his fangs into Patrick’s throat, hard and deep enough to make Patrick cry out in pain and squeeze Pete’s hands. Pete gave an apologetic squeeze back, and sucked at the wound.

Patrick barred his teeth and scrunched his eyes shut, melting into Pete’s embrace as he started pulling more and more blood from his veins—the tug burning and painful, causing his entire body to feel on fire.

“Hurry, Peter, please hurry.” Patrick whispered, his voice hoarse and obviously pained as he spoke the words.

Pete nodded slightly against Patrick’s throat, sucking at it harder and tugging more at his veins. Patrick’s head fell back and he groaned again, almost whimpering and his grip on Pete’s hand was hard, until it slowly loosened and it was so hard to keep his eyes open.

Pete slipped one of his hands out of Patrick’s grip, and traced over his cheeks and lips softly—dragging it over his features carefully. And he pulled away from Patrick’s throat for one quick moment to kiss him on his lips for a moment, before going back to work.

“I . . . love you.” Patrick whispered, heartbeat slow and almost gone. Pete licked at the wounds one last time, before putting his freehand to his own throat, digging his fingernails into his throat (the other side from where Gerard had injured him) and pulling them out, pulling Patrick up and putting his face to the wound.

“Drink, Patrick . . . Drink.” Pete whispered, hoping this would work out like he remembered—it felt like it had been so much longer than it had been since he had done this.

And he felt something in his stomach turn over when Patrick’s lips began moving against his throat—sucking blood out. Pete almost felt guilty that it didn’t hurt, him being over sated with Patrick’s blood and that from his earlier meal. He was so relieved that Patrick was so desperate—becoming lively again against him and practically wrapping himself around Pete and pushing at him and trying to get a better angle.

When the dull tugging sensation started spreading, it was the most difficult thing to push Patrick away from him. He crashed his mouth against Patrick’s and he was kissing a live wire. They didn’t have to be careful anymore. They could afford to catch fire.

fin.

if only time flew like a dove,
god make it fly
faster than i'm falling in love

</div>

cross my heart and hope to die (epic vampire au) part two, 2/3

pfor — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 04:08:03 GMT

Gerard was brutal, about feeding and a lot of other things. He was picky—and a man on a mission. Pete had spotted (and smelledandheardandalmosttasted) at least half a dozen people worth feeding off of, and Gerard was narrowing his eyes and looking around still—insistent that they wait for each other.

Finally, as the sky was dark and the neon lights illuminated the streets, Gerard found someone. Pete grabbed the first person who smelled decent and dove into the same back alley Gerard had made for. Patrick followed Pete, sheepishly.

Gerard went first, ripping into his dinner’s throat. Pete was more delicate, taking his time and tasting, relishing in the smooth taste rolling down his throat. Patrick watched from behind, pressed flat against a wall, trying to make himself small and inconspicuous.

Pete finished first, and was on Patrick almost instantly, lips hovering over his neck and hands dancing up and down his sides—finally resting firmly on his hips—pressing him against the wall. “God, they don’t taste anything like you do. They don’t smell like you they don’t feel like you . . . They don’t trust me like you do.”

Patrick made a small noise in the back of his throat as Pete’s lips worked against his skin, fangs scraping and pressing against his skin alternatively. He tilted his head back, the best he could being so close to the wall, baring his neck for Pete. Patrick wanted it, he wanted Pete’s fangs in his throat, he wanted his blood down Pete’s throat, he wanted Pete to be so close to him that it physically hurt. His body was burning for it.

The fangs slid into his skin, and Patrick moaned, his eyes fluttering shut, and that wasn’t a good idea. Pete had already had some before, but, still.

They both wanted it.

Gerard watched, snapped into paying attention to the two by Patrick’s voice. He slipped closer, curious.

A manic grin slipped onto the elder vampire’s lips, “So you aren’t treating him like a flower . . . I’m glad to see it.” His eyes slipped from Pete to Patrick to specifics (Patrick’s shoulder, throat, collar bone, expression, lips; Pete’s fangs, lips, eyes, hands, hips).

“Pete.” Patrick whined, voice cracking—hands fumbling around, looking for a place to hold onto Pete and keep himself standing. “Pete, God, Pete.” He groaned, “I—I . . .” He sounded so desperate, like he needed it so badly. And he did, oh, he did.

Pete pulled away from his throat, a drop of blood trickling over his lips. Gerard kept the memory printed in his head, oh, the paintings.

“You’re mine, Patrick, mine.” Pete growled, low and possessively, “Don’t you ever forget that you belong to me.”

Patrick nodded, shakily, and Pete grabbed his hand and put it over his throat, “Keep it there.”

“Yeah.” Patrick whispered, voice soft and tired and worn out. Pete had bit him three times, and two of those three had been that night. He was tired, and probably lower than he should be on blood.

“Don’t worry.” Pete said, “I’m going to take care of you. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, ever.”

Gerard stepped forward, “You shouldn’t make those kinds of promises to humans, Pete. Even we can’t control what happens to them sometimes.” He seemed oddly bemused as he spoke.

Pete’s eyes cut towards Gerard, “What?”

The other shrugged, “I don’t tell, Pete. You know that. I use my information for my own benefit and only my own benefit.”

Patrick slumped up against the wall, confused at the conversation. He had to remember to ask Pete later, but he didn’t know that he would. Everything was kind of getting blurry and fading out, and maybe he should just go to sleep . . .

“Come on.” Pete said, suddenly, ripped out of his conversation with Gerard, “We need to take you back so you can get some food and rest.”

“Yeah. Sounds nice.” Patrick mumbled blearily, Pete chuckled lightly as he shifted, and picked Patrick up, “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“We’re going to take the short way home. I’ve got you.” He said, as affectionately as he dared with Gerard still noting his every word and move critically.

Pete looked back at Gerard, “You coming, or are you going out for seconds?”

“I couldn’t miss up an opportunity. You two intrigue me.” The elder vampire replied, a grin revealing his fangs. “I wouldn’t miss a second of this.” He took off, and Pete followed—darting up the fire escapes to get to the roof—jumping around and getting back to Mikey and Alicia’s place in record time.

***

Pete popped a frozen TV dinner in the microwave and turned to Gerard, leaning on the counter. “What did you see?”

The elder vampire shrugged, “I told you I’m not going to tell. I’ve never even told Mikey what I’ve seen.” He explained, eyeing the microwave in distaste, “You give that to him to eat?”

“I don’t cook very well.” Pete replied, scrunching up his nose. “What happens to him? Does he get sick?”

“I don’t think you want to know, Pete.”

“Does he get sick?” Pete asked his voice as loud as he would dare in the room — he didn’t want Patrick to hear any of this.

“Yes.” Gerard said, eyes cast downwards. It was very obvious he felt he was doing Pete a big favor by saying what he was saying. “I don’t know when or with what. I saw him in the hospital. And I really don’t think you would do anything that could hurt him, or let him get hurt. I’ve seen that much from the two of you.”

Pete looked at Gerard, an unfathomable expression on his face, “When do you think?”

“You don’t have long, before. A week, two weeks?” Gerard didn’t seem all that interested, “I could tell it was very sudden.”

The younger vampire closed his eyes and sighed, “Not everything you see . . .?”

“Is set in stone.” Gerard finished boredly, “You could turn him tonight and not even have to worry about it for a second. Or you could wait, and see what happens.”

“I’m not turning him until I absolutely have to.”

“Then you should start preparing him and yourself for that. People are starting to figure out that you’re back, Pete. And you know you’ve got some enemies, we all know you do. They’re going to be after you, and they’re going to try to use Patrick to get to you.”

Pete sighed, “I know. I’ve been thinking about that. But I’m not turning him until I absolutely have to.”

Gerard was silent for a moment, “I’m almost surprised that you’re committing to turning him at all.” The microwave ‘dinged’ loudly, Pete glided over to it and grabbed the dinner and a plastic fork and took them up to Patrick.

***

“Pete, I’m tired.” Patrick mumbled sleepily, “Don’t wanna eat right now.”

“Eat. Then you can sleep.” Pete instructed, helping Patrick sit up and giving him the food tray. Obediently, Patrick started eating—in that way that somebody who was so tired, and hadn’t slept in so long would.

“Gerard was talking—“

“Don’t listen to anything Gerard says, Patrick.” Pete said softly.

“You seem worried.”

“Well I’m not. Finish eating and go back to sleep.”

Patrick, begrudgingly, went back to eating from the tray—poking around a bit, mostly just moving things around to make it look like he had eaten more (but Pete didn’t buy that, and threatened to feed him, and really). Pete just sat on the bed and watched, taking Patrick’s tray away and sitting it on the bedside table. When Pete turned back to crawl into the bed, too, Patrick was already asleep.

***

“PETER LEWIS KINGSTON WENTZ!!!” William Beckett was not a happy camper. “Where the fuck where you last night!?”

Pete grumbled a little before sitting up, leaning over to check on Patrick (who was still out like a light) before climbing out of the bed. “What William?”

“You ditched me! We were supposed to go shopping you jackass!”

“Gerard came for a surprise visit.” Pete said.

William’s face fell, suddenly, and he looked over to Patrick.

“What happened? Is he okay? Did Gerard do anything?” William asked in a rush of words that a human wouldn’t have been able to decipher clearly.

“He’s okay, well—Gerard didn’t get to him at least.”

William looked over to Pete reproachfully, “What did you do?”

Pete shrunk a little, “I bit him. He’s okay though, just tired.”

“Oh my god, Pete.” The other vampire hissed, “You—You—You shouldn’t do that.” He paused, leaning over, “Pete. He’s breathing funny, it’s off.”

“No, FUCK no.” Pete hissed, “Gerard—he said. He said that Patrick was going to get sick.”

William concentrated for a moment, rolling Patrick over a little and putting his hand on his chest, “I think it’s just a cold, there’s nothing to worry about. You know not to trust what Gerard says, he’s a compulsive liar. He probably just picked up on it last night.”

“William. He’s not as strong as either of us. His immune system is weak! He can go from being okay to bad to dead in days.” Pete said, looking over to Patrick with furrowed eyebrows.

The other vampire sighed and put his head down to Patrick’s chest, listening intently. “He’s congested. His heart rate is a little slow.” He cut a sharp glare in Pete’s direction, “But that’s to be expected. He seems fine other wise.” He stood back up straight and trailed his fingers around Patrick’s face slightly, pinching the bridge of his nose lightly. William trailed his hands down, again, and put them on Patrick’s chest—one over each side of his rib cage and pressed down softly.

“That should help with his congestion.” He paused for a moment, “He sounds better. Just in case though, what time frame did Gerard give you?”

“A week, two weeks.”

William nodded, “I’ll stay here instead of going back to Chicago.” He paused for a moment, “I won’t lie to my—our, coven. Besides, they should see you anyways. All of the sudden you were just gone, and I was left to lead them. They probably want answers from you.”

Pete shrugged, “Let them come to me as they want.” He muttered, “I have to go feed. I . . . he’s too much for me to handle sometimes. It’s kind of embarrassing—but, just the thought of how his blood tasted is enough to get me hungry again.”

The other vampire looked over to him, skeptically, before sighing. “I’ll stay here and watch him. Go and feed. Find someone to make it last. You need to be with him as much as possible while Gerard’s here.”

“I know.”

***

When Pete gets back from feeding (he needed the daytime challenge to burn off steam), Gerard cornered him before he could get upstairs. Pete only let him because he could still tell that William was there.

Gerard was blunt with the subject he intended to discuss. “You should turn Patrick.”

Pete narrowed his eyes, “I’ve already told you, I don’t intend to turn him until I absolutely, positively have to.”

Gerard paused for a long moment, before he turned to Pete. “I really think it’s in both of your best interests to turn him. I’m taking a moment to be neutral in the subject.” He declared. “Neutral moment, over.” He examined his nails (which were shaped more like claws) and looked towards Pete with his trademark manic grin. “I am instructing you, as your elder and as the oldest vampire of the region, to turn him.”

“Why is it so important to you?” Pete snarled, losing his temper. He had never been very good at keeping it around Gerard—previous experiences had had him being forcibly removed from the elder’s presence in order to maintain his own safety.

The other considered, he didn’t seem to be quick on gathering words—or perhaps he was just attempting to make Pete wait and infuriate him the best he could.

“I’ve already told you, he’s lovely.” Gerard had an odd expression on his face as he spoke. “I believe that you shouldn’t endanger it. He would be extravagant as one of us, you know. He would have our liquid grace, can’t you see it—haven’t you dreamed of how he would look pouncing on his prey?”

Pete furrowed his brows, “I’m not turning him until I have to.” He snapped, turning to head towards the steps.

“Are you afraid that the same thing might happen . . . that gorgeous little Patrick might end up like Ryan?”

“He won’t end up like Ryan.” Pete said without missing a beat, turning around to face Gerard.

Gerard shrugged his shoulders languidly, slinking towards Pete, “I’m n

ot sure. Maybe he won’t end up dead, but maybe he’ll do the same thing anyways . . . betray your trust and turn around to go to someone else.”

Pete took a deep breath, not because he had to but mostly from habit. He was not going to snap.

“Perhaps he’ll just end up going crazy—you know this life isn’t for everyone.”

“Quit trying to—“

“Pete, dear. Face it, you’re not meant to have what’s lovely. You have a tendency of playing to rough and breaking the fragile.” Gerard grinned maniacally as he finished, “That’s why you have to make your pretty things unbreakable.”

Pete growled at Gerard, lunging forwards towards him.

“PETE!” That was William, standing in the middle of the stair case. “Don’t let him provoke you. Come back up here and simmer down.” The lanky brunette glared at Gerard as he motioned for Pete. Gerard merely grinned in response and waved Pete off.

Pete scrunched his nose up, “I will take things at my own pace with him. You have no right or place to interfere as long as Patrick doesn’t tell anyone else what I let him know.” He turned away and walked up the stair case.

“It’s only a matter of time, Petey.”

“Ignore him, Panda.” William muttered, attempting for calming as he put his arm around Pete’s shoulders—leading him upwards. “Patrick’s getting a cough. I should wait before I do anything more to him.” He said once they were upstairs, not quite yet in the room where Patrick was lying down. “I don’t want to speed his cells up anymore until what I did earlier wear’s off. Otherwise there might be some damage, or advanced aging. I’m not used to using this on humans. Generally I only—when something bad happens in the coven.” He bit his lip, an old human quirk that had never left him.

Pete cursed loudly, and William squeezed his shoulder slightly, “You should go to him. He’s still exhausted.”

***

“Peter . . .” Patrick mumbled, sleepily—going to sit up.

“Don’t.” Pete cut the movement off. He took off his shirt, and then climbed onto the bed with Patrick, shuffling under the blankets with him.

“Where’d you go?”

“I . . . had to go feed again.”

Patrick looked almost hurt, and turned away to cough in his shoulder. Of course he would be, Pete realized. “Remember when I told you ‘you do things to me’? Well you still do, only it keeps getting worse and worse.”

The Doctor nodded lazily, accepting the answer for a moment, before speaking again, “William kept on coming over here. He looked . . . worried.” Patrick seemed annoyed by the mere memory of William’s actions, “Is something wrong?”

Pete shook his head, “You know my time thing?” Patrick nodded, “Bill has a . . . health thing. He’s keeping an eye on you for me, there’s a bug going around.”

“I’m fine, Peter, aside from you biting me. Believe me, I’m a Doctor, I know when I’m sick.”

“You’re psych—“

“I’m a Physician, I double majored though.” Patrick mumbled.

“How old are you?” Pete asked.

Patrick chuckled lightly, “I graduated high school at seventeen, and was able to finish college in three years—twenty. I spent four years in Medical School, twenty four. I finished my fourth year of residency when I quit the company.” He explained, “I’m twenty eight, celebrating twenty nine in the spring.

“How old are you?” He asked, turning his eyes carefully to Pete, “You never told me, you always evaded the subject when I would bring it up.”

“I was turned at twenty five.” Pete replied, “I won’t tell you how old I am, maybe ever. I don’t like discussing it, it makes me feel detached.”

***

A few nights later, Patrick scooted closer to Pete and looked up at him, “Why does . . . talking about your age make you feel detached?”

“Because all the time feels like it’s gone by so quickly.” Pete replied simply, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder lightly.

“You’re immortal—time is forever for –“ Patrick coughed, loud and sudden, worse than before.

Pete’s lips went into a grim line, and he helped Patrick sit up, rubbing his back while he calmed down. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No.” Patrick snapped, “I’m fine, you don’t know anything about—“

“I know that you’re sick—it’s been four days, and I’m worried about you because—“

Patrick’s eyes narrowed slightly, “Because why?” He kept on trying to figure out what Pete and Gerard kept on bickering over him about. And why Pete kept calling William in every couple of hours to ‘check up on him.’

The vampire sighed, “Because I will never be at ease as long as you’re human. Any number of things could take you away from me at any time.”

“It’s a cold, Pete. Give me some cough medicine and I’ll be fine.” Pete shot up like a lightning bolt, grabbing a fresh shirt and putting it on.

“William! Come—“ Pete didn’t even have to finish his sentence before the lanky vampire was in the room, eyeing Patrick carefully, “Watch him, I’m going to go get him some cough medicine.”

Pete shuffled out over to the roof, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Wait, Peter!” Patrick yelled, attempting to scramble upwards and go from the loft to the roof (he didn’t make it quite in time, but was sure Pete could hear him sigh in frustration and yell out, “You idiot! Do you even have a clue on what kind to get?!”)

***

Pete hated the bright neon lights of the pharmacy closest to Mikey and Alicia’s house. They were loud and they shone too harsh against his skin, they made him feel paranoid and antsy as if the sun was up.

He stared at the section of medicine for colds and considered, there were so many different types. He was about to get a box of each and be done with it when a pretty young girl came up to him.

“Sir, do you need any help with anything?” Pete glanced towards her, suddenly aware of the fact that his eyes must be coal black and that hunger was biting at the edges of his stomach. But, no, he had to get this medicine back to Patrick—he hadn’t really gone out and fed since a few nights ago. He would have to tonight if he intended on sleeping in the same bed as Patrick again.

“Umm, yeah. My boyfriend is sick.” He muttered, “Bad cough, umm, congested. Wait, yeah, he’s got a fever too.”

The girl blushed a little, and then picked up a few boxes, looking at the labels. “Here, try this one and” she reached over and grabbed another box, “and this is just plain cold medicine. Both of these should get him better in a few days.” She said, smiling politely.

“You seem to know what you’re talking about?”

“I’ve been working here for a while.” She said, “Are you ready to check out?”

Pete shook his head, “Nah, I wanna look around a bit more.” He said, mostly he just wanted to double check and make sure there wasn’t a medicine that might speed Patrick’s cold up.

And suddenly, damn it he was quick, Pete wheeled around.

“Your little toy must be falling apart by now, for you to be here.” The wicked grin was in place on his face. Pete wanted to punch him, but restrained himself—it wouldn’t do much good.

“He is not just a little toy.” Pete snarled, low and under his breath—threatening as he could make it knowing who he was talking to and what kind of power he had.

Gerard shrugged, “Whatever you like to call him. If you really love him so damned much, you would make him one of us—equalize it. You wouldn’t have to treat him like the pet that he is.”

Pete fought back the growl rising in his chest, “Quit insulting him.”

“There really isn’t much of a point of you getting this much in a fuss over him—he’s human, he’s not a suitable mate for you. If you aren’t extremely controlled, you could easily kill him.”

“You better quit.” Pete snarled, careful not to tighten his fists like he want to, lest he crush the medicine.

Gerard shrugged, “Fine then. I will, for now. Just make sure you keep a good eye on him. They keep getting more vivid.”

Pete practically wheeled around, but managed (by some miracle) to keep his control as he went over to the girl and checked out the medicine.

“That a friend of yours? It seemed like he upset you.”

Pete shrugged, “We haven’t been on the best of terms lately. I’ve got to get these to my boyfriend, now, thanks for your help.” The girl nodded, and Pete left—the hunger so raw in his gut.

And Pete was walking out the door when something that Gerard said sunk in, ‘keep a good eye on him. They keep getting more vivid.’ Shit. He dropped the bag and ran.

part three of part two
</div>

cross my heart and hope to die (epic vampire au) part two, 1/3

pfor — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 03:55:40 GMT

title. cross my heart and hope to die (now i kiss them whenever i'm down) part two (part one)
rating. hard r.
language, violence (not for the squeamish, vampire stuff, here), and sexual things
summary. Pete is impatient and ready to live again. Patrick is trying to stop him. When one of them is a vampire who's been locked up (for longer than he can bear), and one of them is a doctor trying to save the world (one victim at a time) things get a little messy.
pairings. pxp, mikeyxalicia, hinted petexryan, hinted one sided william x pete, hinted gabe x vicky t
disclaimer. if you googled yourself GO AWAY NOW. because, yeah, it would be embarrassing for all of us if you read this. in other words, i wrote this for my own and others enjoyment and love these guys and don't mean to offend.

dedication. this would not have been possible AT ALL without angelcakes694 and her insane awesomeoness and EXTREMELY helpfulness. some of the stuff from this part was pretty much all her

author's notes. IT'S DONE!! With a grand total of 20, 387 words and 53 pages on MS Word!!

i hope you all like what happened! i want to keep writing on what happened--but i don't think that i should. sequels are never as good. if anyone things there should be anything else with this universe in the future please do tell!

Part One

Part Two

“Pete, wake up.”

Pete awoke with a start, “Mikey? What the fuck?” He stirred, pressing himself up against the wall. The light from the sidewalk and stores illuminated the taller vampire’s bony features. He knew he, himself, must look like shit in the neon illumination.

“How long have you been here?”

Pete scrunched his eyes up, stood, and popped his shoulder back into place with a grimace. He had fallen last night and been too lazy to relocate the bones before curling into the corner of the alley and passing out.

“Here? Seven, eight hours tops.” Pete responded, before leaning against the wall—trying to flatten his hair against his head.

“In the fucking alleys? When was the last time you slept in a damned bed? You smell like shit.”

“Since I was at yours and Alicia’s place.” Pete admitted, grudgingly. Mikey’s ability was more useful than his own. Mikey could make you tell him the truth.

“That was months ago Pete.” Mikey said softly, “Come on. I’m taking you back to our house. You’re going to at least take a shower and get some new clothes. When was the last time you fed?”

“A week and a half ago.”

Mikey’s lip curled in distaste. “You can’t do that to yourself, before that?”

“Two days before that. Before that three weeks.”

Mikey’s grip on his wrist tightened, “You’re coming to my house. Alicia will get you someone. You’re going to kill yourself like this.”

“I want to live like this.”

“No you don’t.” Mikey snapped, “You want to wallow in your misery until he comes back to you and apologizes or throws himself at you. He’s not going to do either of those! I don’t know how the kid fooled us both, but he’s interested in self preservation. He’s hiding from William and in order to do that he has to stay damn far away from you.”

“You don’t fucking know, Mikey.” Pete snarled.

“Mikey hissed at him, “I’ve been around longer than you can dream of. I know what it’s like.”

Pete shrunk back, resigned to following Mikey still because of the death grip on his wrist. There was an anguished look on his face, “For two and a half years he was the only person I ever spoke too, the only other person.”

“Yeah. And it was his fault. Get over it.” Mikey shot back, pulling him into an apartment building. Pete wasn’t sure how he felt that it was this close to where he had been. Mikey didn’t say anything until they were at his and Alicia’s loft, most of the top story and a room on the roof. They were wealthy, too put it lightly. Mostly? It was Mikey’s “family fortune.”

“Alicia.”

“Mikey! Pete?” She didn’t look shocked that they were right there, after all, she probably sensed them coming into the building. Mostly, she just looked puzzled at Pete’s appearance. “Dude? Go take a shower, now.”

“Seriously.” Mikey said, gruffly. He let go of Pete’s wrist, “And I’m serious. Clean yourself. Don’t just get in and out to make us happy.”

***

“Pete.” Alicia snapped, as soon as he was out of the shower and dressed in some clothes that fit him perfectly (that Mikey and Alicia had scrounged up incredibly quick). “You can’t keep starving yourself, you’re going to seriously hurt yourself. You look so bad off. Your arm is broken. We’re not supposed to have broken bones.” She said, fretting.

“He’s malnourished.” Mikey said, scrunching his nose up. “I called Gerard, he told me a lot about what happens when you don’t eat properly as a vampire. Injuries, breaks and fractures don’t heal completely until another meal. Dimmed senses. Pete, how long has it been since you left Patrick?”

“Eight months, two weeks, five days, and three and a half hours, exactly.”

Mikey looked at his computer for a moment. “You’re wrong.”

Pete was livid, “No. I can’t be wrong.”

Alicia looked even more worried, “He can’t be wrong Mikey. He’s never wrong about the time.”

“It’s been eight months, one week, three days, and twelve hours. I checked. Assuming the times you gave me when you told me what happened were correct, that’s the real time. It’s because you haven’t been eating. You’ve been on a diet like the one you told me since you left here before.”

“Yes.” Pete admitted.

Mikey cursed, “You fucking idiot. Alicia?”

Alicia went down stairs and came back up—carrying an unconscious girl that looked about her visible age and giving her to Pete.

“I knocked her out.” Alicia exclaimed, “You need to eat, now. We’ll make you if we have to.”

There was no reason that he shouldn’t do as they say. So he did, drink. And he enjoyed it and he wasn’t ever giving that up again.

***

“Have you gotten in touch with William?” Mikey asked, drifting onto the roof where Pete was set up, watching the bright lights and pedestrians of the city from above.

“No, but I will be? He’s here, isn’t he?” Pete asked, laughing a little. A week had passed, he had gone back to old habits—feeding whenever he was thirsty. That was how they all did it, really.

“Yeah.” Mikey said, with a little distaste, “Don’t extend a long invitation. One day, two tops?”

Pete nodded, understanding. Mikey left, and moments later William Beckett was in his place—looking fresh and hip in New York City department store fashions. Pete laughed a little, and shook his head.

“So, Patrick.” William said, conversationally.

“What about him?”

“You marked him.” The other replied, amusement evident in his words.

“I was an idiot, okay? I didn’t see through his fucking lies.”

William’s lips fell into a frown, “Silly, silly Pete. You’re letting it happen again. Getting caught up with a human. It’s bad for your mental health.”

“It’s already happened, and I’m all too aware of that now. I don’t learn well from my mistakes.”

The taller vampire chuckled, “Obviously. He’s not in Alaska any more. They’ve relocated him back to Chicago. A week ago he booked a flight for tonight, to New York City. His hotel is five minutes, by his own feet, from here.”

“What do you care?”

“This is my fault. I didn’t get you out of there before you could become attached.” He mused, eyes gazing at the stars, “I’m sorry . . . that you were in there for so long. But, that coven of fledglings—they needed me. Gabe and Travis would have been okay going in with me, but none of the others would have listened. They wouldn’t have stood a chance against them. They would’ve been locked up too. I knew you wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“I wouldn’t have. They were my coven before they were yours, Bill.”

“I know.”

“Thank you for not coming after me, given that explanation.”

William smiled softly, “I knew you would understand. Do you want me to bring him here?”

There was a tense moment of silence—or as silent as it could get in the city. “I don’t care anymore. I’m just going to let the pieces fall where they may, and hope that destiny is feeling friendly towards me.”

“I think that he’s just human, and that I was after him. You need to take that into account. He was afraid, he wanted to live and he knew that no matter what happened you were going to live.” William explained softly, “You’re older than me, Pete, so you might know better. But that’s my honest advice.”

“That’s good advice.” Mikey said, stepping onto the roof. “Alicia and I are going hunting. They invitation is extended to the two of you.”

William waved a hand, “No thank you, I’ve already. I’m at Travis’ for the rest of the week, if you want to talk, Pete.”

“Mmkay. Mikey, I’ll go.”

William waved, “Goodbye to the lady.” And jumped off, disappearing in a quick blur from roof top to roof top.

“What he said is true. Patrick is only human, and obviously experiencing many conflicting emotions.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“It isn’t. But you can’t even try to forget it and put it behind you until you forgive him. And maybe you won’t want to forget once you do . . .”

***

The first thing Patrick said to Pete was, “I want you to kill me.”

Pete narrowed his eyes in response, glaring at Mikey and Alicia standing behind Patrick—knowing that they were responsible for bringing him here, to Pete, from the air port.

The Doctor looked the same, only more tired and even more pale. There were dark scars on his neck that made Pete’s gut clench with memory. However, otherwise he was physically unchanged.

“What kind of kill?”

“The kind where you obliterate me from this earth. That’s what I deserve.” Patrick said, looking him square in the eye. Anguish, suffering, and torment flooded the air around him.

“No.” Pete said, calmly and left for the night. He came back the next day and Patrick was tucked away in a sleeping bag on his bed. Mikey and Alicia had both given critical looks when he returned covered in blood. Patrick woke up with a start when Pete entered his room.

“Peter!” He muttered, wide awake at the tiny click open of the door.

“You have a hotel, you know.”

Patrick shook his head, “Mikey cancelled my reservation. He brought me here.”

“Bastard.” Pete muttered, low enough that Mikey wouldn’t be able to hear it downstairs. “Move over. This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

“I don’t expect you too.”

Pete took off his messy clothes, and crawled into bed “I’m not going to change my routines because of you.”

“I don’t expect you too. I’m an inconvenience. I shouldn’t be here.” Patrick muttered rolling to the far edge of the bed and curling in on himself.

“Doctors aren’t supposed to lie to their patients.” Pete whispered softly, brokenly into the air. He was satisfied with the fresh wave of agony that he felt roll through the air, emanating from the man.

***

When Pete woke up, he was wrapped around Patrick like a snake. Pete could sense, feel, that Patrick was nervous, apologetic, and just a little bit happy. Pete didn’t pull away for an hour, Patrick didn’t say anything—he just sat their and kept a regular heartrate and breathing rate.

“Is the fact that you are only human a good enough excuse, I wonder?” Pete mused softly as he got up and took a shower, lounging around with Mikey and Alicia.

Patrick didn’t come down and Pete didn’t care. He ignored the nagging when he noticed that the Doctor hadn’t even gone to eat anything. When Pete went out that night he brought a carton of Fried Rice and handed it to him (he was in the exact same place Pete left him), “Eat it. If you get thirsty drink they have a faucet and glasses. Take a shower when your done.”

Patrick did. Pete went downstairs.

“He’s going to do everything you tell him to, exactly as you tell him too.” Alicia said, softly.

“That’s what he told us his plan was.” Mikey explained. “He’ll kill himself if you ask him too.”

“Why?” Pete roared, confusion and anger wrapped into one shout.

“He loves you.” Alicia said softly. “He explained it all to us, in so many words. He watched you, for the company at first. Then for himself. Then they gave him orders to capture you, so he did. And the whole time you were in that white room he was falling in love with you. He intended to make you more human, to find some way for you to live off of substitutes or animals so that the company wouldn’t be able to hurt you ever again. But he realized that wasn’t what you were, when he saw you feeding. That night in London? He was telling you the truth because he loved you. Because he thought that you might understand.”

She waited a moment before continuing, “He left the company, right before he flew out here. That doesn’t seem like that big of a sacrifice for us, because we’ve given our very lives over for whom we love.” She looked fondly towards Mikey, “But for him, that is his life. And I think that if you asked him too he would willingly give you the real thing.”

Pete stood up silently, and left. He returned three days later to his room, finding Patrick asleep in his spot on the bed. “Tell me about your family.” He said, poking Patrick in the side lightly.

The Doctor was silent for a moment. “I gave up my family when I joined the Company. When I left the Company I left the family I made there. I’m alone now.”

“Your childhood.”

“I was average, I didn’t have many friends—I was in a band or two that never got bigger than a middle school dances.” He paused for a moment, “That was it, really. I was never anything extraordinary.”

Pete snarled, “You’re pitiful, insignificant, selfish.” He was silent, “Why did you come here, to me? Why did you give up that company when it was obviously one of the best things that ever happened to you? It was different; it was a change in your mundane human life!”

“I was miserable, because I love you.” Patrick whispered, heart racing, “Because I can’t live without seeing you. I’m obsessed with you, I need you.”

Pete closed his eyes, and laid down in the bed.

***

“Peter Panda!” Pete scrunched up his nose and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow, “Wake up!”

“Damn you William Beckett.” He hissed, “Leave before I slit your throat.”

William rolled his eyes, “You know that won’t do much good. Come on, up. We’re going shopping. You promised me. It’s ten o clock, it’s best we not wait until the lunch rush.”

Pete sighed and sat up, stretching his arms and climbing out of bed.

“Is this the little bugger?” William asked, peering onto the bed, tugging at the covers a little to get a better glimpse at the sleeping Doctor’s face. “Did you two kiss and make up? Why are you both wearing clothes then?”

“Because we didn’t kiss and make up.” Pete grumbled, walking across the room and going to put on a pair of jeans from the chest of drawers that was half open.

William made a face, Pete was ready to knife William Beckett through the heart. Nevertheless, he headed to the shower down stairs.

***

“William.” Pete said, raising one eyebrow as he walked into the room.

“I was having a conversation with your lovely little friend.” William replied, cheerily, putting an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and drawing him closer, fingers petting his hair softly. “He’s fun. He’s going with us.”

“You are?” Pete asked, a tinge of amusement as he asked Patrick. Pete noticed that the human looked vaguely sick to his stomach, and realized that this entire mess had happened because Patrick had been terrified of William. Pete didn’t wait for an answer, “You don’t have to, but you can. You need to take a shower and put on some clean clothes, first. We can get you some nice things.”

Then William nodded, releasing Patrick from his hold, “Ignore Pete’s asshole bossing around.” He suggested as Patrick stood up and started towards the bathroom.

“He wasn’t like that.” William said as soon as the Doctor was out of earshot, eyes narrowed. “He was as sharp as a tack.”

“I know.”

William closed his eyes and sighed, “The troubles you have, dear Pete. I think you broke him.”

Tragic grief flooded onto Pete’s face as he began getting dressed, “I know I did. But it isn’t as if I walked away intact either. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

The other vampire sighed, walking over to Pete and placing a hand on his shoulder—fingers falling to trace at the ring of thorns on his shoulders. “You can fix each other, I believe . . . My informant, which I’m sure Patrick vaguely mentioned to you, Jonathan Walker--He was relatively close to Patrick, in the work field. Enough so that they ate lunch together, occasionally.” He paused for a moment—Pete was unsure of whether it was for dramatic effect or to search for words. William had a way of making you think he was doing one when he was really pausing for the other.

“Jon said that Patrick under went through the biggest series of changes in the time that he knew him—shortly before your capture up until very recently . . . He began as a very friendly, open coworker—once you had his friendship. But, as time passed—he began spending more and more time in observational. And he seemed more and more miserable. Jon waited a very long time to tip Patrick off about me, understandably. I believe he saw . . . an opportunity for Patrick to act upon his obvious feelings.” William sighed. “He has loved you for a very long time, for his kind. He saw past the carnal rage that consumes us, and he saw past the preternatural, and into you. Otherwise he would not be here with you.

“He would be running for his life.” William mused, pecking a kiss onto Pete’s cheek. “I think that he needs to hear that you’ve forgiven him, and I think he needs to hear that you will not leave him again.”

Pete narrowed his eyes, “Presumptuous. I never said—“

William smiled, quirking his head to the side a little, “No, you never did. I can see it in your eyes, and smell it in your veins. You love him more than you’ve loved anyone in a very long time. It’s painfully obvious to everyone but you, Peter.

“Otherwise, what reason would you have had to waste away in the alleyways? Mikey was trying to appeal to the old you, and he reached some last vestige of it. And I’m glad he did.” William took back his usual much-less-serious grin, “I would’ve hated to collect you in the gutters, or have Patrick find you there.”

Pete scrunched his nose up, “You think you know everything.”

“About you I do.”

William bickered with Pete over shirts for much longer than necessary—in fact, by the time they were finally compromising on one, Patrick was out of the shower and back in the room.

“I’m going to meet you two at Macy’s in an hour and a half.” William said firmly, “I expect you to be there.”

Pete rolled his eyes and nodded, muttering something about indecisiveness as he plopped down on the bed, burying his face in the comforter (that smelled like Patrick and him), “William Beckett is highly frustrating.” He paused for a moment, before continuing on a much deeper note and a much softer voice, “I want to say I forgive you completely, but I don’t. But at the same time, I feel like I’ve hurt you enough for us to be even.”

Patrick looked shocked for a moment, “I hurt myself. You don’t have to take the blame for anything, it’s all my fault.”

“No.” Pete growled, rough, “Quit saying that. Quit being a push over and start being that cynical Doctor again. I’m tired of you pretending for my sake—I’m not the kind of person who’s attracted to a Dominant and Submissive relationship.”

Patrick turned away, red faced and heart abuzz with something Pete couldn’t quite identify. He picked up some clothes from his open bag, going to the walk in closet and getting dressed, silently.

“You can’t keep quiet for the rest of your life.” Pete said, stepping closer to Patrick as he finished buttoning his shirt a few minutes later. “I want an answer.”

“You never asked a question.” Patrick said, voice shaking slightly.

“Have we broke even?”

Patrick turned and moved, crashing into Pete and wrapping his arms around him—holding onto his shirt for dear life because he didn’t know that his knees would keep him effectively upright. “Oh God, Pete—yes.”

“Don’t just say that because you want to be with me. Do you honest-to-whatever-God believe we’ve paid each other even?”

Patrick nodded, slowly. “I think I’ve hurt you very deeply—and I expected your reaction. But . . . it still hurt so much.”

“Humanity.” Pete whispered, softly, as he wrapped his arms around Patrick, “Pain is the price of humanity. I think I might be in love with you.” Pete had not said those words in a very, very long time. It felt as if a pressure was being relieved.

“I am in love with you.” the other responded, voice muffled slightly as Pete’s arms tightened a little—careful not to hurt him or cause him discomfort.

“I know.”

“Good. You’re supposed too.”

***

And then, Pete froze. He snarled lightly, pulling Patrick close to him—tilting his head and putting his lips to the Doctor’s throat. “Gerard’s here.” He muttered, tickling Patrick’s throat with his cold breath and the vibrations of the anger in his voice. “This is bad.” He whispered, “I need you to do exactly as I say for the rest of the night, but don’t listen to half of the shit that spews out of my mouth.

“Gerard is an old fashioned vampire. He believes that humans belong to us, and those of us who are more modern in our beliefs . . . For tonight this is not an equal relationship.” Pete muttered, sounding almost apologetic. “I’m the master, and if I tell you to quit breathing, you quit breathing.

“Otherwise, he won’t respect that I’ve marked you, like most vampires will. That will mean nothing to him and he will take you away from me and make you and I both miserable.” Pete sunk his fangs into Patrick’s neck without any warning, puncturing the flesh and almost melting at that sweet taste.

Patrick slumped into Pete’s arms; they would not be going anywhere tonight. Pete felt horrible, but he did what he had to do.

The vampire shifted, lips trailing softly along Patrick’s skin until he met the doctor in a fierce kiss. “Please, please act your little fucking human heart out. Gerard is not a merciful person when it comes to dealing with humans.”

Pete pulled away, suddenly but was careful to keep Patrick standing. “We’ve got to go down now; he’ll expect a prompt greeting and explanation of why your smell is every-fucking-where.”

So they went down stairs, Pete the perfect marble picture of ferocity and Patrick playing (and feeling) the part of the drained and devoted human.

There was Gerard Way, sitting on the couch. “Hello Pete. It’s been a while.”

Pete nodded, putting on a forced smile, as he nodded, “It has.”

Gerard’s eyes trailed over to Patrick, an amused expression on his face. “And who is this? I thought you learned your lesson about dabbling in the lives of humans.” The expression quickly soured.

“This is Patrick.” Pete said, not offering anything else. Let Gerard ask questions, he would answer them—but he sure as hell wasn’t volunteering any information that he didn’t have to.

“He’s lovely.” Gerard said, voice almost soft as he spoke the words. “You should let me draw him some time, his image would make any painting exquisite.”

Pete threw an arm around Patrick’s shoulders, holding him close, “He’s very timid. He wouldn’t do well in that situation, I don’t think. And I like him, I’d like to keep him for a while longer.”

The elder vampire had an unreadable expression on his face for a moment, as he watched Patrick cling to Pete, holding him possessively.

Gerard stood up, elegance and grace rolled into one package as he walked over to the two of them, one hand trailing over Patrick’s shoulder and down his arms. “You’re very different from Pete’s last human. You’ve got a more developed, refined sense of beauty.” He looked to Patrick, expectant for an answer.

Patrick took a shaky breath and shifted his eyes to Pete, who nodded briefly, before speaking. “Thank you.” He said, voice catching in his throat a little. The Doctor had been working with vampires for a very long time, but Gerard had a very distinct manner about him that was, frankly, terrifying to be so close too.

Gerard grinned, the grin of a predator, and ducked his head in. Pete snarled and pulled Patrick away from Gerard sharply, “He’s mine, Gerard.” His voice was almost a growl, “Don’t touch him.”

The elder vampire frowned, a grimace slipping onto his lips. “You should learn to respect your elders, Peter.” He said, slipping around, behind and between the two of them, his own hand placed almost possessively against Patrick’s hip.

“Get the fuck away from him Gerard.” Pete hissed, fiercely, glaring at Gerard. Something inside of him, that didn’t seem to understand that Gerard could probably skewer him, was roaring for him to fight. Fightfightfight over what was his and only his. Patrick pulled away from Gerard—burying himself in Pete’s arm.

“His.” Patrick whispered softly, “I’m Pete’s.”

Gerard grew livid. “I don’t know who you think you are, Pete. But you have no right to deny me of what I want.”

“When what you want is mine, I have every right.”

“I’m your superior, your elder!”

“I’m his master.”

Gerard shoved Patrick to the side, out of Pete’s grasp, almost roughly to stand face to face with the shorter, younger vampire.

“You have no clue who you’re dealing with.”

“You have no clue who you’re dealing with. I’ve changed a lot since the last time you saw me, Gerard.”

“You’re still not strong enough to fight me.”

Pete narrowed his eyes, “You have no clue.”

Gerard wheeled around to face Patrick. “You’re dedicated to him, but how much? Would you spend the rest of eternity with him? Would you kill yourself for him? Would you face damnation and an eternity on earth filled with killing for *him?*”

Patrick swallowed, taking a deep breath. “If Pete wants it, I’ll give it to him. No matter what it is.” He looked, helplessly, towards where Pete was standing, Gerard was too close—Pete was too far.

Gerard frowned, concentrating on some thought. “I’m hungry.” He paused for a moment, leaning in closer to Patrick and inhaling sharply. Patrick froze, and abruptly, Gerard turned away. “We’re going to feed. Pete, you’re coming with me—bring your little toy along if you want too.”

part two of part two

</div>

cross my heart and hope to die (epic vampire au) part one 2/2

pfor — Thu, 22 Nov 2007 05:48:37 GMT

title. cross my heart and hope to die (i've traced your shadows on the wall) part one (part two)
rating. hard r.
language, violence (not for the squeamish, vampire stuff, here), and sexual things

part one

“Peter, that was Doctor Hurley.” Patrick explained, coming back into the hotel room. He had gone to the bottom floor of the hotel, and then into a crowd to talk on his phone to his associate so that Pete couldn’t hear. “They know we were in, and have left, Chicago.” As Patrick spoke, he pulled his suitcase up, putting his overnight gear back in, locking it up. “He booked us a flight, gave us enough time for you to feed. Put our things in the car, I’ll clean the room up and kill our trail in the hotel. Don’t come back in the hotel at all, the pizza restaurant a few buildings down? Wait for me in front of it after you take the things. Give me an hour. Don’t feed yet.”

So Pete did as Patrick said, took their things to the car and locked it up, putting the keys in his pocket and taking a sporadic route to get to the restaurant, going around buildings and generally making a mess of his scent. Leaving something that would confuse the hell out of them in places where it would get stomped on my thousands and thousands of people, tires, and kiosks.

When Patrick got there, he looked antsy, muttering lowly to Pete, “Take your time. We’ll be on a plane for about seven or eight hours. Find someone who’ll last you. But, our flight leaves in three hours. Keep that in mind.”

“What about all that shit in your car?”

“We can take some of it with us. The car and the other stuff, Jo—Doctor Trohman will be bringing. We rendezvous with them after a few days bouncing around in Europe.”

“You’re going to run with me until you die?” Pete asked after a few minutes of walking around.

“No.” Patrick said, “They won’t follow us when we get back into the states in Alaska.”

Pete paused, “There aren’t enough people for me to . . .” he trailed off.

“Our second facility is in the final stages. It’ll be open for good by the time we get there in a week and a half.”

Pete snarled under his breath, balling his fists up into his pocket and resisting the urge to lash out and kill the doctor, without even tasting. “You’re locking me back up?”

“Yes.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.” Pete hissed into Patrick’s ear, pulling him close as if he were a brother or a close friend.

“Because then you’ll never be safe. Your friends will forget their anger. My company won’t. There are records kept that go all the way back to the Renaissance. I bet they don’t remember what they had for dinner a week ago.”

“You’re filthy, doing that to me.”

“You’re a murderer. I’ve seen you kill two people. I have proof you’ve killed more. You’ll be a scientific anomaly. They’ll dissect you while you’re breathing. They’ll torture you, study you, and then they’ll kill you. I’ll go to jail, for not turning you in of course but there were prisoners in my company yes? I’m a good enough actor to go insane, to say I got some sick pleasure from it. My company will get me, they’ll pull me out of the jail cell and give me my old room back. I will not suffer at all.”

“Fucking extortionist.” Pete hissed, seething—ready to throw himself off of a building and into something because he was so stupid.

Pete snapped his head up in sudden alarm, mind ripped from their conversation. “Whatever you do, stay close to me, don’t panic and don’t speak. You say you’re a good actor, Doctor Stump? Prove it to me, act like you’re under my complete control if you want to live.” Pete muttered into his ear, voice barely but a whisper.

Pete put his arm around Patrick’s shoulder, practically draping himself over the human—the façade of ownership completed by Patrick’s subtle leaning into him and away from the crowd. It was a quick click, it seemed like they had had more time to prepare than they were actually given. They ushered over to the side of the street—almost in an alley way and were quickly greeted by a couple.

“Pete. You got out?” The speaker was a deathly pale, lanky brunette who had his arm draped around an equally pale black-haired girl’s shoulders. They both emanated collected cold.

Pete put on a warm smile and laughed, “Yup, finally. I kicked them where it hurts, got one of their own.” He said, patting Patrick on the shoulder and urging him closer, “You and Alicia, that’s great Mikey.”

The brunette nodded and smiled sheepishly, “It’s a little cliché, but it works, right honey?”

She nodded, scrutinizing Patrick carefully, “You’re not going for a repeat with Ryan, are you, Pete? You haven’t done anything to him yet, he smells so clean.”

Pete’s smile faded, “He’s mine.” He said, voice almost falling into a predatory growl.

Alicia chuckled a little, “Only Pete Wentz. Listen, be careful. Ross didn’t deserve that, despite being an annoying little fuck. Kiss him or kill him, both if you’d like. Just don’t let him go until he knows the rules.” She said, “He’s too cute to go to waste. And, if you go with Option A or B? Let us know.”

Mikey grinned a little, “You know where to find us.”

Pete nodded, chuckling lightly, “Yeah, I do.”

“What’s his name?”

“Patrick.” Pete said, grinning brightly and proudly.

The couple chuckled, “You’re such a kid Pete. You should drop by our place! Gerard’s in for a while. He’d love to see this kid, he’d probably get a kick out of drawing him!”

“As I’ve said before, he’s mine.” Pete hissed, “Gerard gets too up close and personal with who he draws.”

Mikey chuckled, “I understand. You’re busy. Give me a call next time you’re in the area and have some extra time. You’re never an intrusion, to Alicia and I at least.” He said, ulterior meaning laced into the words.

“Yeah, that’d be nice. But I think I need to stay low. William and I are in a scuffle.” Pete said, scrunching up his nose as if it was only a trivial inconvenience.

Alicia looked from Pete to Mikey, “Yeah, we understand. We won’t tell him, or any of his henchmen, you were here. We like you more than him.” She said, cheerily. “You’re safe with us anytime, Petey. And if it comes to a fight? Gerard knows some old hardcore dudes. You know that. We’ll kick the shit out of them.”

Pete smiled with relief, “Thanks guys.” He said, reaching over a pecking a kiss on each of their cheeks, “We better run. We’re globe trotting, tonight. Meeting up with some penpals, so to speak.”

“Mmkay. Let us know how it goes.” Alicia snickered, returning Pete’s favor and placing a kiss on his cheek—reaching over and pressing her lips to Patrick’s temple tenderly, “Be good for him, he needs someone.” She said to Patrick, smiling warmly. It took all Patrick had not to flinch away.

Mikey rolled his eyes and smiled, “Bye, Pete. Come by when the storm has passed.”

“Of course. I owe you guys.”

“We know you do.” The lanky vampire chuckled, and the two of them departed as quickly as they had come. Pete kept his grip on Patrick tight and just as possessive for a while more, before finally relaxing.

“If I ever sense another vampire, that’s the first thing you need to do. Act exactly like that. Because they’ll smell me all over you, They need to think you’re mine. Then they won’t touch you.”

“I’m fair game . . .?” Patrick trailed off, the question hanging in the air—but Pete picked it up immediately.

“If they smell me but don’t see me, unless you’ve got a bruise, right there.” Pete said, looking as if he was about to put his arm around Patrick’s shoulders—instead just brushing his fingers against the bruise on his neck before putting his hand back in his pocket.

“You marked me?”

“I had too.” Pete shrugged, “I wanted too. I would almost go so far to say as I needed too.”

“How often?”

“A lot can change in twenty-four hours. It needs to be freshened up every night.” Pete grinned, manically, “We really need to learn to start trusting each other. I’ve got a week and a half to do all sorts of things to you. It’s all okay as long as I don’t kill you and we can still travel, right? I doubt your company is going to extend all hell towards me for anything that I do. After all, I’m only inhuman, and we’re very, very selfish need-based creatures, as you know.”

Patrick turned red, “Find what you’re looking for, I’m getting a hot dog.” He muttered, stopping at a hot dog stand a few feet away, standing in the short line and buying one.

Pete stood next to him, “It doesn’t bother you, make you sick—what I have to do?”

There was a moment of contemplation before he took a bite of it and looked around vaguely. “No. But I’m a Doctor, a Scientist. I imagined it would be worse.”

“You’re strange for a human.” Pete muttered, eyes turning—catching something, “Follow me close, I love Mikey and Alicia to death but they’ll be looking for you so I don’t want you to get lost.” He grabbed at Patrick’s empty hand, ushering him towards the crowd. They kept on in what seemed to be a big mass of people—but slowly the crowd started thinning as they pulled off of main streets—and, finally, it was clear to Patrick who Pete was following with his dark eyes and concentrated movements.

A tall boy, dark haired with glasses, and very bony. Patrick noticed the vague outline of Mikey in the boy, what Pete caught as a physical reminder. The same way as before, he lured the boy into a back alley off of a back road—pressing him against a wall at first, sinking his teeth in and drinking.

The boy struggled at first, but fell predictably quiet after a few minutes. Patrick watched, and eventually the boy slumped up against the wall—still alive. Pete did something different this time, biting at his own thumb and spreading the drops of blood over the wounds in the boys neck, watching as they healed up and then wiping the blood off.

“He’s unconscious. He won’t feel any pain, he’s barely got enough blood left to survive. He put his teeth just below the inside of the boys elbow and carefully used one fang to rip open the vein inside, long ways—blood gushing out.

Patrick sighed, “Let’s go.”

Pete closed his eyes and chuckled a little, “We’re right around the corner. I paid good attention.”

***

“I hate airports.” Pete muttered, “I hate airplanes. They drive me crazy.”

“I can understand why.” Patrick muttered in response. “It must be difficult.”

“There’s so much to take in, too much to take in. And the planes—they’re very, very loud. It’s difficult.”

They picked up their tickets and had their luggage—each one of them with a suitcase (those missing hours since they arrived in New York City were spent collecting a wardrobe for Pete) and the rest of the stuff locked up tight in Patrick’s car.

“When we get to Alaska . . .” Pete trailed off, “Is it going to be like before?”

Patrick was silent for a moment, “It couldn’t be the same now that you’ve gotten this taste of freedom, could it? Doctor Hurley told me you’ll have more freedom, your own room. Your movements will still be limited within the building, but you won’t be in that same room.”

“What about food?”

“We’re still working on your dietary plan.”

Pete closed his eyes for a moment, “I feel like a cliché asking this, Am I ever going to be free again, Doctor?”

“Once you’re no longer a threat to society.” Patrick said, softly, “We’re trying to save people, at my Company. I’m trying to save you.”

Pete laughed, “No matter what diet I’m on, the bloodlust isn’t going to go away.”

“Do you want to hurt people? Do you not want to help people, to become slightly human again?” Patrick asked, keeping his cool the best he could manage.

Pete smiled wistfully, putting his arm around Patrick’s shoulders, “I’m a monster, Doctor. There’s nothing on this green earth or beyond it that could change the fact.”

“Not even me?” Patrick asked, eyes cutting to the side to look at Pete, dark with something—oh, wait. The Doctor leaned in close, putting his arm around Pete’s waist—hand resting on his hip, fingers digging in slightly.

“Not here, God Almighty, not here.” Pete hissed, senses suddenly hyper-aware of everything that was Patrick—everywhere they were pressed together (the chafe of their legs as they kept walking forward), Patrick looking at him with dark eyes, and the sheer lust radiating from his body (in scent and in the way his heart was racing and his eyes seemed vaguely darker) and it was all together to much. Pete pulled away and glared at Patrick. Pete could already feel the blood racing through and burning his veins. He couldn’t help but lean closer and he had to resist the urge to bury his face in Patrick’s neck. “Stupidest fucking Doctor in the world.”

Patrick grinned softly, “We’re boarding now.”

***

“You don’t fucking do that in public.” Pete snarled at Patrick, once the door was shut and locked to their (rather nice) London hotel, “I could have easily snapped and killed you.”

“But you didn’t.” Patrick said, putting his suitcase down—calmly—and walking over to Pete, pressing his lips to Pete’s softly.

“God, suicide mission.” Pete hissed, pushing him away, “Not until after I feed.”

“Just before we left—“ He seemed flustered suddenly, almost disappointed.

“You do things to me, God you don’t even know.” Pete muttered, lips suddenly pressed just to the blue-violet splotch of color on Patrick’s neck. “I want—God, I want . . .” His eyes, onyx black to prove his thirst, raised to meet Patrick’s.

Patrick pressed flat against the wall, careful to keep his breathing steady, “Feed. Then you can . . . It’s daylight, so it’s dangerous. We’ll have to be—“

“No. You can’t go with me.” Pete hissed, “Not if you’re saying I can—no, I won’t control myself. I won’t stop myself, won’t be able to.” He pulled away abruptly and left the room in a storm.

***

By the time Pete came back it was dark outside—and he came in through the balcony. Patrick was shocked for a moment, they weren’t exactly on the first or second floor—more like the tenth, but didn’t say anything. He had blood on his jacket.

“Ran into some punk fledglings, Got into a little fight.” Pete shrugged the unasked question off, Patrick closed his computer and put it on the nightstand. Pete was right next to him in a flash of movement, leaning over the side of the bed, “You sure you want to do this?” he asked, grin full force on his lips.

“Would you even let me say no, at this point?”

“No.” Pete whispered, voice gruff, “Kiss me.”

***

Pete turned his head just a little bit, and there that throat was, he tilted just a little bit, and licked just over the bruise. Patrick shifted his hips and Pete couldn’t help it. Everything just melted in at once—and suddenly his teeth were sinking into flesh.

Patrick’s eyes shot wide open, but he couldn’t bring panic to bubble up at the surface over the intensity. Instead, he just rocked his hips and tilted his head back. He couldn’t say no to Pete, he couldn’t. Especially not like this.

Pete moaned against Patrick’s throat, “So fucking long.” He muttered, lapping up the blood from the shallow marks as Patrick rocked against him. Pete shuffled his hand around, finally touching Patrick.

***

“You taste perfect.” Pete muttered into the crook of Patrick’s neck, protectively sprawled across him.

“’m tired.” Patrick said, voice hoarse—expression sated.

“I know you are.” Pete whispered, “It’ll be okay. We can hang out here for a day or two, and then we’ll go do whatever it is we have to do to meet up with your friends.” He muttered, fingers dancing softly over the smooth skin of Patrick’s throat.

For once, Pete, too, felt perfectly sated. He hadn’t felt that way in an incredibly long amount of time that he didn’t feel like checking.

“I’ll stay here with you, and I’ll watch over you. I can bring you anything you need.”

Patrick rolled onto his side—almost curling up against Pete underneath the blankets. “I’m sorry, Pete.”

“For what?” Pete asked. Humans who were fed from, but not earnestly fed from, tended to be delusional. Pete had taken just a little more than he needed for a taste—it was nothing Patrick would “regret in the morning” (no, that was saved for their other activity). He might be tired and sore (from both things), but he would be fine in a day or so.

“This is all a trap.”

Pete went rigid, pulling away, “Explain, now.” He hissed.

Patrick looked intensely somber as he spoke, “Most of its true, all of it. Except that William, and your friends; they’re coming after me, not you. The other doctors set this all up for my protection.”

And in that instant, the Doctor had never been more terrified of the Vampire as he stood up and snarled—looking everything that he was supposed to be dangerous and horrific.

“It took them a long time to figure out it was me who caught you, but they did. They found out we were moving you, that I was moving you. They were going to kill me and take you back.” Patrick said, soft and tired, trembling slightly. “But we left ahead of the schedule their informant gave them.”

Pete snarled, growling, “I shouldn’t have stopped myself. They were right. They always have been. Humans are filthy, worthless liars. I hope you burn in your pathetic hell.” In a blur of shapes and air, Pete tore across the room and dressed before opening the balcony window and jumping.

The Doctor closed his eyes and fell asleep.

</div>

cross my heart and hope to die (epic vampire au) part one

pfor — Thu, 22 Nov 2007 05:42:37 GMT

title. cross my heart and hope to die (i've traced your shadows on the wall) part one (part one)
rating. hard r.
language, violence (not for the squeamish, vampire stuff, here), and sexual things
summary. Pete is impatient and ready to live again. Patrick is trying to stop him. When one of them is a vampire who's been locked up (for longer than he can bear), and one of them is a doctor trying to save the world (one victim at a time) things get a little messy.
pairings. pxp, mikeyxalicia, hinted petexryan,
disclaimer. if you googled yourself GO AWAY NOW. because, yeah, it would be embarrassing for all of us if you read this. in other words, i wrote this for my own and others enjoyment and love these guys and don't mean to offend.

dedication. i will admit that i did not write this fanfic specifically for this purpose. but i'm gonna go ahead and dedicate it to firedragon9. Merry Birthday! I'm sorry that this part is so sad xD But I also have to give props to my beta, moral supporter, and ego booster angelcakes694 whom i love to death and back.

author's notes. EPIC LONG FANFIC. YAAY! this is my longest fanfic ever. ever. i'm very excited to see what people thing and hope you like what you read!

i greatly crave feedback. i am also taking requests.

Peter Wentz lived in a world of white. The four walls, the ceiling, the floor, and the door were all white. Even the ‘tinted’ window was made to look white. Even for his eyes, so precise yet highly sensitive, he couldn’t see through to the other side. The only thing in his world that wasn’t white was himself and his food. Occasionally, there would be conversations, mostly him rambling and struggling and yelling and screaming. Other times he would catch whispers of conversation through the heavily insulated and sound-proofed walls.

His existence was just being wasted behind a damned mirror.

“How are you today Peter?” The voice was the same one as always almost timid sounding at first--but it was the only voice Pete heard with any clarity, anymore, so he had grown past his initial hatred of it. The feeling had grown into a peculiar mixture of familiarity, annoyance, and resentment.

“You shouldn’t have to ask anymore.” Was his bitter response, seething with aggravation as usual. The conversation always went the same for the first few minutes. Then it varied, a little, from day to day. It depended on what the Doctor was currently looking into.

There was a slight pause; Pete predicted a sigh of frustration from the, no doubt, young Doctor. “I try to exercise the morality of politeness.” Again with the morality shit, he never failed to bring it up. Pete resisted baring his teeth towards the mirror—he knew it wouldn’t do him any good and would take more of his precious little strength than was worth it.

“You look hungry.”

“Damn ri—“

“No profanities, Peter. We’ve discussed this. I’d hate to have to withdraw your—“

“Dinner, I know. It’s been two weeks four days, and twenty two hours since I last ate.” Pete hissed, voice sounding as inhuman as it was, “You people will be the death of me.”

This time the sigh was audible over the intercom, “Three hours, and you’ll get the supplements, Pete. I’m sure you were counting, though.”

Pete almost ached with anticipation. It wasn’t any damn near close to the real thing—but damn it was better than nothing. Better than the slabs of meat they had tried feeding him in the first place. With technology, they were just getting better and better and better at simulating the taste and texture of human blood.

“I want to die.”

“To be honest, Peter, I can understand why. This isn’t forever, though.”

“You’re just waiting for my coven to come running after me so you can start a big fucking war between the undead and the living? Let me tell you this, Doc, you’re not going to win.”

“Doctor Stump, Pete. We’ve been through this every day.” That was an understatement, Pete thought. Pete was very quick to bicker with Doctor Stump about why he was locked up.

“Yessir.” Pete said, rolling his eyes in an annoyingly human habit as he angled a glare at the window. He was too tired to move, to draw up the energy to hiss or bite or struggle or even just flip him the middle finger.

There was a minute of mostly quiet, just the sounds of paper and pencil and various office supplies and breathing over the intercom that a normal person wouldn’t be able to pick up. Then the Doctor spoke back up, leaning back into the microphone, “Can you please describe your physical feelings?”

“I’m so tired. I can’t move. I tried. I won’t be able to talk to you tomorrow without those supplements.”

“This is the longest you’ve ever gone without anything, am I correct?”

“Yes.” Pete responded, voice hoarsening with the thought. “My mouth is dry. If you were in this room I would kill you without a moment’s hesitation. Anyone. I used to be picky. When I get out of this damned place—“

“Peter,” Doctor Stump’s voice was stern, “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Pete laughed, hollow and dry. “As if you care what they do to me. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

There was another rustle of paper, and Pete could hear voices in the background, but too distant from the microphone for him to clearly make out. “Peter, how long have you been in there?”

“Four years. Five months. Sixteen days. Twelve hours. Five minutes. Forty Five seconds to now.

“You’re right . . . You were indestructible.”

“I still am.”

“You said it yourself, just a little bit ago, ‘You people will be the death of me.’” There was a short pause, and the microphone clicked off. Pete cursed, loudly, regretting the effort as he felt his muscles ache—they sapped up energy in his body attempting to stretch to the last edges of his vein and keep all of his limbs in working order should he need them.

He sat there, thinking, for a while. He wasn’t really counting the seconds like he usually did. He just sat there, eyes closed, head tilted back.

Then something unexpected happened.

/***\

“Peter?” This time the voice came from something other than the crackling intercom he was used too. He opened his eyes, turned towards the door. His senses were overwhelmed. The subtle temperature change (that he was all too sensitive too), the background noise from the other room, the light change, and the smell. He took in a deep breath through his nose, mouth open, fangs elongated.

Damn.

Pete had never seen him, but he would recognize Doctor Stump’s voice anywhere. He had imagined what the Doctor might look like, more than once or twice, but had never come up with that. He was practically a kid, and he looked wholly to young to be a Doctor (early twenties, perhaps?). He was a little on the chubby side, but that was okay—not everyone had his own metabolism, and he was only about Pete’s height. He was wearing a pair of generic-looking black jeans and a dark shirt with a white lab coat unbuttoned. The hat covering up most of his (blonde? Strawberry-blonde? Red? The lighting was so messed up in that room) hair and shadowing his blue-green eyes was the only thing really out of place, well, his sideburns looked a little strange too.

But Pete only gave those things a glance over. He was focused on the Doctor’s skin, smooth and pale—porcelain like (but not quite as perfect as any of his kind’s). He could see his veins running like a network underneath that gorgeous skin. And he could smell it pumping through his veins.

He could barely even move.

“Peter. They’ve come for you.” Doctor Stump said, his voice was just above a whisper. He sounded anxious. His heart rate was abnormally fast and Pete was all too aware of that fact.

“Who?”

“Your friends.”

Pete felt a surge of relief for a quick second, but then went rigid—something about the Doctor’s manner. This wasn’t what he was wanting it to be, this was bad for him.

“They’re not coming for you.” Doctor Stump continued, “They’re coming after you. They think, it’s been messy out there. Some of them have been killed. They think that you tipped us off on how. I . . . Doctor Hurley wants me to get you out of here, out of the country as soon as possible.”

Pete laughed, bitter and sarcastic.

“I can’t move, Doctor Stump. Are you forgetting?”

Doctor Stump looked vaguely nauseas for a moment, “I know. I . . . We have a few death-row inmates that are being kept here for psychiatric analysis. Doctor Hurley suggested that you should go ahead.”

A feral grin of anticipation slipped onto Pete’s face. He could suck the damned bastard’s dry. “I can’t move, though, Doctor Stump.”

He looked flustered again. “I understand. I’ll return momentarily.” Pete got the vague idea the Doctor knew he was being manipulated. That made him grin even more.

The Doctor was careful not to turn his back on Pete, wisely enough, as he exited the room. He counted the time exactly (fourteen minutes and thirty three seconds) until the Doctor returned, pushing a haggard looking man in his mid to late thirties. He stopped in front of Pete, pushing the man down towards him.

Pete’s reaction was almost instantaneous (sluggish from the lack of energy), he grabbed the man by the shoulders and pinned him down, knees on either side of his hips, back bowed, lips on his throat immediately—fangs sinking in, blood rushing into his mouth, down his throat.

The man screamed, yelled, thrashed around. Pete grinned, not letting the man so much as squirm an inch away from him. He was in too much of a hurry to make this feel good for the dying man.

Pete was all too aware of Doctor Stump’s fidgeting in the background, the hesitant scrawl on his clip board as his eyes remained glued on the scene in front of him. He was frightened, nervous, terrified—his heart was racing. He had good reason to be. Because Pete was keeping his eyes on Stump, not this insignificant man beneath him.

The taste of his blood paled in comparison to the mere scent of the Doctor’s. Perhaps it might just be that the Doctor was the first human he had smelled in years? Or maybe it was something else; Pete didn’t much care to think about that at the moment.

The man’s heart beat stopped, so suddenly Pete almost didn’t expect it. He licked the drops of blood from the wound, tracing his tongue over his own lips to pull the last remnants.

When he stood up, it was with all the grace of a King and the predatory stance of a Leopard. Doctor Stump didn’t have the time to even flinch before Pete was right next to him, leering. The Doctor didn’t breathe at first, before forcing himself to relax and breathe steadily.

Pete grinned, wide and full of mischief. “You’re good.”

“You’re not the first that I’ve dealt with, Pete.”

“You’re too young.” Was the vampire’s quick snap.

The Doctor smirked this time, “Jealousy. It’s so much easier to tell what you’re feeling when there’s not that piece of glass. Your facial expressions are very easy to read.”

Pete snarled, at him. “I thought we were in a hurry?”

“Vaguely. We can’t really leave until tomorrow.” There was an awkward pause as he looked to the clipboard in his hand, “Can you handle being in public without making a scene?”

Pete laughed, “Why of course,” he said, leaning in just a little closer to the man, turning his eyes up towards the nervous Doctor, “How else would we find our victims?”

“Everyone is different.” He exclaimed, “I’m going to take you to the residential quarters of the facility. I understand that you are not . . . human, and you operate and function differently from those of us who are. But for the sake of getting you out of here in one piece and getting me out alive I need you to be on your best behavior.”

Pete considered for a moment, “I don’t understand why you remaining alive is so imperative to my escape.”

Doctor Stump grinned, “I’m the only person in the country right now who can protect you from them in the slightest. I know you’re strong Pete, but there are more of them, and if my memory serves me correctly, some of them are even older than you.”

“How can *you* protect *me?*”

“Because I can get you out of here absolutely traceless. You wouldn’t even be able to go back and find your own trail.”

Pete considered for a moment and recalled how eerily scentless the white room had been before the door opened, even after he knew humans had come in to check his stats. “I’ll give you a chance, Doctor.”

“Patrick. You won’t want to call me Doctor in public. We’re going to try and be inconspicuous, if you know the meaning of the word.”

Pete leaned in again, “I can deal with that . . . Patrick.” He said, ducking in swiftly to peck a kiss on his neck before darting away, quickly. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Patrick took a deep, shuddering breath. “I swear to God, Pete. I can put you in so much pain if you screw this up.”

“I’m selfish. You’ve proven to me that I need you.” Pete said, fangs showing. Patrick turned, silently and went out the door. Pete followed, just slightly jumpy from using his senses being able to soak in so much for the first time in a long time. “You’ll be fine.”

After locking the door to the white room, Patrick led him down a corridor filled with identical doors and long mirrors. Pete stared straight ahead, memorizing the Doctor’s walk and scent, his heart rate, everything he could about his physical appearance to fill in his memory. To make all those long conversations a little more concrete in his mind.

They reached a door and Patrick poked in a code on a keypad, Pete subtly peered over his shoulders—memorizing it just in case, and they walked on, climbing a flight of stairs and taking a few more turns—finally stopping at one of the first doors in the new corridor they were in.

Patrick typed in yet another key code on pad next to the door, and then stuck the key into the door, turning it and pulling it out—the door opened for them, and Patrick ushered him in, Pete jumping when it closed behind him.

“The residential wing is relatively new; it has some of the most advanced technology that we haven’t been able to integrate into the old wings of the research and observation building.” He explained, “I live here. It’s like an apartment or dorm. It’s a lot easier and more convenient than living elsewhere. This operation is very secret and going in and out of the gates is a pain in the ass.”

“I can see why. Not everyone would like knowing their government was keeping vampires and god knows what else right next door without telling them.”

“You’re right. They would rather not know that you exist at all.”

***

“It only smells like you.” Pete said, an eyebrow raised, “Only you.”

“Watching you takes up most of my time, besides, ‘secretive operation.’ It’s too inconvenient to date anyone outside and none of us ever really have free time at the same time.” Patrick said, in his room—gesturing to a small stack of clothes with a shoe box on top of it, “I borrowed these from a few people around, mostly based off of what you wore in the photos where we were observing you. We can get you some more shortly.”

“You weren’t there, but for four, five hours a day—never all at once, either.”

“I haven’t been in a relationship in a long time, Peter. And it isn’t much of your business.”

“I like to know people inside and out. It’s something I do.”

“You will not intimidate me.” The Doctor said reading through what Pete was attempting to do, his movements suddenly rigid and careful as he put folded clothing into a suit case.

Pete had Patrick leaned over onto the bed, next to the suitcase, in a moment—hips lined up, Patrick’s back to his chest, tongue licking a stripe up his neck desperately.

“God, you don’t even know how long I’ve wanted to take a bite out of you.” He laughed bitterly, “Ever since the first damn day you spoke to me over that microphone.” He hissed, “And then when you opened that door . . . You smell,” Pete paused, swirling his tongue against hot skin again, scraping his teeth against it not quite hard enough to tear the skin at all, “so good."

“Let me go Peter.” Patrick said, surprisingly calm sounding and surprisingly commanding.

“Why should I?” Pete asked, softly, voice reverberating against Patrick’s skin, teeth pressed flat against his skin as he sucked, hard, bringing blood just beneath the surface of his skin.

Patrick groaned, “Peter, Let me go now.”

Pete hissed against the Doctor’s skin, stretching his jaw wider as if he was going to sink his fangs in—and then he pulled away, backing off from him entirely pressing himself against the wall, flat.

Patrick remained leaning over the side of the bed, bracing himself on his hands.

“This isn’t a good idea for you. You’re on a suicide mission. Why are you doing this?” Pete asked, slowly, after a moment as he glided towards the stack of clothes—picking them up and walking back towards the bathroom.

“You’ve been my life for four and a half years, Peter.” Patrick said, “I have watched you, talked with you, studied you.” He paused, grappling for words, “I want to help you escape the monster you’ve become, because that’s what we do. We take things like you and make them as human as they can be.”

Pete was as still as marble for a moment, “I don’t feel guilty, a surprising amount of us don’t. It’s survival of the fittest, and ‘things like me’ are at the top of the food chain. I don’t mind what I’ve become.” He said, going back into the bathroom and clicking the door shut behind him.

“I’m going to save you.” Patrick hissed, barely audible, as he clenched his fists in the comforter.

***

The next day, Patrick packed up his car with most of the contents of his ‘apartment.’ It wasn’t that much, just a guitar, clothes, hats, and an assortment of vaguely family-heirloom-looking things. Pete helped him, careful with the fragile things and stayed a distance away from Patrick.

“We’re leaving Chicago.” Patrick had told him before he went to bed—visibly exhausted—and he had gotten them up before dawn to pack the car. Patrick dug out a pair of sunglasses for Pete, the sunlight would be too damn much once it rose and he pulled his sleeves down and his hood up (it was winter, he wasn’t out of place, or anything) and climbed into the car, curling up in the passengers seat and turning away from Patrick.

“The sunlight really doesn’t hurt?”

Pete shrugged, “It’s uncomfortable. It makes me paranoid, makes my skin itch. My senses are the most dulled in the daytime. People exist, there’s too much to smell, too much to hear, too much to take in. Sensory overload,” he paused, “I remember being told that was why we were nightwalkers. Because our ancestors would otherwise be condemned to constant overload, constantly paranoid because of it.”

“We’ll be driving all day. How often do you need to feed to stay at regular function?”

Pete snorted, “You should know that Doctor.”

“I should. But you never needed to function at full capacity in that setting. We had to keep your diet controlled for our own safety.” Patrick explained carefully, turning the heat on.

“Sometimes twice a night, sometimes every other, it all depended.” Pete said, “If I get hurt bad—a tricky fall, a deep wound—I need to eat more, to compensate . . . If I’m just ‘staying in shape’ as you might put it, I need to eat about every night. I don’t have to drain them dry . . . but it’s just easier to do that. For them and for me, really—otherwise the death is long and slow, it’s nearly impossible to recover from.”

“I figured as much. Will it be too unbearable to wait until we get to New York? I’d prefer you didn’t at rest stops or small towns.”

“Yes.” Pete answered, instantly.

“How do you dispose of the body?”

“Sewers, wounds, gashes. I leave enough wounds to make it look like they bled out down there, enough blood in the body so it doesn’t look forced.”

Patrick stared straight ahead, “It’ll be light soon.”

“Enough time. Take me downtown. There’ll be people there.”

So Patrick did. They parked the car where Pete was sure there was no camera (he could catch the glint from the sunlight, hear the mechanisms inside it) and went downtown. Pete went on ahead dodging people craftily, walking quickly as if he was going somewhere—Patrick following from a safe distance. Pete’s eyes turned dark, almost black, when he heard a girl walking out of a coffee shop in his direction.

He was no telepath. But he had ways of enchanting his prey without speaking, without leaving anything for witnesses. He amped it up—it would draw in humans closer, more curious. He was so alluring.

Then it was easy.

***

The girl slumped in his arms, holding onto his jacket, loosely—as his lips tore once again into the skin at her neck—blood gushing into his mouth. God, it had been too long, too long. He hadn’t been able to enjoy himself last night. He couldn’t wait for a challenge, in the city. It sent his own heart pumping through the used blood in his body.

“I never did anything wrong.” She whispered, her coffee cup dropping helplessly to the ground, the foamy liquid spilling onto the ground of the secluded alleyway.

“Neither did I.” He whispered against her skin, loud enough for her to hear. He was making this easy—keeping things gentle, not sucking too hard, not pulling at her veins—as much as he could, as much as he could bear.

“I know.” She whispered, voice hoarse. Pete was always careful, he never tore too deep in the throat—just bit into the artery, spilled the blood into his mouth, he was always as careful as he could be. Let them live as long as they could, let them talk to him.

Patrick, in the background, swallowed—hand drifting to the bruise on his neck, rubbing softly at it. Thinking, pondering, understanding that he should be dead. Pete turned his eyes (black, coal, onyx black) from the girl to Patrick’s. They locked, fire and intensity versus icy cold fear. For all he was worth, Patrick couldn’t have moved if Pete dropped the girl and headed towards him.

“The—the sun rises in-in an hour.” He choked out, “Hurry.” His throat, mouth was dry. He should be nauseas, instead he was captivated.

Pete finished with her, her heart had stopped—he was full. Patrick stared, dully, as Pete did exactly what he told Patrick he always did.

“Come on, Pete. We need to get back to the car now.”

In a flash, Patrick was pressed up against the wall, wrists restrained above his head in Pete’s iron grip—lips pressed against his neck over the blue-violet bruise, nose rubbing against his neck, Pete’s eyes closed wistfully. “God, God, you’ll drive me crazy if you keep doing that with your heart, if you keep sweating, if you keep breathing.”

“Pete.”

“Doctor, shit. Shit.” Peter pulled his head away, thumping his forehead against the wall next to Patrick’s head, lips ghosting against the fabric of his shirt, “I—it’s not enough with you there, smelling like that. I’m not used to a human being so close for so long. Ever, I’ve never been. Ever since I’ve been turned—Ross was with me for all of half a week before I made him. God, stay away from me.”

Patrick was careful to maintain steady breathing—trying his best to keep his heart rate steady. He had heard the story of Ross, Ryan—the first human Pete had tried to be close to after he was turned, years and years ago. It had failed miserably, Pete turned him less than a week after their relationship became serious. The fledgling vampire was killed by Pete’s ‘friends’ months later after revealing his new lack of humanity to his best friend without turning him. It had been one of the few sources of Pete’s guilt, as far as Patrick could pick up.

But the Doctor had never heard Pete sound quite that guilty over it. “You smell the best, out of all of them. I don’t even remember a smell so tantalizing as yours from when I was in the cities, unleashed. God, but I can’t kill you or I’m screwed over. I don’t stand a chance. I’m not ready to die now that I’m out of there.” Pete tilted his head a little, trailing his nose through Patrick’s hair (just beneath his hat) to his cheek, breathing deep—smelling him, committing it to his memory. Pete pulled away, rolled the sleeves of his hoodie down and put the hood up—stomping off angrily in the direction of the car.

part two of part one

</div>

Big Boys Don't Cry, Unless Their Whole Lives Are Crashing Down Around Them [standalone]

pfor — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 18:47:09 GMT

title. Big Boys Don't Cry, Unless Their Whole Lives Are Crashing Down Around Them
rating. PG-13 for language, slight sexual innuendo, and boy kissing.
beta thanks. edhelagreenleaf for helping me decide what I wanted to do with the ending, and encouraging me to rewrite something instead of just dropping the idea.
summary. A car accident leaves Patrick without his voice. Six months later, and still voiceless, he's falling apart at the seams.
wordcount. 4211
disclaimer. [Fan]fiction: something feigned, invented, or imagined; a made-up story
pairing. patrickxpeter, bits and pieces of friendship jonwalkerxpatrick
warnings. Patrick with no voice. Angsty. Emo-y
author's notes. inspired most heavily by 'Big Girls Don't Cry' by Fergie. Yes, please don't laugh. It's a good song. It was on repeat during the entire writing process. I tried to stick with it to the best of my ability.

The sound of his sneakers pacing against the pavement wasn’t loud enough. He wasn’t going fast enough, he wasn’t getting far enough away. He couldn’t help the tears that stung at his eyes, but he wished they weren’t there. He didn’t want it to be like this. He was breathing hard, and sweat was running down his face. There was no turning back.

And he was trying not to think, just concentrating on the slap of rubber against pavement. It wasn’t steady, or rhythmic, anymore. There was no beat, because he was tired and he had been running for a long time. He just wanted to get away.

He was having trouble holding back the tears that were beginning to drip from his eyes, and he was clenching his eyes shut, and slowing down, and where was he going to go from here? If he couldn’t go back to . . . then where was he going to stay? Nothing had turned out like he had wanted it too . . .

Thunder roared, somewhere behind him and he wanted to cry more as rain started pouring down, his run having faded into a walk. He pulled his hood up, carefully, and his fingers trembled around the cloth because this was his, and it hurt, but he just clutched at the fabric around the zipper and looked for a bus stop.

Chapped lips formed a word, but no sound came out and he wanted to cry even more. Because he was trying, he really was. He wanted it back so bad he couldn’t stand it, because . . . it was what was keeping Pete with him. He always raved on and on about his voice, did he not?

He imagined he must look pretty pitiful, then and there. Just a guy walking alone in the rain, with his chin down and the tears and rain and swear mingling on his cheeks as he walked down the sidewalk with no phone and fifteen dollars, with no way to get anywhere. He felt ridiculous, and he knew he looked it too.

He kept on trying, and trying, but no sound would come out of his throat and it had been like this for months after the accident and it was ridiculous. He . . . needed to be alone for a while.

And the rain wasn’t stopping and he was soaked to the bone, and he was drawn out of his stupor when a car slowed down, riding on the road next to him. The window rolled down after a few moments.

“Pete?”

Patrick looked over to the car, and once the driver got a good look at his face they stopped and got out of the car, running over towards him and wrapping arms around him, ushering him over to the car, “Its okay. I don’t know what happened, but its okay. Come on, I’ve got a pen and a paper in the car. Tell me where you want to go.” He didn’t think he had ever been that happy to see Jon Walker, because Jon Walker never made you do anything you didn’t want to.

He also didn’t care that Patrick was soaking wet, or getting his car all soggy and horrible (even though it was just a rental SUV). Jon reached over and grabbed a backpack, from the back seat, pulling out an old notebook and a sharpie marker, handing both over to Patrick.

Patrick opened it to the middle, uncapping the sharpie—the cap held between his teeth as he scrawled, ‘my house, please? i need to get my credit cards.’

Jon nodded, “I can’t promise you no one will be there. Pete called everyone thirty minutes after you left his house. We were all really worried.”

Patrick nodded, and leaned up against the window, and he remembered the accident was on a night like this. Just bright lights and loud screeches, metal twisting and folding around him and Pete, and then Andy and Joe had been lucky enough to be in another car. And Pete had been okay, but he wasn’t. Patrick had been in a coma, but he was mostly okay now. Physically, anyways.

The doctors said it was because of the trauma, that he couldn’t speak. They said his speech would come back when he was ready, and that maybe it was better while he was recovering, anyways.

But six months had passed, and he could still barely make a noise.

And Patrick leaned away from the window, fidgeting awkwardly as he moved, willing his house to just be closer and wishing that the car was bigger and safer, and maybe coated in rubber, like a bumper car except not so aggressive. He had sold his own car since the accident. It made him nauseous to look at it, being the exact same make and model as the one from the accident—just a rental in a bad Washington storm . . .

When Jon pulled up to the driveway of his LA house, Patrick unbuckled his seat as soon as the car stopped, carefully getting out of the car and running towards his front door—legs aching with the fresh memory of his run. He jammed the key into the lock impatiently, fiddling with it until the lock clicked, and he could twist the knob.

And it was dark, and there was no one in there, and he didn’t care if Jon followed him. Patrick unzipped the hoodie and threw it carelessly onto the ground. He paused as he heard the wet plop on the carpet, and sighed a little before moving to the back room—his own room.

He remembered when he had bought the house, Pete and him setting up the Queen sized bed and the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. He remembered both of them falling down on the bed once the mattress was covered in newly-washed sheets and an old comforter that still smelled like Chicago. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“What happened, Patrick?” Jon asked, calm and quiet as he stood in the door way—the epitome of comfort in the way he spoke and stood, the way Patrick knew he wanted to help. Jon had found Patrick’s mini-whiteboard and the attached marker, and handed it over to him.

Patrick held up a finger, as if to say, ‘One minute.’ And he walked to his closet, grabbing dry clothes to put on.

___________________________________________________

“From the beginning.”

Patrick let out a breath, and pulled the sleeve of his dry shirt up, uncapping the marker and beginning to write. Jon stood there patiently for a few minutes as Patrick scrawled away in the dark blue ink, turning the board to show it to Jon when he seemed satisfied with the beginning of the tale.

‘We were on our way to the hotel we were staying at, after a show. We had two rentals, we were gonna be in town for a few days—so, we all had gear and instruments packed into two cars. Andy and Joe were in one, and Pete and I were in the other.’

Jon nodded, and Patrick picked up the wash cloth sitting next to him, splotches of white mostly hidden by black, red, blue, purple, yellow, orange, green marker stains from the past month or so. He wiped the board clean, and began writing again.

‘Pete was driving; I was in the passenger’s seat. There was a drunk driver coming from the other direction. He hit the car on Pete’s side, and knocked us off the road. My head hit the glass hard enough to knock me out. Pete and I don’t know what happened after that. I got a broken arm, and some broken ribs from equipment hitting my seat and slamming me against the dashboard, we think. The air bag protected him, he got a cracked rib and a concussion.’

Wash, rinse, repeat.

‘I was in a coma for a few days. They didn’t know how bad the brain damage was then. It wasn’t that bad, of course. I have trouble remembering some things, still. Stuff that has happened, and things that are recent. The Doctor’s said I should have been back to normal by now.’

‘That I should be able to talk, that it’s trauma. The part of my brain is supposedly healed, that it wasn’t all that bad in the first place. But I still can’t talk, obviously.’

‘I’m no good for anyone like this. I quit the band. I’m going to go back to Chicago. Maybe I’ll be able to find a gig drumming . . . probably not. I’ll just keep on producing for a while, and then I’ll see what happens. I don’t want Pete’s guilt or pity anymore. That’s why I’m leaving.”

Jon nodded, not speaking for a moment. “What did you tell Pete?”

A look of pain and grief flooded onto Patrick’s face, when he picked up the marker again his hand was shaking, and he held it for a moment before beginning to write.

‘I told him that I hated him. That it was his fault and I didn’t want to see him again. It would be hard for me to do this if he came after me.’

Patrick started crying again. The only noise coming from him the harsh suck in of breath and he was leaning over the side of the bed, clutching at his arms, and he was in so much pain . . . He had hurt his bestfriendotherhalfsoulmate. And he had hurt him so badly.

Jon was warm, he noticed, as the bigger mans arms wrapped around him. And Patrick was trying to yell and scream, he was trying so hard. Because if he could then he could run back to Pete and apologize with his own voice and he could stay with his friends and be happy with them, and it would be like nothing ever happened. But no sound was coming out, and he cried even harder because this was his life . . . falling apart.

“It’s going to be okay . . .”

Patrick shook his head, fervently, as if to retort hot and angrily, ‘No! It’s not going to be okay!’ And Jon seemed to understand, because he just kept on muttering to him softly, and rubbing his back. Five minutes later, Patrick picked up the whiteboard and scrawled, ‘Take me to LAX, please?’

Jon seemed hesitant to answer immediately, “Are you sure?”

Patrick nodded. Jon sighed, heavily, and stood up, “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

________________________________

“Patrick! Oh God I was so worried about you.”

Patrick turned around just in time to be wrapped tightly in Pete’s arms, and Patrick jerked away, backing up. His expression shouted ‘What the hell, Pete? I told you, no more!’ And his mouth was open, his eyebrows were furrowed—his cheeks and eyes were still puffy and red, a stark contrast against his usual creamy skin.

“I couldn’t find you anywhere, and you had left your phone, and oh God I was so worried something would happen and when it started raining . . . Jon called me and told me he found you, and brought you here. I came as soon as I could.” Pete said, going walking closer to Patrick as the other one backed up, “Patrick, please?”

Patrick shook his head, lunging for his whiteboard, grabbing the marker and wiping off the words with his hand and scrawling quickly on it, ‘I told you, I’m leaving!’

“Patrick, listen, we can work through this. The Doctors said you should be able to talk any day now.

In the middle of Pete’s sentence, Patrick grabbed the rag, furiously erasing his words to prepare for the next ones, ‘They say this, they say that! Face it, Pete! I’ll never be able to talk again!’

“Don’t, Patrick! You’ll be able to; you just have to give it time!’

‘I’ve given it time. I’ve given it months. I just want to move on, and forget about this.’ He wrote, shoving the board in Pete’s face, without looking at him.

“Patrick . . .” Pete knocked the board away, and pushed Patrick against the wall, staring at him straight in the eye, “Don’t tell me what that you want to forget about this. Because this has been your life since you were sixteen years old.”

The younger man clenched his eyes shut, and mouthed, ‘It’s over Pete. I can’t do it anymore.’

Pete looked like he was about to reply, but instead he kissed him. Patrick opened his eyes, shocked, but then they fluttered shut. And he didn’t hesitate in kissing him back. How long had he wanted this? A long time, which was one reason that it hurt so much to know that Pete was slipping away from him. His hands rested lightly on Pete’s hips, and he had wanted this so badly.

Pete pulled away for a moment, “Patrick, I’ll do anything, just don’t leave . . . Please . . .”

Patrick leaned forward and kissed Pete, hard, pressing up against him and pulling away abruptly after a moment. He tore away from Pete, and went over to his dresser, picking up a pen, and writing in the dying ink-pen next to it, scribbling on the side to get the ink to flow. He tore it off from the note book, and gave it to Pete—grabbing his bag and running out of the room.

Pete could hear the door slam behind him, and Jon starting the car out in the drive way. He stared after Patrick, for a moment, before looking at the piece of paper.

‘I hope you know that this has nothing to do with you. Myself and I, we’ve got some straightening out to do. And I’m gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket. But I’ve got to get a move on with my life.

Going back to Chicago. Need to be with myself and center, clarity, peace, serenity.’

Pete laughed a little at the reference. He didn’t go after Patrick this time. He called Pat to tell her that Patrick would probably be catching the next flight to O’Hare, and that was it.

When Pete went home that night, he downloaded the song and listened to it straight on till morning.

_________________________________________________

Patrick’s flight was red-eye, and he only had one bag of luggage for justincase something happened and he got stuck somewhere over the night. His laptop and case were next to him, sitting on his lap as he tried to sleep on the way home. He caught some sleep, but not enough to be significant.

When he got to the airport, his Mom was already there. The general exchange of hugs and kisses was exchanged. She drove him to his house, and he smiled and nodded as if to say ‘Thank You.’ And wrote her a note that he’d send her an email after he had gotten some sleep.

And Patrick emailed his mom in the morning, and he emailed Pete and told him nothing other than that he had gotten home safe and sound. He didn’t get a response, and for once that fact gave him peace instead of chaos.

For the next month, Patrick wrote songs on guitar—just for himself, and he played along with songs on the radio, and worked on GarageBand a lot, and remixed some of their old stuff for the hell of it. He worked on composing music for some of Pete’s old notebooks—and he was doing a shitty job of forgetting, but it hurt even more to not be working with the music.

He even held a one day guitar-teaching session at the community center for a charity. He had someone there who would read what he wrote to the class, and would help him out where he needed it. Two days after that he heard from Pete for the first time since seeing him.

Pete emailed Patrick asking him to fly down to LA for the weekend to work on a radio remix for Panic!’s new single. Patrick thought about it for a day and replied that he would. Pete emailed him the dates and bought him a ticket that left for Friday and told him he’d be there to pick him up.

By the time Friday rolled around, Patrick had his things packed and he was at the airport two hours early, and he couldn’t wait. He didn’t even mind security so much, and he managed to not be carry on a decent pen-and-paper on his side and talking on theirs conversation with some fans that came up to him (he recognized them from the early days . . .) and started talking. When his flight was called he wrote on a napkin that it was great to “talk” to them again, but he had to go. They smiled and told him they hoped he got his voice back soon, that they missed the band. Patrick didn’t write anything about how he missed it too. Just nodded to them, and left.

______________________________________________

The flight was dull, and Patrick fiddled around on his iPod the whole time, finding something to listen to and not staying content—just skipping and shuffling almost the whole flight. He was so anxious when it landed, and he hated the security, and the luggage claim and all of those horribly boring airline things.

And finally, he spotted Pete—wearing a non-Clandestine hoodie and big sunglasses and regular jeans with boots and looking pretty normal. Patrick practically ran up and hugged him, because a month without Pete was like a month without food, sometimes.

But Patrick just smiled and nodded, and Pete started chatting about things, about the song and about life. The car ride wasn’t unpleasant, because it was filled with music and the familiar chatter of Pete’s voice. They pulled up to Pete’s house instead of Patrick’s, and he figured as much.

“We can go by your place and get your stuff later. Catch up time, though, ‘kay?” Patrick nodded, and wrote down the simple facts of what he had been doing and Pete laughed a little, as they relaxed on the couch, in front of the turned off TV.

“What happened to forgetting?”

‘Forgetting hurt more than I thought it would. I missed you.’

Pete pushed Patrick down and kissed him hard enough to bruise. Patrick smiled and kissed back, more softly—Pete slowing down to meet his pace. And Patrick just smiled bigger and wider, and Pete grinned down at him, and it was just . . . surreal.

Pete pressed down against Patrick, and the younger male let out a strangled sound. Both of them stopped in their tracks, Pete staring down at Patrick and Patrick staring up at Pete.

____________________________________________

“I’m glad you’re back. How was your vacation?” It was Jon who asked the question, and he had a look on his face that showed genuine care for the answer.

“G-Good.” Patrick responded, voice a little scratchy, but never the less audible and never the less there. Jon swept Patrick up in one of his should-be-patented Jon Walker hugs, and Patrick laughed a little. Pete was beaming.

“When did you get your voice back?” Brendon beamed, patting Patrick on the shoulder with a bright happy look in his eyes.

Patrick couldn’t help but feel good at that, and everyone was so happy for him, and he was so happy for him and he had never seen Pete look so happy in all the years he had known him.

“Pete had me . . . fly in a couple weeks ago . . . he tricked me, but . . . I got my voice back, and I’ve been going to speech therapy.” Patrick said, all awkward pauses aside, he hadn’t stuttered and his voice was loud, even if it was a little scratchy.

“That’s so great Patrick!”

“I’m throwing a party at AK-47 this Friday. I expect all of Decaydance’s presence to celebrate the return of Patrick Stump’s amazing voice.” Pete explained, throwing an arm over Patrick’s shoulder once he had been released from Jon’s should-be-patented Jon Walker hug.

The boys agreed, and of course no one got any work done, they just kind of sat around and smiled and all of them talked and it had been too long since Patrick had felt that in place. He hadn’t been this happy in a long, long time.

____________________________________________________

It was bright and loud and happy, and there were so many people, and Patrick didn’t generally like being in the spotlight, but . . . This was so different from normal. So he didn’t mind when person after person came to talk to him, was patient with his pauses and his stuttering and then gave him a smile and a congratulations.

Pete was next to him almost the whole time, though, smiling, laughing and talking and keeping him comfortable. So many people came and went they were all just a blur, it was just talking, laughing, smiling and talking.

And finally, finally, finally it died down and there were only a handful of people, and it was mostly just Patrick and Pete.

“Patrick . . . I’m so proud of you, and so happy for you.”

Patrick smiled, “It’s nice . . . to be able to talk to everyone again.” He took a drink from the water bottle sitting right behind him on the bar, “I feel like I’m back in the loop.”

“You were never out of it, ‘Trick. Most of us were just scared for you, I know I was.”

__________________________________________________

“Put your hands in the air and don’t make a sound. But don’t get the wrong idea, we’re gonna shoot you, we’re gonna shoot you. And there’s nothing in your head or pocket, throat or wallet that could change just how this goes. Everyone shakes to the beat with a barrel down their throat! But don’t get the wrong idea, we’re gonna shoot you, we’re gonna shoot you . . .”

The studio erupted into scores of cheers and clapping. Pete, Patrick and Joe put their guitars back on the stands, and Andy came out from behind the drums so they could all finish the interview.

“You were amazing, as always. It’s so great to have you back.” The host said, with a smile, as she walked half way to meet them. “So, Patrick. That was your first live performance since you’ve gotten your voice back. How did it feel?”

“It feels like I’m finally starting to straighten things out.” Patrick replied, a small smile on his lips as he spoke—his face covered in a light sheen of sweat, “Like I’m finally back home.”

The host’s smile grew wider, “I’m glad to hear that, we hear your fans and your label mates have been very supportive of you during your recovery process.”

“Yes, I really don’t know if I would’ve made it through without all of the encouragement. I would be out and fans would just come up to me and tell me they hoped I would feel better, and I can’t express how many times they helped me feel like I wasn’t just disappearing. The guys in Panic! were great, when I was working on some remixes for their single back then. Jon Walker, he helped out a lot.”

“It’s great that you’ve had all this support. Well, everyone, this is Fall Out Boy with the recent return of their lead singer, Patrick Stump. They have a new album due out in a few months, and then they’ll be back on tour. We hope that you’ll all check them out, they’re great guys with wicked talent!”

The station cut to commercial, and the host told them they were free to go or stay or whatever they wanted to do after that.

“Miss, I was wondering if I could do an acoustic performance for the in-studio audience.”

The host looked at her watch carefully, “We’ve got a long commercial break at seven minutes, will it fit?”

Patrick nodded and grabbed his acoustic guitar from the stand next to his electric, sitting down on one of the stools that the hostess generally sat on, facing the audience. One of the techies brought out a microphone and put it in front of him, giving him the cord to plug in his guitar.

“Hey everyone, this song came out about a year ago, the time of the accident. It’s a good song, and I’ll recommend it to just about anyone.” He said, moving his fingers in position for a chord. The audience fell quiet, as he began strumming.

“La da da da . . . The smell of your skin lingers on me now . . .”

From over on the side, Pete’s face fell just a bit. He would wait until Patrick was finally ready, and then he would be there. He would be there, waiting on the other side of the bridge, because he would wait for Patrick for the time being.

“I need to be with myself and center clarity, peace, serenity . . .”

</div>

we all look like we feel [ three out of ?? ]

pfor — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 22:29:29 GMT

The long awaited third installment of We All Look Like We Feel! I'm so sorry you all had to wait this incredibly long for the chapter. Lots of things happened and it was just very hard on me to get this out any sooner. With the help of clippedwings as my beta, I've been able to get this chapter to you quicker (thanks to encouragement and having someone to talk to) and and cleaner!

We All Look Like We Feel
Chapter 3 out of ??
pxp, pokemon crossover fic
disclaimer: so completely not real
rating: r to be safe

Patrick decided a month and a half ago, a week and a half after he first met Pete that he was never, EVER going to let go of him. Because what idiot in their right mind would? Sure, Pete could be a spaz, he was a little flirty with everyone sometimes and he didn't always know the right thing to say. However, he was gorgeous, he was a poet deep down, and when he didn't know what to say he could reach the same place with touch instead of words.

So, the conclusion of the introduction? In record time, Patrick had been swept off of his feet by a boy who he met under highly questionable circumstances. In fact, they were capable of making lovesick-googly eyes at each other until Joe was about ready to puke his brains out from the sheer girliness.

Then again, it wasn't like there was any real testosterone in the group of trainers aside from Joe and Andy. It might've been easy enough to mark off as relationships and their associated side effects, but pretty much everyone else in the group was flamboyantly gay. Brendon and Ryan had begun flirting with each other (subtly the thought, but there were actually big red flashing signs with 'FLIRTING' written in all capital letters and bolded) for the past few weeks. Patrick and Pete were a hopeless love fest unless Pete slipped up.

Yeah, he did that sometimes. There were, inevitably, a few sour and highly uncomfortable hours—but shove them together for two hours (methods used most often: abandonment, locking in rooms, refusal to speak to them) and they would smooth things out.

Which was kind of what was happening now. Vulpix and Pikachu had been goofing off and then gotten mad at each other (they had a tendency to fight as often as their trainers) and Vulpix had burnt Pikachu and Patrick had dove to the rescue and Pete refused to apologize on behalf of his (currently, any other situation and she would be a doll) evil little bitch.

So Patrick was currently comforting Pikachu (because no one had any Burn Heal, what the crap was up with that?) while they were making a bee line for the next stop, Lavender Town. He was also giving the cold shoulder to Pete, ignoring him completely. If you wanted to piss Patrick off that badly, it could only be achieved by injuring Pikachu.

So, Pete had resigned to sulking while walking next to Joe. It wasn't even his fault. He crossed his arms and resumed his sulking. Joe was about to hit him upside the head for bringing a downer on the parade of fun that had been that day. Not that Joe would ever refer to a day as a "parade of fun" anyways . . .

"It's going to be okay, Patrick, he's not going to die. It's just a minor burn," Andy said, slightly frustrated about the situation and that he didn't have anything out of that whole bag of herbal remedies he kept ready and waiting for situations such as this. He needed to remember to stock up on supplies and plants next time the opportunity arose.

Patrick nodded, worried eyes still not satisfied with those words, "Yeah, but still. I always have something for him, and the one time I don't it's actually pretty bad. I feel like I let him down."

"The PokéCenter isn't that far away, Brendon says, poring over a map alongside Ryan, "It should only take us another ten minutes. He's gonna be okay, 'Trick." That didn't stop Brendon from looking over every five minutes to make sure the little yellow rat was still breathing, though.

It wasn't that everyone was obsessed with Pikachu; it was just that everybody knew Patrick was obsessed with Pikachu and if anything bad enough happened to the fuzzball he'd drop his hat and give up training forever. It really was no joking matter, and as they had grown to know him they had realized this. The trainer and his Pokémon really had grown up together, and they were inseparable. There was no getting Patrick away from Pikachu.

But sure enough (surprisingly as Brendon had said) there was a Pokémon Center practically right there. Patrick broke out into a run, and that was that.

_____________________________

"I'm sorry, 'Trick. You know it's not like I meant for that to happen." Patrick turned to face Pete, who had just stepped into their tent for the first time in the whole evening since they had first set up their camp right outside of Lavender Town.

"I didn't mean to get so pissed at you; I was just worried about Pikachu. It scares me when shit like that happens."

The dark headed male chuckled lowly, pressing a kiss to Patrick's temple, as he moved to sit down next to him on his own blanket, taking off his shirt "I'm surprised you can bear to use him in gym battles sometimes."

"They can't hurt him bad, it's against the rules. Once he's knocked unconscious they're not allowed to fight anymore or they'll lose their job." Patrick responded, automatically, "Outside of gym and league battles is where I get antsy, they could just keep going and going until he's just . . ."

Patrick was cut off by chapped lips pressed against his own lips. He sighed a little, giving up; he didn't really want to be burdened with the worry either, so he'd just give it up. This was so much easier.

Pete tugged gently on Patrick's lower lip, sucking on it softly and swallowing a moan from the younger boy—whose hands were dancing from arms to hips to back to shoulders to hips to thighs trying to find a place to sit or press fingers into skin or do something to keep them occupied.

They finally found a place on sharp hips, thumbs rubbing circles against the skin, a few choked moans flowing from Pete's lips. Patrick grinned against the kiss and pressed harder, fingers dancing down and loosing pressure as they crawled lower before stopping just above his waistband.

Pete pulled away for a moment, slowly lowering Patrick down so his back was on the floor of the tent, hands still dancing around Pete's hips.

"Patrick," Pete whispered, closing the distance again and pressing a short kiss against his lips.

Anything Pete was going to say was cut off by Patrick's nearly inaudible, breathy declaration of "I love you." He put his arms over Pete's shoulders, and pulled Pete down and himself up, kissing him again and tilting his head for a better angle, "It's weird, because I didn't ever think I'd love anyone for a long time since I grew up so far away from everyone else. I thought once I'd gotten out of Pallet Town it would take years to sift through the people and find someone to care about. But I love you so much, Pete."

Patrick was worried for a moment as Pete's expression was unreadable, but a smile broke out after a moment and he looked genuinely happy. That, if nothing else, was fit enough to make Patrick's heart melt.

"I love you too, 'Trick. But it's a little much asking me to condense it into three words, if you know what I mean. Then again, I guess that's a little more convenient." His lips hovered just next to Patrick's, "It'd take too much paper to write them all and too many years to say them all. It's ridiculous, actually."

Patrick smiled and kissed Pete again, full and perfectly content to just stay there for as long as he needed too.

"Hey, guys, have you seen Brendon?"

_____________________________________

So Brendon was missing. Not just gone, but missing. Apparently he had told Ryan he was going to the PokéMart to get something, and he'd return in a few minutes—but he never came back. This was very problematic, because Ryan was starting to pull some kind of panicky-bitch fit. No one, not a single soul wanted to be around when that fit exploded full force. So sleeping (amongst other things) was put aside until the spastic trainer could be found.

"This is a dozen kinds of ridiculous; he'll show up in the morning." Pete told Ryan, upset that he and Patrick had been interrupted during their bonding time. Who wouldn't be upset, then again?

"He said he'd be right back, what if something happened to him?"

"Didn't Nurse Joy say something about ghosts?"

Ryan's eyes widened to saucers and his mouth hung open, Joe realized a moment to late he had said exactly the wrong thing, because now Ryan was really starting to panic, walking faster and leaving his Clefairy toddling behind him in his dust.

"Hey, chill, Ryan. Didn't Brendon live around here before he met up with us? Maybe he ran into someone he knew." Andy said, as always, the voice of calm reason in a time where someone was about to freak out.

"He would've come back and said something, first! He knows better than to just disappear!" Ryan replied, crossing his arms, "I'm going back into town to look for him." He said, determined. Patrick sighed; when Ryan got like this it generally involved everyone dropping what they were doing in order to avoid a major diva-meltdown-catastrophe.

"Wait up, a sec, Ry, we'll come too." Patrick volunteered, before turning back to Pete and telling him to put his shirt back on. Patrick slipped on his shoes and put his hat back on, making sure his Pokéballs were still on his belt.

"We'll?"

"Pete, shut up. You're coming."

Pete grumbles something below his breath, but Patrick and Ryan don't take any notice (and if they did, they just ignored him) as they start heading towards the town—Pete breaking out into a run to catch up.

They trudged into town, slightly wary of the fact that only three buildings had any lights on;another one was the tall tower that stood—an eerie light cast out of the rows and columns of windows.

They walked into the PokéMart first, each of them looking around cautiously for Brendon. Ryan went up to the Cashier, but said that he hadn't seen him since they had first stopped by earlier in the day. Pete put a hand on Ryan's shoulder as they left, and said, "I'm sure we'll find him, Ry. He probably just got distracted or something."

Then the group headed into the PokéCenter, trudging around quietly, but they didn't see him anywhere. Patrick tried to sneak off to check on Pikachu, but Pete grabbed his arm and pulled him away ("Let him sleep! He'll rest easier and heal faster!" "But, Pete—" "Shh! Come on!"), back outside where Ryan was pacing back and forth in front of the door. He looked like someone had stolen his puppy.

"Let's go check that Tower." Pete suggested, "If he lived around here, he might have a Pokémon buried from when he was a kid, might want to go visit its grave." Pete suggested. Hey, it was all they had left. Ryan practically dragged the two of them over to the tower, hesitating a moment before wrapping his fingers around the handle and twisting it, swinging the door open with a deep, melodramatic breath.

"It's eleven o'clock at night, don't you kids have somewhere better to be?" A voice asked, Ryan jumped and Patrick turned cautious eyes to the source. A man leaned through a wide window and onto a counter, from some kind of office space. A nameplate read "Gerard Way" in bold print.

Ryan backed up a little, moving behind Pete. Gerard Way was not the kind of person you would want to meet in a funeral home. He had dark, tired eyes and he was pretty pale. His hair was kind of long, messy, and really dark. As far as they could see, he was dressed in an all black suit—aside from the white tie he was wearing. Patrick noticed that he looked kind of tall, especially compared to him and Pete, and he didn't look like someone you'd want to get in a fight with.

"We lost someone." Pete said, clearly, elbowing Ryan in the ribs.

"Dark hair, dark eyes, glasses. Skinny. Extremely gay. Have you seen him?"

"Fourth floor, Area 2. He came by a few minutes ago asking. He should be there unless he got lost, in that case—good luck. My brother's on that floor, too. If you need anything talk to him." Gerard said, before ducking back into the office and closing the glass on the window.

They followed the signs to the stairs, and ascended carefully. After each flight there was only one light hanging from the ceiling in a precarious manner, that didn't give off as much light as you might like in a grave . . . building. Ryan led the front, bursting through the door onto the fourth floor—looking around for signs of Area 2.

"Dude, wait up, we don't want to lose you too." Pete said, grabbing Ryan's wrist and pulling it sharply. He intended on going back to the tent sometime before tomorrow.

"Brendon? Brendon!?"

"Don't be so loud!" Ryan shrieked, Patrick jumped and Pete's eyes widened, "It's a resting place for Pokémon, respect that."

The boy who had said that just kind of magically appeared, because they hadn't seen anyone. Patrick assumed this must be that Gerard guy's little brother, because he kind of looked like he worked here. They weren't really good at keeping their hair 'business-like' because this kid looked more like he belonged in Celadon City, modeling for the department store.

"What are you looking for?"

"Our friend . . . Brendon." Patrick said carefully, this kid was kind of really weird . . . "Brown hair, glasses, tight jeans, obnoxious shoes . . ."

"He's in 2, came by to visit the grave of his family's Arcanine." He said, "By the way, I'm Mikey—Gerard's little brother. I help people not get lost." Mikey led them through a few doors and down a hallway into a room that said 'Urie' on the door. Patrick couldn't help but think that that meant his family had a lot of Pokémon or were just rich enough to buy their own room to keep them.

Sure enough, Brendon was sitting on the floor in front of an expensive looking Arcanine sculpture that was wrapped around an urn. There was a picture of what looked like every member of his family and the Pokémon.

Ryan practically tackled him, "You idiot! You should've told me before you came here! I was afraid you'd gotten lost in the woods and eaten, or the ghosts would get you, or that those creepy people might've found us again and gotten you! You idiot, don't scare me like that!" He said, going back and forth between sounding worried and angry at Brendon, and finally slapping him.

"Ow! That hurt, Ry . . ." Brendon pouted, rubbing his cheek carefully and sending a glare to the other, "I didn't want to make you guys wait when we were ready to leave, so I decided to just go on ahead tonight. I haven't even been gone for that long. You need to chill out!"

Ryan reached over and hugged him, "You idiot. Tell me things."

"Aww." Pete said, completely dead pan, "Come on guys, it's getting really late and you know we've got some kind of time line to at least try and keep." Patrick rolled his eyes, and turned around to thank Mikey, but he had disappeared.

So, the four left the tower (each couple discreetly attempting to hold hands, not that everyone didn't know, or anything) and headed back to the camp, everyone completely intact.

</div>

My Return! // New Fic

pfor — Tue, 05 Jun 2007 19:56:04 GMT

So, it's summer and my Mom has MAJORLY lightened up on that restriction. I'm able to continue fic writing now :3 I started working on 'We All Look Like We Feel' at first, but I found out the juices weren't flowing. So, I started fic-hunting for inspiration. I was running around and saw megyal 's one fic that was all western, and that made me think. EDIT: It turns out, pretty much this whole fic was inspired by her. I went back to my memories, and found out that the incubus!Patrick and Hunter!Andy fic that also did a hand in this was by her, too.

And I was cleaning my room after that and fount my copy of The Crucible. Which I shredded in the shredder.

And then came up with this.

my heart it beats for you (only you, only you)
peter x patrick, AU, R for language and other (mostlynonsexual) stuff.
Peter and Patrick arrive in Salem just before an unexpected chain of events threatens to destroy them.

“Oh, my poor Bella is miserable right now, Anne. I just don’t know what to do, John says he doesn’t like Doctor Wentz all that well, and he thinks it is strange that he won’t marry even one of those girls. But I say it’s preposterous that men should be offering their daughters to a man that’s barely known! He’s not been in town long at all.”

“The doctor has his ‘brother’ to look after; apparently he stays as sick as a dog. Rebecca told me they aren’t even brothers, she says Samuel looked into their records back in the Jerseys, the younger one was a bastard child adopted by the Doctor’s father before he passed away.”

“Oh, dear. It’s awfully kind of the Doctor to look after him, then. Still, though, wouldn’t a woman around the house help out all the more? The poor man works himself half to death; he’s rarely at home . . .”

“He doesn’t sleep enough, I think. You’ve see the circles beneath his eyes? ‘Tis a shame he won’t take a break from his work some to sleep. He’ll be ill before he knows it, unless Doctor Griggs forces him to take some time off. He’s worked so hard since they got here.”

“Well, we know how the men are. Oh, dear, I think little Bella has woken from her nap. Would you mind getting me a wet cloth from the kitchen?”

_____

“I don’t like it here, Pete.” A boy muttered, looking at his skin carefully in the light of the fireplace, “My skin’s not been this pale in twenty years. When can we go back to the Jerseys? Or maybe back to England, I wouldn’t mind seeing them again.” True to his words, his skin was smooth and a pale shade that seemed almost unnatural and he did not seem happy about it at all, or more so, for the reason it was so pale.

“As soon as the Way’s get me word that the Hurley fellow is off of our tails, we can go wherever we want, Patrick. But I swear to God if you complain one more time, I’m going to dump you out in the middle of the village for the women to gander at. I hate it as much as you do.” Was the reply from the other man in the house, as he buttoned up his shirt, preparing to leave somewhere.

“Oh yes, coming from someone who can actually go outside.” Patrick rolled his eyes, “Thanks to you all the villagers think that I’m some diseased heathen. Even living all the way out here, if I was to go out and someone saw me—they’d think you were horribly neglectful and you would be out of a job.”

“We’ll leave as soon as we can, ‘Trick. I promise. But until then, the pay’s good and we can lay low.” Peter responded, with a sigh, as if the other should know this information.

“Laying low isn’t so good; I don’t give a damn about Hurley and his crew. I haven’t gotten to stretch my power in months. I feel like a caged bird, Peter, it’s driving me insane. It’s going to build up and overflow any moment now.”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. Until then, Hurley could be as close as Reading. You’re still wounded from that last encounter, too, don’t forget that. If he comes here, he could kill us both.” Peter pointed out, remembering despondently the last encounter with Hurley and friends. It had left Patrick with an axe wound that almost killed him and Pete narrowly evaded a (more likely than not) poisoned bullet to the brain.

“Speaking of, when the hell can I call up my power to fix that, Peter? You’ve seen the damn gash. It’s getting worse.” Patrick didn’t mean to complain, but this had become somewhat of a morning routine. He was tired of Salem, had been since they stepped foot in it. He thought they were going to borrow a room so Peter could heal him, they they’d leave. He woke up the next morning and Peter had rented out a house and found a job.

Peter pressed a kiss to his forehead, “I’m sorry, Patrick. I really am. I’m not trying to make you miserable.” He sighed, and Patrick couldn’t help but feel guilty at the worry that was clouding in the others eyes. Patrick could hold his own against just about anyone, but Peter always made him feel small, “I’ll write Gerard today, and see if he knows anything else.”

Patrick nodded, and didn’t say anything else as Peter kissed him just shy of the lips and left the house, straightening his tie. Patrick sighed, and watched from different windows as he went to the stable for the horse and rode towards town.

________________________________

“Peter, you’re early! We missed you in church yesterday.” William Griggs greeted Pete at the door, with a professionally warm smile as he entered.

“My brother had another attack, early in the morning. I couldn’t leave him alone.” He and Patrick had been hiding there for just a week over two months, and as soon as Dr. Griggs gave him a job, the man had informed him he should be in church every Sunday morning in one of the front rows. Pete hated church, and had used Patrick as an excuse four times already.

“You’ve still not gotten any word from his physician in Jersey?”

“No sir. I wish I could find out what was wrong with him, myself. He deserves to be able to live his life in the world. He’s an intelligent man.” Peter said, “Now, if I’m correct, it’s my day for house calls. Who needs my services, now?”

“Goody Thomas had me in this morning on my way to work to look at her daughter, she’s sick with a cold, I think. If you could give her the labeled medicine in the travel bag, I would appreciate it. After that, could you go over to Reverend Parris’ house? His daughter seems to be ill.”

“Yes sir.”

“And then, you are to go home Peter. I’ve received complaints you look ill yourself, and that I’ve been working you to hard. You’re one of the smartest young men in Massachusetts, I’m quite sure; I don’t want you to burn yourself into exhaustion.”

Peter laughed a little, “Thank you sir, I appreciate it. But really—“

“No buts Peter. Take the rest of the week off and spend it with your brother. Go to Jersey to see his physician, unless there is a sudden epidemic, which I highly doubt, I have things under control.”

Peter smiled and nodded, grabbing the medical bag that Doctor Griggs had mentioned, before going back outside to Goody Thomas’ house.

_____________________

“Oh, Doctor Wentz, thank you for coming. I appreciate it.” Peter didn’t fail to notice Reverend Parris’ pasty complexion, and the light sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked nervous; “Betty’s very ill, she’s . . .” Peter was immediately suspicious of the man, look at the crowd! There were at least half a dozen people in his parlor, all muttering nonsense of witchcraft.

This was highly disturbing to him.

“I’ll see her, sir.” Pete said, following the babbling Reverend as he led him up the stairs into the young girl’s room. Peter was as nervous as the man looked, this girl had to be faking, but still . . . Hurley . . . His mind was running in circles, if something happened, they’d have to leave, but then the villagers would follow them if they left the moment witchcraft came up . . .

“She’s not woken?” Peter asked, carefully watching her eyes. She was awake, he could tell by the clench of muscles at the corner of her eyes. She just wasn’t moving or opening her eyes. He was resisting the urge to slap her right then and there.

“No, Doctor Wentz. We’ve tried waking her. She just twitches, and then stills again.”

“What’s all this talk of witchcraft in the parlor?”

“People talk about Tituba, my slave. She’s from Barbados; they think she’s signed the Devil’s book.”

Peter’s lips drew a thin line, “You obviously have your own suspicions, Reverend Parris? Might I please hear them?”

“No, No . . . I’m just worried about my girl.” He was lying, it was radiating from every inch of his body, “I have called for Reverend John Hale, though. He . . . knows about things.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I can do nothing for you unless you tell me everything you know.” Peter said, sharply. It was a command, laced with a tinge of something else. Parris would answer it.

“I . . . saw her, and my niece . . . dancing in the woods with Tituba, around something. Some of them were . . . without clothes, Doctor. It was highly disturbing, the dances. They seemed . . . satanic.”

Peter almost grinned, at the Reverend’s frightened answer; even that slight release felt good—and he could understand more how miserable Patrick must feel. His thoughts strayed once more to his ‘brother,’ alone at home . . . and if Hurley. Peter had to hurry up here. The paranoia was eating away at him, as always.

“Reverend Parris, I don’t believe your daughter is a victim of witchcraft,” he couldn’t help but notice the angry twitch from the girl, “But perhaps just a victim of exhaustion from her . . . activities. That, really, is the only thing I can supply you with. I see no signs of physical illness.”

“Yes, Doctor Wentz, I suppose that is a possibility. If . . . there’s nothing else you can do, you may leave.”

Peter nodded, and ignored the crowd of people shouting for answers.

______________________

“Patrick! Patrick!” Peter rushed into the house, relieved to find his companion lying on the bed with a book instead of at gunpoint or already dead, “The Reverend’s daughter is feigning illness by witchcraft. If people start believing . . .”

“We have to get the hell out of here!” Peter could see his already pale face grow paler, if he looked unnatural before he was a ghost then. He could also see the hiss of pain coming from the other as he bolted off the bed, “You said it yourself, Hurley could be just west of here! The second word gets to other cities, he’ll know!”

“You know we can’t. If they start believing this pish-posh, then we’ll be the first one’s they blame if we leave the second it comes up! It’ll go from local to all across the colonies. You’re the one that’s leaving. I’m taking you to Jersey tonight; I’ll be back before they know I’m gone.” He was right next to Patrick, an arm on his shoulder, to calm him down.

“Damn you if you try! I wouldn’t leave your side for—“ Patrick hissed, louder and more dangerous than he had been since Peter first told him they were staying in Salem, it didn’t surprise him though. They hadn’t been apart in decades.

“You’re hurt, Patrick! I’m not leaving you here for Hurley to get! If we leave while they believe this, then everyone will face the consequences!”

“You . . . You can tell them . . . something! You can’t just leave me there!” Patrick was panicking, and Peter was too (but he wasn’t showing it) and the whole thought of being apart was making Peter physically ill. He didn’t know what to say to try to calm him down.

So he didn’t say anything, he just pressed his lips against Patrick’s and pulled him closer by the front of his shirt. Pete didn’t fail to notice how they were both equally as desperate in the kiss, clutching tightly to each other and reluctant to part.

A sudden knock on the door startled Peter, and he stepped away wide-eyed and lips red and slightly swollen. Patrick sighed as Peter rushed over to the door, cautiously, though.

“Doctor Wentz, a package has arrived for you from Jersey. Doctor Griggs told me you were expecting something, so I brought it over for you.” It was a younger boy, who looked like he had walked all the way.

“Thank you, I appreciate it. Say, has anyone arrived from out of town about Reverend Parris’ girl?” Peter said, with a sigh of relief as he took the thickly bundled envelope.

The boy shook his head, “Last I saw, Reverend Hale was coming, but I didn’t hear nothing, or get a good look. It might’ve been someone else, for all I know.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it. I don’t have any money on me right now, but I’ll give you some next time I see you, I know it’s a long walk.” The boy nodded, and said goodbye as he walked away.

Peter shut the door, locking it and the deadbolt, “Patrick, it’s from Gerard and Mikey!” He called, looking at the postmark and return address. He rushed back into the bedroom and practically ripped the package open, not yet unaware of his previous urgency.

There were a few short letters, dated at different times.

Dear Peter, Patrick

We extend our apologies for not having the necessary resources to help you any further. We have kept close tabs on Hurley and his associates; they left Jersey several days ago, and are currently in New York. A friend of ours seems to think they’re heading towards New France. We will send you new news as it comes.

Sincerely,

Gerard and Michael Way

Dear Friends,

Hurley and their associates have changed paths, they’re now in Connecticut.

Sincerely,

Gerard and Michael Way

Dear Peter and Patrick,

The troupe of hunters is in Rhode Island. They’ve been asking for maps to Boston.

Sincerely,

Gerard and Michael Way

Dear Peter and Patrick,

Hello.

Sincerely,

Hurley and Associates

Peter’s breath caught in his throat as he leafed through the battered and torn letters, and finally fell on the last one. They knew where they were.

“Shit, Patrick—get your things. We’re leaving now. They know where we are, now. We have to leave, we can’t wait!”

Patrick cursed, “What the hell? I can do without the damned brews, I need to heal myself otherwise I’m as useless as a woman. You get them!”

Both of them were terrified out of their minds, if there was anything in this world that they feared it was Hurley. That damned family of hunters had been trailing them since they first met each other, which was only a year or two after they discovered their powers. Apparently, the Hurley’s could only track their kind when two or more were together, unless they were careful. The Hurley’s had existed for as long as the scattered about covens of witches had, but the former had killed more witches than there were now.

Peter found it ironic that the ‘head’ hunter of the Hurley’s was always a member of the coven himself. A witch was always able to identify large stores of power from distances, which was why it was called the coven in the first place.

You were always supposed to be able to have a place to feel at home with someone like you.

A good load of shit that turned out to be.

As far as Peter knew, there was a coven scattered around Jersey, New York, and as far south as Northern Delaware. According to Gerard, there were roughly fifty grounded members, ten who came and went. Then there was another set in lower North Carolina, extending all the way down to Spanish Florida. Gerard said no one had been able to count the individuals with powers in that one.

They both knew the covens in Europe, and it was impossible to tell where one ended and began unless you were a member. Most were friendly, regardless of where you came from. Peter sometimes wondered why he even bothered with coming to New England. He also wondered why that Hurley was so interested in him and Patrick to follow them for this long.

___________________________

“We have everything?” Patrick asked, eyes shining with adrenaline from the sheer release. It was an extremely tiring and tedious process to keep one’s power under rope and tie. Not to mention, he could finally flex the muscles in his back without the ache of pain from poisoned flesh. It had scarred, badly, but it would have no matter how quickly he had healed it.

Peter nodded, brusquely, placing a chaste kiss to Patrick’s cheek, “We’re ready.” Night had crept up on Salem, giving them a bit of an advantage. The only witch in the Hurley’s was their leader; everyone else would be plagued by the inability to see in the darkness. Hurley couldn’t make his ‘associates’ see.

“I love you.” Patrick whispered, breathlessly, pressing his lips to Peter’s temple before bolting off towards the stable. The two were best friends, lovers, and of course inseparable. Peter couldn’t remember a time at all when any of the above had not been true.

Peter was right behind Patrick, tying their bags to the already prepared saddles and doing the other things necessary to prepare the horses for their last-minute travel. Both were black stallion’s (Patrick, vocally, preferred brown mare’s—but the Way brothers were a bit eccentric with their taste for the color black, and had a tendency to lean towards male things versus female), that the Way’s had loaned them for their trip.

“We’ll go to Jersey to check on the Way’s?” Patrick asked, and as much as he had been worried about them—he was worried over the brothers as well.

“Yeah. We’ll see if they have any ideas, and we’ll work from there.” In less than five minutes, the two were out of there—galloping as fast as the horses were taking them away from Salem and the damned witch trials that, they could feel in their blood, were about to begin.

____________________________

By the time the brews and herbs and the stretch of their powers had worn off the horses, leaving them unable to gallop more than a mile at a time, they were in Albany. The sun had risen, and the innkeeper looked at them funny when they asked for a room and a place to put the horses.

They were exhausted and cold but they had fled Salem without looking back, and neither had seen or felt Hurley once.

“I can’t wait to get to Jersey.” Patrick muttered, walking next to Peter—close enough so their hands could touch. They were witches and they were in a blasphemous—both of which were damning offenses. While people couldn’t tell the presence of the power was lurking in their insides, most weren’t idiotic enough to miss the tender touches. For their own safety, they kept things casual in public.

The Inn room was small, and had one bed (it was the last available, said the man at the front) but that didn’t matter. Peter locked the door and placed a touch of power on the lock (he would wake instantly if anyone touched it) and Patrick did the same for the windows, drawing the curtains shut so tightly all light was blocked from the room.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to stop running from them, Pete?” Patrick asked, once both of them were in the bed, practically curled up to each other, “I’m tired of running away from them.”

“They kill us or we kill them.” Pete sighed, simply, as he shut his eyes, willing sleep to fall over him.

“We’re not Vampyres or anything that hurts people. The worst thing I’ve ever done was give someone a nightmare, and that was on accident.” Patrick muttered his breath hot against Pete’s chest. This conversation was something they were both used to. It happened a lot, and the only thing that ever changed was who was asking the questions.

Patrick and Peter hadn’t ever hurt anyone. What had they done? Patrick was good with potions or brews or whatever he called the medicine he made, Pete was a doctor. They helped people, animals, plants. Peter could feel the emotions of people he touched. Patrick was good with words. They protected themselves and other members of the coven. They were practically immortal.

When Peter’s father died, there was a four-day long storm. When Patrick caught the flu, the temperature rose. They fought back enough to stay alive. When one of those Hurley guys nearly cut Patrick in half thunder crashed and lightning struck thirteen times in the same place. But they never hurt anyone on purpose.

“Peter . . . If we hadn’t found out Hurley was right on our tails, would you really have left me in Jersey?” Patrick asked, suddenly, tilting his head upwards to look at Pete’s face and gauge for honesty.

Pete could feel the hurt that ached underneath Patrick’s skin. He wanted to dig into it and rip it out. Something predatory woke up in him when Patrick felt like that, but now he felt helpless—because the person who had done that was himself.

“Honestly? I would’ve taken you with sole intention to go back to Salem. But I wouldn’t be able to. I couldn’t leave you anymore than I could leave my own skin.” Pete muttered, eyes flickering between lazily opened and closed.

“I love you Pete. I love you with everything that I have. I can’t remember not loving you, and I can’t remember not being with you. My life began when I met you, Pete and I swear to God when you leave me it’ll end.” Patrick whispered, eyes drilling holes into Pete as he spoke. Pete pressed his lips against Patrick’s, and he didn’t need a confession to know what Patrick said was true.

____________________________

Patrick woke up seconds before Pete did, feeling the invasiveness of his barrier broken, it was an unpleasant almost violating sensation, in that it felt like someone plunging a wet hand into your very mind. It was cold, certain, and alerting.

The door broke down and the window shattered without the same delay, however. There was no time to reach for the gun that Pete had put in his suitcase. Instead, they were left in their bedclothes still in bed with hunters staring straight down their throats.

“We’ve finally caught you.”

“You’ve not caught us until we’re dead, Trohman.” Pete snarled, sounding more like a cornered animal than Patrick had ever heard from him before.

“You’re as good as it.” A new recruit, whom neither of them had seen before, said.

Patrick glanced to the window, Walker. He knew it. That kid was the real devils incarnate, the one who had gotten that axe into him. Patrick wasn’t big on revenge, but two people in his life had ever scarred him—Walker and Hurley himself. When Patrick sensed Pete letting go of his power, he did the same.

That meant all the humans in the room suffered automatic recoil, taking steps back and shaking their heads from the force. Just by untying the restrictions, Pete and Patrick were already buzzing with adrenaline.

“You’re not getting out of here alive.” The one new recruit said, his voice stronger and he seemed obnoxiously cocky and young.

“We’ll find out about that.” Pete struck his power against Trohman and the new kid, and Patrick lashed out enough to send Walker into the wall, with quick reflexes the two avoided a bullet and a thrown dagger as they climbed out the window, running from through the courtyard towards the woods in the background. They had to be fast, fast, fast, faster than those humans and--

The whiz of bullets without a gun firing startled Patrick and Peter so greatly they almost tripped over each other’s feet. Patrick frowned. Hurley was the only one who had a gun like that and the power to silence the sound that it made.

“Stumph! Wentz!” He wasn’t yelling loudly, but the sound carried the distance. That was Hurley’s specialty—he had used it to the extent where they couldn’t even hear each other speak before (not that that really hindered their communication, but it did make things a nuisance).

“We’re not stopping for you Hurley.” Pete hissed, and he knew it would carry.

“You never did before; I wouldn’t expect you to now. I can kill you both here, if you stop, or I can focus on one of you. Which would you prefer? Even I’m not a miracle worker; I can’t promise I’ll get both of you.”

“What the hell is your problem? We never did a damn thing!”

“It’s my job.”

“Well it’s our job to stay alive, Hurley.”

Peter and Patrick ran until they just couldn’t, until even the power couldn’t help them to put foot after foot after foot down in front of the other in such a pace. Patrick curses Hurley and Salem as he falls down, slamming and sliding into the ground with a force that rattles all the bones in his body—and Pete can’t run but he hasn’t fallen yet. He leans down to Patrick and tries to get him to stand up, but all he can manage is to roll over on his back.

Patrick felt like a woman with tears streaking down his face but he couldn't feel the power there and his muscles ached and he felt so uselessdefenselesshelpless. And he started sobbing and half yelling at Peter to leave because he’s so much better than dying by one of Hurley’s poisoned bullets. And Patrick wasn’t strong enough to survive without Peter, but Peter could survive without Patrick.

Peter’s brows wrinkled together as he leaned down, putting his hands over Patrick’s, “I’m not going to leave you here to die.” Pete insisted, lips hovering close to Patrick’s. Pete’s own feelings of uselessness were amplified by the touch to Patrick’s skin and Patrick’s feelings, and neither of them was surprised when the already darkening sky seemed to (almost magically) fill with moody clouds, rain coming down in a drizzle.

“I love you Peter. I love you so much, so incredibly heart aching much.”

Pete pressed his lips against Patrick’s, and Pete muttered against the kiss, “By the power that exists in all of us of the coven, damn this world to chaos if we’re never together again—be it in death or in another life.”

Patrick’s breath held for a moment, and he could feel the words wrapping around the numbed power, as if something was curling around his spine and his heart reconfirming his existence. It was almost physically painful, however, and Patrick rolled his head just a little to meet Pete’s lips again.

“Wentz! Stumph!” Chills rolled through Patrick’s body as he heard the words flow through the air into his ears. Hurley had heard every word, he knew. That was their last spite to him and his friends.

They would be together again.

“I love you, Patrick. Not even death will take that away from you or me.” He muttered.

“It’s over you two. You can’t run anymore and you know it as well as I do.”

Just over three hundred years later, Patrick Stump was opening the door for Pete fucking Wentz, and swallowing—because that first second their eyes met . . . Patrick couldn’t shake the words ‘Together again’ out of his mind or shake that warm fuzzy feeling that was taking over his whole chest out.

________________

Note: The only reason Andy was the Hunter was because I red this one awesome fic that was way less serious where Patrick was an incubus or something, and then Andy was a demon hunter. So. I started thinking about that, and it kinda stuck. Joe just followed because, I mean Andy and Joe go. And Jon Walker? He deserves a cameo in like everything because he's just that awesome.

So yeah. This is the longest one shot I've written in longer than ever. And it has a soundtrack, granted I can't get you a copy because I don't know how or anything. Most of the songs didn't even have a big effect on the story. The ones that did are obvious. (Ex, I just got the new cd from The Used which is why the songs (other than Smother Me, cause it kinda fits) from them are on there.

My Heart by Paramore

Chemistry of a Car Crash by Shiny Toy Guns

Everything We Had by The Academy Is . . .

Pretty Handsome Awkward by The Used

Somewhere I Belong by Linkin Park

Voices by Saosin

The Take Over, the Break’s Over by Fall Out Boy

Bang The Doldrums by Fall Out Boy

The Red by Chevelle

Never Too Late by Three Days Grace

Hospital by The Used

Smother Me by The Used

No It Isn’t by +44

I Don’t Love You by My Chemical Romance

Forfeit by Chevelle

Cemetery Drive by My Chemical Romance

I Get It by Chevelle

Emergency by Paramore

Cold December by Aiden

Grim Goodbye by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

</div>

we all look like we feel [ part two out of ??? ]

pfor — Sat, 28 Apr 2007 18:59:09 GMT

Band // Pokémon AU FIC. PatrickxPeter, slight Treckett. [promise, more in next chapter <3]
DEDICATION: Everyone who commented, you all made me very happy.
Disclaimer: Patrick (as far as I know) does not own an adorable, fuzzy, oversized yellow rat. Nor does he live in Pallet Town. Alas, these two facts completely negate this whole story. Nor do this (untrue) creature and place exist, making this impossible. Except in dreams. Untrue, disclaimed. Neither the boys, nor the adorable fuzzy mutant animals, belong to me.
IMPORTANT NOTES: So my Mom has decided until I can 'prove' myself I don't have the ability to go on the internet or computer as I freely wish. I can't type this up and post it at school. So, updates might be sporadic (whenever my Step-Dad is feeling particularly nice, and Mom is at work) and unplanned. Until the situation changes, chapters will be writen or typed in a hurry, so please excuse typos and delays. I promise, I'll have updates up as soon as I can.

Patrick didn’t know what time it was. He just knew it was some god awful time in the morning. He was relieved that the steady patter of rain against the roof seemed to have quit, but then again, it was kind of hard to tell for sure amongst everyone laughing and talking.

And the first thing he noticed was Brendon singing. Not just any song, no, Holding Out for a Hero. And by checking his watch, Patrick discovered Brendon was singing it at ten in the fucking morning. Patrick went to bury himself beneath his blankets once more, until a mass of pink fluff practically attacked him.

“Hey, Hey, Jigglypuff, calm the fuck down-Brendon, get your fluff ball!” Ryan screeched, from across the room—Brendon’s singing quit while he ‘fussed’ at the small Pokémon (which included, ‘Aw, thanks for trying to defend me, Puffy-but it’s okay, they’ll realize my awesomeness on their own . . . soon.’).

“Hurry up everyone! That breakfast buffet closes in an hour and a half!” Pete yelled, coming into the room from the stair well with a large bag of clean laundry over his shoulders (it was later explained to Patrick that they took shifts going to the Laundromat. It was pointless for so many people to wake up early and get cranky.), dropping it in the middle of the floor so people could claim their clothes.

“Clefairy, quit smothering Pikachu!”

That woke Patrick up. One) Pikachu! Two) Aw, a Clefairy! He’s wanted to see one for ages. The first thing he did was shoot out of his bunk to see the small pink Pokémon smothering Pikachu. In hugs. Apparently Clefairy was very fond of other brightly colored Pokémon. Ryan swooped down, glaring pointedly at the bundle of pink Pokémon in his arms.

“We’re a restless bunch in the morning.” Pete laughed, throwing an arm around Patrick.

Patrick nodded, dumbly—as he watched each person packing up their things into their bags, or keeping their Pokémon from getting into mischief. Patrick recalls thinking that he had thought he was the only one who treated their Pokémon like a younger sibling.

________________

Nurse Joy hadn’t been kidding, the buffet was dirt cheap. Apparently it was run specifically for trainers, and trainers who didn’t tend to have luck with money. If you took into account PokéBalls and Potions and Antidotes and all that shit, it got expensive—and the money from winning battles didn’t always help. Patrick’s dad had always taught him this, but Patrick was lucky for the moment, because he pretty much had his life savings with him.

He knew how to be careful with his money, he definitely knew.

________________

After breakfast, they went back to the PokéCenter to grab the rest of their things. For the next week they were camping out. Patrick was fine with that, he liked camping—and those bunks in the Center were kind of hard. But, they were camping out and looking for trainers. (Patrick had never really fought anyone before . . .) Apparently, Andy and Joe were just a long for the ride right now. Ryan, Brendon, Pete, and Patrick were the only ones who really needed to catch more Pokémon and ‘level’ up. (Pete told Patrick that both of them had several gym badges each).

By lunch time everyone was exhausted, and Andy was making lunch out of practically nothing (apparently, he did that a lot), and they were generally very bored. Jigglypuff was being cured with an antidote after a nasty encounter with a Weedle (Patrick had luckily been learning about Metapod’s harden ability at the time), while Brendon cooed a song to her.

By the time the sun was almost down, everyone was pretty much exhausted (more so than before); Pokémon included. They were going to go find some place to practice when some random chick in a mini-skirt challenged Patrick, claiming if she won she would get to keep Pikachu. Patrick rolled his eyes, accepted, and proceeded to have Pikachu shock the life out of a Pidgey (not really, just knock him out so the battle could end).

And that was when things got weird. Really weird. (Yes, even weirder than the circumstances under which he met Pete).

There was giggling, coming from the bushes. Giggling. And it was a man’s voice.

Then, then—

“Prepare for Trouble!”

“And make it double”

“To unite all cute and beautiful under our fare rule!”

“We shall capture and defeat the cruel!”

“Beckett!”

“Travie!”

“Team Treckett will fight for the sake of life!”

“Surrender now, or prepare to fight!”

Patrick’s eyes widened, in confusion—and Brendon promptly began to double over laughing. Pete had this ‘wtf?’ look on his face, and Andy was rolling his eyes. Ryan was curling protectively around his Clefairy, and Joe was attempting to get his Slowpoke out of its PokéBall (really, now, Joe loved the thing but it was incredibly lazy)

“Give us the Pikachu and the Clefairy and no one gets hurt!” The one, who had proclaimed himself Beckett, shouted. He pointed towards them, and seemed so serious. Brendon started laughing harder.

“Come on now!”

“What makes you think you can pop up out of nowhere and demand my Pokémon?” Patrick asked, quirking his head as Pikachu jumped up on his shoulder.

Beckett sighed, dramatically, and rolled his eyes, “We’re thieves, that’s what we do man.”

“Right. You know, I’m not just going to give him over to you.”

Beckett grinned, pulling a PokéBall from his pocket (seriously though, where the hell? His pants were like, skin tight or something—there was barely enough room for well . . . yeah, much less for PokéBalls!), and pressing the white button to turn it to full size—throwing it in the air and catching it repetitively, his other hand on his hip.

“Go, Gloom!” He shouted, throwing the PokéBall up into the air after a moment, “Attack with Stunspore, now!”

“Shit!” Andy hissed, reaching to his belt, to grab a PokéBall, quickly releasing a Pidgeotto into the air, “Gust, clear the spores away!” he yelled.

However, the other villain had different plans—“Starmie, go! Bubblebeam the bird down!”

Well, the way it played out was: most of the Stunspores were blown away, except, apparently Brendon and Jigglypuff got some of them, because they had fallen down, Ryan seemed a little sluggish—but didn’t get the full blow. The bubblebeam hit Pidgeotto dead-on, knocking him back in the air several yards.

But not enough to keep him down.

“Pidgeotto, wing attack!” Andy yelled, “Get the gloom!” He then looked, pointedly towards Patrick—and then he got the picture.

“Pikachu, thunderbolt!” he yelled, and then.

“Pi . . . ka . . . chu~~!” Sounded out, and the sizzle and crack of lightning sounded out, and both Starmie and its trainer caught the shock.

Travis didn’t seem so happy, but the Starmie was still conscious (barely), “Pikachu, quick attack!”

“Starmie, harden!”

The result of this combination, was Pikachu suffering a recoil. Patrick winced on his behalf, but they weren’t down—“Come on Pikachu, you’re doing great, just a little more—thunderbolt, again!”

Bright red cheeks sparked, and the thunderbolt struck again, knocking out the opposing Pokémon. Though Patrick hadn’t been paying attention, apparently Gloom was down and out (with some help from Vulpix, it looked like).

“Shit, return!”

“We’ll be back!”

“Pikachu, one more thunderbolt!”

“Pidgeotto, whirlwind!”

Team “Treckett” let out a string of curses, grabbing onto each other as a thunderbolt struck them both—followed by a whirlwind.

“Team Treckett is blasting off!” And then they proceeded to be knocked back into the forest, quite far. Apparently Andy had trained that bird really, really well because, well Team Treckett? Long gone. Seriously.

“What the . . . ?” Joe asks, scrunching his face up confusedly.

“Team Treckett.” Andy said simply, “I’ve heard about them, once or twice a few years ago. They are . . . well, thieves—like they said. Their part of a bigger picture, Team Rocket. But Treckett is one of the grunt teams, they focus on stealing “beautiful” Pokémon.”

“Hey, guys, I think we need to fix Brendon.”

_____________________

So apparently Andy had some kind of map in his head, because he kept on leading them around to where loads of other trainers were, and to the places with the strongest Pokémon to fight, and catch (Patrick caught a fucking Abra, an Abra. Those things were impossible!).

But Anywho, Patrick and Pikachu discovered that both Jigglypuff and Clefairy had crushes on Pikachu. Vulpix just tended to glomp him a lot. Apparently, since the three of them were never in their PokéBalls, and Pikachu was never in his PokéBall, and he was a he and they were shes . . . One night, they discovered Clefairy had a mural drawn on her with (Permanent) marker, and Vulpix had chased Jigglypuff into the lake. Pikachu was hiding in a tree.

Patrick felt kind of stuck-in-the-middle too. Apparently, he could sing really well so Brendon wanted them to form a group and sweep the world of its feet. Ryan discovered that he was practically insanely awesome to every Pokémon he met, and wanted him to help him go into breeding. And then Pete . . . well, Pete was a different story of stolen kisses (when everyone else was asleep) and curling close in the middle of the night, and blaming it on reflex in the morning. Patrick was confused because he could see himself with Pete, and he hadn’t even seen himself with his ex-girlfriend from Pewter City (there had been a commute every other day to hang out in the woods and lots of playing ‘find-the-neon-yellow-rodent’).

_____________________________

Patrick caught a Machop two days into the ‘Camping Trip’ and started training it so vigorously Pikachu was almost jealous. After all, he didn’t like water Pokémon that much, and the Machop would be one of his only chances at beating Brock, since Abra was being a pain in the ass and not learning any helpful super-awesome-psychic moves.

So, by the end of the weak, Machop was pretty damn strong. Patrick thinks the their ready, Andy says they should go ahead and give it a shot. Brock is really only hard to beat because he’s the first gym leader a lot of people face, and that you don’t know what to expect. So, after everyone’s sparred to death—and thinks their ready, they head back to town. They drop by the PokéCenter (and that buffet), and go to the gym.

Patrick is a little intimidated, because, yeah. It’s really rocky—and if Machop fails, then . . . Pikachu can’t back him up without getting crushed (and that would be no help at all). They drew straws to see who challenged first, and Patrick got the short one.

______________________________

“Machop, hang in there, just a little more and you’re done with this! Low Kick Onix. Ignore the fact that he’s big!” Patrick yelled, almost as worn out as his Pokémon from all the yelling and the screaming and the cheering.

The Low Kick went over flawlessly. Onix fell over, but so did Machop. The Ref hesitated a moment, to see if anyone would get back up. Machop lifted his head a little, too exhausted (but still not K.O.).

“The winner of the match is Patrick from Pallet Town! Please collect your Badge!”

Patrick laughed, in relief, “C’mon back, Machop. You did great.” The Pokémon returned to the PokéBall in a flash of red light, while Brock met him half-way through the field.

“You did great, for a new trainer. Your Dad would be proud of you, and he will be as long as you keep this up. You deserve this badge. Tell your friends they can come back in an hour for a match with me.”

____________________

At the end of the day, everyone had a shiny-new badge (Brendon almost didn’t because of the time limit, but Jigglypuff eventually got through with all the quick-attacks, and in the end his Oddish’s poisonpowder, helped). They all celebrated by buying a cake from one of the local residents, and sharing it with Nurse Joy and other trainers.

Patrick was exhausted, it had been a really long day. He was drifting off to sleep when Pete snuggled close to him in his bunk.

“Peter Wentz. I’m tired, let me sleep.” A soft grumble, designed so that maybe Ryan above them wouldn’t clue-in.

There was no reply, but instead Pete’s lips pressed full against his, and it was more than just that innocent little sneak-preview of tongue, but it was a full out battle, this time, fueled by left-over adrenaline and sparks of hormones. Patrick didn’t know how long it went on, but he knew that whenever it ended he was too (tired? Lazy?) . . . he didn’t care that Pete had fallen asleep practically on top of him, or that Pete and he were generally the last ones to wake up and that everyone would see.

No, Patrick just knew that this was how he wanted to spend his days. Winning battles, helping others win battles, and falling asleep next to Pete. Nothing bad had happened by doing this routine, so far, had it?

Here comes the promise of summer, let's seal it with a kiss . . .

</div>

We All Look Like We Feel [ pokemon // band au ] part 1 out of ??

pfor — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 01:29:03 GMT

Band // Pokémon AU FIC. Not quite as cracked up as it sounds. Patrick/Peter. More pairings in the near future. Fandoms to play a major role: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, My Chemical Romance, random Fueled by Ramen friends, random other people. Pokémon is obviously included (no canons, other than gym leaders and Professor Oak. No super details, either)
DEDICATION: youkokit387 for extreme help and advice. Muchos gracias.
Disclaimer: Patrick (as far as I know) does not own an adorable, fuzzy, oversized yellow rat. Nor does he live in Pallet Town. Alas, these two facts completely negate this whole story. Nor do this (untrue) creature and place exist, making this impossible. Except in dreams. Untrue, disclaimed. Neither the boys, nor the adorable fuzzy mutant animals, belong to me.

Patrick remembers when he first got Pichu. He was young, maybe seven or eight, and it was practically a baby still. For a long time, he and his family thought the little runt was defective or something. They were supposed to evolve after they got to be friends with their trainer. But . . . the two went everywhere together for days, weeks, months and still it remained tiny.

Until a short time ago. Patrick was now (almost) seventeen and the proud trainer of a Pikachu. He was immensely overjoyed at this revelation, even though his start on training was a few years overdue. He had sworn to Pikachu that he wouldn’t start without the little bugger, and waited he had.

Now Patrick had finally convinced his mother that he had enough clean underwear, enough food for him and Pikachu, and that, yes, he would be fine. He was much older than most trainers, no he wouldn’t beat anyone within an inch of their lives, and yes he would most definitely mail her something from the Celadon City Department Store.

Out of Pallet Town, at last. It was a relief for Patrick—he hadn’t even been farther than Cerulean City (only once, with his father a long time ago). Ever. And now he was going to cross the entire continent (and maybe even more) alone, with only his dear, sweet, precious Pikachu and the backpack that was already making his shoulders ache. Okay, he had a bike—but that was it.

Honestly.

__________________________

Patrick made great time, the first day. He made it to the Viridian Forest. Only, then things got tricky, seriously. He figured he had enough daylight to make it through the forest (it was a relatively straight path, he had been through it dozens of times) before the sun fully set.

He was wrong. So here he and Pikachu were, setting up camp next to this lake that Patrick had never even known existed. He was lost, Pikachu was lost, and Patrick had never seen so many fucking Weedles in his life and he fucking hated it (he had nearly been stung by a Beedrill in his early years, ever since, he’s been fucking terrified of them and their pre-evolution brothers). Patrick had curled up in his sleeping back (yes, at seventeen) and neglected to take his hat off while burrowing as far into it as manageable. Pikachu joined him for a little bit, until it got too stuffy for the both of them. Then Pikachu crawled into his backpack, so he wouldn’t freeze.

Things might’ve been fine. Had Patrick and Pikachu been just a little bit lighter sleepers. But they weren’t, both of them slept like rocks (seriously, he had fallen asleep watching a gym battle at Pewter City once when he was small. And it was rock clashing rock and metal and . . . loud). They had another chance to be fine, too. However, Patrick was just a teenage boy. He couldn’t control his dreams.

Really, he couldn’t. It wasn’t his choice to have, possibly, the best wet dream he’d ever had in his whole life in the middle of Viridian Forest.

And that was how a certain Peter Wentz stumbled upon the boy, just several years his junior. It was well known around the Gyms and in the Trainer-Underground that Peter was impossibly brave when it came to approaching other trainers. He was still a rookie himself, as far as it was concerned. Knee-problems had kept him from entering the field early, but now there was nothing holding him back.

Literally.

He was minding his own business, just riding along on his bike in the middle of the night, wishing his Vulpix wasn’t exhausted from their last battle. Otherwise, she would’ve loved the exercise. And maybe have kept him from doing stupid things.

But she wasn’t able too at the moment, being kind of occupied with resting and all. So Pete was left to do stupid things with not a soul to stop him, since he kept on forgetting to buy PokéBalls whenever he went to a store.

Now, being the nice boy he is, Peter fully intended on helping Patrick. He thought he was being attacked, or having a nightmare or something. It wasn’t until he came closer that he noticed the situation was entirely different. Now, this boy was a complete and total stranger. He didn’t know his name, or where he was from, what color his eyes were, or even if he was gay or not.

But Pete sure as hell knew this boy was pretty. Not exactly handsome, but pretty. For a guy, his strawberry-blonde hair was a little long—sticking out of his half-on, half-off beanie at completely random places. His face was pale, and clear—albeit, covered with a light sheen of sweat. Pete’s solution, at first, was to simply stand there with wide-brown eyes and watch.

In amazement. Perfect lips were twisting around moans and strangled groans and broken words and his voice was fucking amazing. He thought he was going to die.

Peter’s not-so-well-thought-out-spur-of-the-moment-rash decision? To practically jump off of his bike, trip over a rock and lean over Patrick, as if the boy was going to wake up and they were going to have hot-sweaty-amazing-sex without even knowing each others names. Well, he was just leaning over him, until he fumbled with the zipper of the bag, pulling it all the way down, and stuffing his hand down this complete strangers pants (don’t worry, he practiced safe jacking-other-people-off, he didn’t stick his hand down the kids boxers), hands moving as carefully as they could around the twisting, writhing, moaning boy’s erection.

And well, Pete had done stupider things. Really, it was a god-given miracle that Patrick hadn’t woken up. Or Pikachu, that would’ve been bad. And painful. So Pete got him off, was almost sad his pretty voice had quit filling the air, and then had washed his hand off in the lake—pulling Patrick’s sleeping bag back up and unrolling his own a few feet away from the shore.

_____________________

Pete woke up to a scream. A loud (slightly girly) scream. The next thing he knew, a fucking thunderbolt was coursing through his body, making him screech out in pain and hiss, and reach for his pokeball—grabbing it and releasing the small fox contained in a swift motion.

“Who the fuck are you and what the hell did you do?” Patrick screamed, having backed out of his sleeping bag, and towards the other edge of the clearing.

Now, what was Pete supposed to do other than grin, then smirk sheepishly? The hell he knew, so he did just that—waving, with his ‘innocent’ smile and saying as jovially as he could manage, “I’m Pete~! Who’re you?”

“Pich-Pikachu! Thunderbolt!”

“Wait-Wait-no-please, no, not again! I’m allergic! I’ll tell you the truth!” Pete said—throwing his arms up in the air. He would survive the thunderbolt, but damn they hurt. Almost as much as getting hit by a car. That seemed to happen to Pete, a lot, too.

“You were having a . . . ahem, dream. I ‘helped’ you.” Pete didn’t think he had ever seen a face go that red in his entire life. Ever. Patrick began an attempt to stutter out something, but ended up burying his head in his arms for a moment, before making a triumphant return with—

“YOU MOLESTED ME IN MY SLEEP YOU PERVERT!” It was loud, very loud—and Pikachu’s red cheeks (hey, he matched his trainer!) were sparking with electricity.

“I was helping, you were attracting the wildlife! You were gathering a large audience of Weedles and Caterpis.” Pete said, vaguely recalling seeing more than usual (maybe it was just because it had been night time . . .) and figuring that was pretty close to the truth.

Patrick paled, especially, at the mention of “large” and “Weedle.” Pete figured he must’ve said the right thing, because at that point Patrick muttered something that was as close to an apology or a thanks as Pete supposed he was gonna get. He didn’t expect either, and he almost expected another thunderbolt any moment, anyways. This boy seemed like he had a rather short temper.

“Wh-What was your . . . um, name again?” Patrick was still obviously very flustered, pulling his hat down and stumbling over to his back pack to get clean clothes.

“Peter. Peter Wentz, from Vermillion City. And you?”

“Patrick—er, Stump. I’m from Pallet Town, you probably haven’t heard of it though, its really small.” He muttered.

“That’s near Professor Oak’s . . .? My Dad goes to see him sometimes.”

Patrick nodded, “I’m gonna, uh. Change and get clean and all—if you could . . .”

Pete laughed, and Patrick blushed more, “It’s cool.” He turned around, “No Peeking, I promise!” (Had Pete been able to see him, he would have noticed that Patrick’s cheeks returned to the shade that matched Pikachu’s.) Pete actually dozed back off again, awoken by his Vulpix’s warm nose prodding his arm to get his attention.

“Sorry about earlier.” Was the first thing Patrick said to him, and Pete realized he must’ve fallen asleep for at least an additional thirty minutes—the whole camp was completely cleared and two Tupperware containers of soup were opened, some Pokémon food on the dishes lids.

“I have some soup my Mom made me before I left yesterday. It’s vegetarian, though, I hope you don’t mind.”

Pete smiled, “Thanks, I appreciate it—that’s cool, I’m veggie too. Killing cute things for food doesn’t roll in my books.” Pete felt insanely proud that that brought a smile onto Patrick’s lips.

So the four ate, and discussed what was going on. Pete said that he had been trying to find some trainers to battle—he was poor, and needed PokéBalls. He discovered Patrick was fresh on the road, and Patrick and Pikachu had been together for like, forever.

“That’s awesome. I only got Pix, here, a few years ago. I screwed up my knee—didn’t think I was going to be able to be a trainer, so a friends wanted to get me a Pokémon that was really mild, and could be managed with or without a lot of trouble. They got me Pixy, and well, my knee got better and here I am.” Pete explained, using the short version of the tale.

“I never had many friends, not too many people live in Pallet Town my age—and I was home schooled.” Patrick explained, rubbing Pikachu’s head between the tall yellow ears, “In fact, I got Pikachu when he was a baby—a Pichu. He only evolved recently, I was getting kind of worried, but hey—I’m just glad he’s okay.”

Pete smiled, “I guess that’s how it goes with us hard-core trainers.” He chuckled, and Patrick did too, and it was still a bit awkward—but it wasn’t that bad. Really.

(Both of them were trying to forget that, anyways. It made life easier.)

_________

“Shit.” Patrick cursed, as the threatening rain broke loose—falling on the two bikers (previously going at a slow pace) and their companions. Pete cursed as well (a little more colorfully) and made an apology as he called his Vulpix back into its Pokéball.

“Dude, don’t you think you should call sparky-cheeks back in?”

Patrick shook his head, making a sound of protest as the oversized yellow rodent burrowed into his (purposely) oversized jacket, “The only time Pikachu’s ever been in a Pokéball was before I met him. He hasn’t been in one since, I tried a few weeks ago—bad experiences apparently.”

“Stubborn little rat.”

Patrick laughed, “I love him anyways. Y’know how far we are from Pewter?” Apparently, Patrick ended up in one of the back corners of Viridian Forest, after hours of searching through paths and Weedle ambushes, the two managed to get back on course.

“Not long—the forest ends just a few minutes ahead. The Pokémon Center should have lodging.”

Patrick nodded, pulling his hood up over his hat, pedaling a little faster to keep up with Peter.

The rain only got harder, and Pikachu started whining—and Peter wished he had remembered to grab his own jacket before leaving the Pokémon Center last. But, it wasn’t that much longer—even though the simple rain was turning into sheets, with loud claps of thunder and distant lightning flashes.

__________

They were really lucky. They managed to make it to the Pokémon Center when (according to Pete’s calculations) when the storm was merely five miles away. Patrick was expecting a calm, cool, quiet atmosphere.

This was not what he found.

He found a small group of rowdy teenagers in the corner—who all stood up and cheered when the two entered.

“Petey! We were so worried about you! Where the hell have you been? We were gonna send out a search party, you stupid worrisome fucker!” A dangerously skinny brunette hissed, stomping up to him.

“Hehe, long story for a time far far away. Everyone, guys, guys—come over here. This is Patrick! The fuzzy rat in his jacket is Pikachu!” Pete grinned, pointing to Patrick with one hand, and releasing Vulpix with the other.

Patrick looked a little taken aback, a little shocked, but nevertheless waved and smiled, and said ‘Hi!’ as Pikachu crawled out of his jacket, returning to his perch on Patrick’s shoulder, as he put the key to his bike chain in his pocket (a covered area right outside the Pokécenter provided protection for the transportation).

“Patrick—Mr. Moody here,” a gesture to the skinny brunette, “is Ryan. I’ve known him for a few years. The guy with the fro is Joe, Shaggy-long hair is Andy, and hyper-kid over there is Brendon.” Patrick nodded, and was swept away in more thorough introductions, and awing over his Pikachu (who most certainly enjoyed the extra-attention).

________________

“Come on, boys. Time to go up in your bunks. I know you all have to head out, and it might as well be tomorrow.”

“Nurse Joy, it’s still early—and we never want to leave. Your beauty is simply so astounding, it magnetizes us!” Joe said, attempting to flatter her, until a look of disbelief crossed her face.

“Joseph, you’re gay.”

He pouted for a moment, “Bisexual.”

She rolled his eyes, “Don’t make me call in Jenny, please. Come on, get a good nights rest, the storm is sure to have moved on by the time your able to head out in the morning. You know, tomorrow morning that little restaurant on the other end of town has a breakfast special. I know you guys are a little short on money, and it’s very well priced.”

That seemed to calm them down. They were boys, after all. Their minds were almost always on one of three things: food, sex, and Pokémon. And besides, it had been a long day. Patrick’s legs were killing him, and the other boys had their own reasons to complain fatigue (‘I was fucking shocked, with fucking electricity.’ ‘No-duh, Pete. I’m pretty sure not much else can shock you.’). After a few minutes of piling into bunks on the upper level of the center, then a few more minutes of stray, last-minute conversation—people started drifting off to sleep.

Until lightning flashed particularly close, and Pikachu light up (shocking the whole room, some getting more than others). This caused a few moments of arguments, a trip downstairs for painkillers, and a midnight snack from various bags that were lined up next to piles of clothes that were going to be taken to a Laundromat the next day.

Anywho, that kept everyone awake for a few more hours.

Even though Patrick barely knew any of these people, he already felt comfortable. Generally, offhanded contact bothered him—but friendly pats on shoulders and lingering touches and hands made him feel like he was one of them.

He had never been ‘one of them’ before, and while the whole prospect was mildly frightening, he had a feeling that if there was any group in all of Kanto he was meant to hang around with, it was these guys.

____________

Sleep had finally come over most of the others in the room, except Patrick. He was pretty sure he was the only one left awake until he was pushed over and Pete was lying next to him—squishing him against the wall uncomfortably.

“What are you gonna do tomorrow?”

“Why are you still awake.”

“Insomnia."

"I’m gonna go out and start training you imbecile. I have to be able to beat the Gym Leader, y’know, before I can move on to bigger and better things.”

“Come with us. We’re not going far, we’re going to hang out around town for a while longer. Brendon, Ryan and I are new at this too, we’re still building up our Pokémon and working on our teams. Stay with us.”

Patrick was silent for a moment, “You all know each other, I’ll be the odd man out.”

“No, you won’t. Brendon’s new to the group, too—he fits in just fine!”

“It’s . . . too many, five is already a really big group, six is way too many.”

“You’re allowed to carry six Pokéballs with you at a time by league regulations, six is perfect. This way, if we ever have to split up into pairs no one is ever a third wheel or left alone. Six is a perfect number.”

“I dunno, Pete—I just met you all today . . .”

“And you don’t know a single damn person outside of Pallet Town.”

“I just . . .” Patrick trailed off, attempting to roll back over, before Pete caught him.

As cliché as it was, lightning flashed at the exact moment that Pete’s lips pressed up against Patrick’s. Patrick’s eyes fluttered shut, and Pete’s were already closed—it was a relatively short, chaste kiss with nothing more than an innocent lick at lips. Pete got up a moment later, returning to his own bunk, and Patrick’s lips were left—tingling all over. His first kiss, ever. He couldn’t help the grin that slipped onto his lips, and tracing them with his tongue. He would stay.

To see where this would all lead him.

</div>

pfor — Sun, 18 Mar 2007 04:08:02 GMT

Title: ~~Girl~~Boyfriend [au, standalone]
Summary: Patrick has a girl friend when he first meets Pete. Pete doesn't like her.
Author: Leigh // pfor
Rating: R for heavy language and Sexual innuendo
Disclaimer: Never was and never will be.
Dedications: Jenna aka youkokit387 for beta'ing for me. Muchos gracias mi amiga <3
Author's Notes: Inspired heavily, I repeat HEAVILY by the Avril Lavigne song 'Girlfriend.' Because for some reason I can totally imagine Pete singing that to Patrick xD First Peter/Patrick, first post in this comm.
After finishing this fic, I have decided that I like this universe, and will be writing more in it and not just PxP.
For some reason, it got all boldy the first time I tried to submit this, so sorry about that, mods. I went ahead and added a little bit more to the end, too. And the second time, it turns out I had messed up grammar and spelling. Sorry, mods, for making you go through all the trouble.

Patrick was happily ~~married~~ dating. It was actually something that he was very, very proud of because his girlfriend was absolutely gorgeous and absolutely popular. That didn't happen to the band geeks in high school- ever. It was like it went against the laws of high school, completely and entirely. Don't get him wrong, Patrick didn't date her just for her looks and popularity, she was really nice to him. He had met a lot of ~~jackasses~~ really beautiful, popular people through her.

One of those ~~jackasses~~ really, beautiful, popular people happened to be the soccer star of the school--Peter Wentz. In fact, his girlfriend was on the girl's soccer team, so somehow they knew each other because they were both soccer obsessed (Patrick could care less about sports,considering he sucks at them).

Anyhow, that was how Patrick ended up here, at ~~the party of the year~~ at Pete Wentz's house. His girlfriend was invited, and she dragged him along. Patrick was surprised at the music playing from the loud stereos in the living room--it was actually pretty decent. He was also surprised at the amount of shit that was being passed around. Seriously, he knew popular high school parties usually resulted in dozens of trashed teens, but damn.

Patrick wasn't so comfortable. And his girlfriend had disappeared a few minutes ago to go to the bathroom and then find something that wasn't littered with alcohol.

That was how Pete Wentz found (the poor awkward little) Patrick Stump.

"You're chick is stoned, man."

Patrick resisted the urge for his face to meet his palm. Damn. He should've seen that coming, it wasn't like she was a saint or anything, after all--she had probably been going to these things for years. Pete didn't sense Patrick's mental dilemma, "She's currently sharing the trash can with a few dozen other people."

Really, she was smart. For the most part, anyways. She rocked at math, especially percentages and everything- unlike some of the ditzes on soccer team, she figured out her own percentages in her head. Patrick knew a few geeks who didn’t even bother with that. She made A’s in her math and computer classes . . . but that was pretty much it. She was good at running and kicking and working with numbers. But at least she wasn’t completely stupid.

But still, Patrick was a little skeptical, "It's your party, man, how come you aren't trashed?"

"It wasn't my idea to pull out all that shit, man. Urie and Walker brought it from god knows where." He said, as if it was obvious knowledge. Patrick might've known as much. Those two were the odd balls in the popular society--constantly up to something, anything.

"Why aren't you trashed? You came with the queen! Her dates are always just as trashed as she is, and generally finding some closet to go and fuck each other in."

"Don't call her that and don’t talk about her like she’s some slut!" Patrick hated it when people called her that, be they in, out or stranglers like himself. He hated it even more when people called her a slut, whore, ho, or any similar name. She had made some mistakes in past relationships, done stuff she wasn’t ready for-that didn’t make her a slut!

Pete rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, grabbing Patrick's hand, "Whatever to that, she's a complete and total bitch-slut and we all know it. Come on--there's some soda stuffed away in the kitchen." He practically dragged the poor, defenseless (and not athletic) Patrick through masses of loud, sweaty, vomit-smelling bodies to the kitchen. Patrick was surprised to see that no one else was in there.

Finally letting go of Patrick's arm, Pete detoured, opening the fridge and grabbing two bottles of soda before shutting it with his foot, throwing one over to Patrick (laughing when he almost dropped it) before leading them over to a sliding glass door that led to the back porch.

"We're the only sober ones in the house, so we might as well enjoy each other's company." Pete explained, "Ryan and Spencer are the only other likely-sober ones, and I don't think that they came tonight." Patrick was very . . . wary of those two, Ryan was too quiet to be normal and Spencer was some kind of evil genius, he was certain.

Patrick was silent, which was really awkward. Pete was infinitely more popular than he was. If it wasn't for his girlfriend, then Patrick would be . . . nothing. He would be at home, playing guitar or messing around with GarageBand or just reading. Patrick never did anything with anyone before he hooked up with 'the queen.' He had been surprised she even knew who he was, much less liked him enough to ask him to go to Homecoming with her.

And four weeks had passed, this was the second girlfriend that Patrick had ever had. They spent a lot of time together- mostly just hanging out at the mall or goofing off, sometimes going out of town. They had fun; she was awesome. Patrick thought, at first, she might just be using him--but she wasn't. She was nice to him. It still surprised him sometimes, he even pinched himself before they went out on a Saturday night, sometimes.

"She is a bitch, you know that right?" Pete asked, looking over, dark eyes completely serious, "I swear to God, she's playing a joke on you. I used to date her, she's a bitch. Take this from someone who has experience with the chick."

This was the second time Pete had pissed the hell out of Patrick, and in less than ten minutes, Pete was setting a new world record, "No she isn't! Listen Pete, I don't know what kind of relationship you guys had, but she's nice to me." Patrick snapped back, he barely even knew Pete--and here the jerk was saying that his relationship was a lie, "Why the fuck would you care anyways?"

"I like you, Patrick. You're a nice guy. She's a sucking, slutty, whore." Pete said, matter-of-factly, "You're not going to gain any kind of rep for going out with her. You're going to be dropped off of all the invite lists when she dumps you, and no one's going to care. Does that not bother you? All of these people in here only talk to you because you date The Queen. And they only talk to her because she’s the captain of the soccer team, otherwise she wouldn’t be within a mile’s radius of this place." Pete explained, once again speaking as if Patrick really should know these facts (and he did). "She's going to dump you soon. She dumps after the second time you don't get drunk and don't fuck her. I bet you haven't even gotten past second base with her, eh?"

Patrick's face turned an embarrassing shade of red much similar to the label of the Coca-Cola bottle he was holding, and his tongue tripped over the words he intended to say, the first time around.

"You're still a virgin." Pete said, grinning, "Priceless. I really am surprised she doesn’t have you screwed in every way possible yet. It’s been, what, a month?"

"'Tri-hiccup-ck!" giggle "I've been looking everywhere for ya, sweety-doll!"

Patrick looked back to the sliding glass door. She looked trashed- Pete had been right. Patrick had wanted to believe she might still be sober. He hoped to any God that might exist his sister didn’t need the car tomorrow, no doubt it would smell like beer, vodka, and vomit.

"I've gotta take her home." Patrick said, like the responsible boyfriend he was, turning to go to her. Pete shrugged and muttered something about Patrick picking his own poison. Patrick ignored him. It was just Pete after all. He was one of the ~~jackasses~~ beautiful, popular kids.
_____________________________

"I'm really sorry, 'Trick. I shouldn't have done that to you. I'm sorry, I paid for it with the goddamn hangover though, it was horrible." Patrick kissed her on the cheek as she apologized, continuing to express her apologies for the millionth time in a row. It was horrible how much he had to listen to her. She got wasted, got laid, and threw up a lot. That doesn't require a million apologies.

"It's okay, babe. I've gotta go take these to the library--you go on out to the car, 'kay? I'll be right there." Patrick said, making it clear to her that she was forgiven.
He closed his locker, smiled to her and headed to the library. He was still a geek at heart, and not much (aside from half of his wardrobe) had changed since they started going out. That was another thing that kept him guessing, she was pretty damn understanding of his geeky-habits.

The double doors were already open, and Patrick slipped through--putting the books on the check-in shelf and sliding over to the bookshelves to find his next read. It wouldn't take that long- just a few minutes. If he couldn't find anything, he would just come back when she wasn't waiting on him.

"Patrick! Haven't seen you around since Saturday." It was Wednesday and that was Pete. Patrick groaned and wished his hat would hide more of his face as the soccer star slunk through the aisles to greet him, throwing an arm around him in a friendly gesture and socking him in the arm.

"Yeah. How ya' doing, Pete?"

"Not that good; no sleep last night again. I'm looking up stuff to try and help me solve that dilemma, especially since soccer season is right down the corner. I need all the rest I can get. Yourself?"

"Good, just grabbing a new book to read."

Pete leaned in closer, "Home-run?"

Patrick's face turned an astonishing shade of red (it had a tendency of doing that around Pete, he noticed), and Pete grinned.
"Yup. I figured so. She threatened you, didn't she? And you aren't ready to give her up."

Patrick really wanted his hat to swallow his face now.
"Listen, Pete. This really isn't the time or place, she's waiting for me." Patrick pushed some of his hair behind his ears and turned to leave. However, he was forced to stop in his tracks when Pete grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"She's a whatever factor, Patrick. They're dropping her from the soccer team today, some of the skirts had a problem with her drinking, snapped a few pics and took a few videos. They’re showing them to the coach- she’s gonna get kicked off for improper conduct off the field. No more parties.” Pete said, dead serious and seeming a little happy about it.

Patrick froze for a moment. Oh shit. All the possibilities flooded through his head. She would get drunk tonight, show up at his house and his parents would see. Or she would get in a wreck. Or she would take it out on him, but still . . . “I’m not shallow, Pete! I like her, okay? I barely even know you, much less want relationship advice from you. Leave me the fuck alone!”

“No way in hell.” Pete snapped, “You can do better than that slut.” Patrick was surprised by that comment- most definitely something he didn’t expect to hear from Pete. Since when were they even friends?

“Well, fuck. Cause no one ever told me that. I’m a band geek, Wentz! I don’t know the difference between Dior and some cheap knock-off on the street, I don’t wear cologne, I don’t play sports, I don’t even have a fuckin’ Myspace or Facebook! I don’t stay up until three in the morning having sex, doing drugs, and drinking, I stay up until three in the morning messing around on fucking GarageBand! I am not popular Pete, people do not like me! She is the best I can do!”

Patrick tore away, with difficulty, but he was a little on the chubby side. Pete was skinny, put the laws of nature into work. Pete was faster than Patrick- a lot faster, so when Patrick went bounding out of the library, it took Pete no more than a few seconds to tackle Patrick to the floor just a few feet out of the door. Pete fell on top of Patrick, pinning him to the ground, and Patrick groaned in pain, luckily managing to fall on his side instead of a jaw-meets-tile impact. But fuck, there were going to be bruises all over tomorrow.

“Fuck if I’m going to let you get away this time, dammit.” Pete snarled, “Let’s get this straight: I don’t like your girlfriend, but I do like you. She is a stupid whore. You are a motherfucking musical genius. Get that through your thick skull, Stump!” With a force that surprised Patrick (Pete did a lot of things that surprised Patrick, especially at this point when he barely knew him), Pete turned him over (another bruise in the making) and shoved his lips against Patrick’s.

Patrick was sat up.

“What the fuck, Wentz?” he cursed, thickly and angrily. But he didn’t try to pull away, maybe something down in him did agree with Pete, especially seeing as she was being dumped by the soccer team. And she had been a little . . . bitchy the past week or so, and mean- generally rude, and she tried to get him high on Sunday. That wasn’t cool: Patrick didn’t do drugs.

But still, the whole dude-kissing-dude thing was weird. Patrick admired many men, men were attractive he would go so far as to say. But he was pretty sure that didn’t merit him as bisexual.

But Pete didn’t reply, just pressed his lips to Patrick’s again. And that time Patrick lost his breath. Pete was biting his lip and Patrick was freaking out because girls didn’t do it like that, and he had kissed more girls than he had dated (long story). It was weird, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t feel good.

Pete pulled away, a grin on his face. He looked smug, satisfied, arrogant, and almost a little apprehensive and worried (Patrick attempted to ignore the last two).

“What the fuck, Wentz?” He repeated, breathless this time and not angry- just a little confused and maybe, just maybe, Patrick failed to mention that a long time ago he had had a tiny crush on Pete in middle school, but that was middle school. It was okay to have confusing crushes on people who you weren’t supposed to crush on in middle school. Besides, it had been long forgotten (until now).

“Three. Fucking. Months.” Pete hissed, “I have been after you since way before that ho-bag scum. She only asked you out to get to me. Your girlfriend is over-rated. You make her disappear, just swipe the slate clean completely—and you can have me, no strings attached. I know you like me. I like you for who you are.”

Patrick just sat there, staring at Pete. What the fuck . . . ? No wait, just . . .

Oh god, why couldn’t he just go back to being the ignored band geek?

_________

"You're so fine
I want you mine
You're so delicious
I think about you all the time
You're so addictive
Don't you know
What I can do
To make you feel alright

Don't pretend
I think you know
I'm damn precious
And hell yeah
I'm the mother fucking princess
I can tell you like me too
And you know I'm right"

Patrick howled over in laughter, slapping his knee as he clutched his gut, "Oh my God, Pete! This song was written just for you!" he chuckled, "You're such a 'mother fucking princess' now that she's pointed it out! Since when did you know Avril Lavigne, anyways?"

Pete scowled at the younger boy, "At least she's got the first part right." He said, clicking the off button on the radio and leaning over the middle of the SUV to lip lock with his boyfriend, "You are so delicious."

"Dammit, Pete! We are at school in the front seat of your mother's SUV and school starts in five minutes." Patrick hissed, pulling away for a second before meeting the soccer star's lips again.

"Whatever. I have a game today and I am sexually frustrated."

"It's been thirty minutes!" Patrick replied, red faced in disbelief.

"And now I have to go what, four hours until lunch?"

"We are not doing it in the handicapped stall again! It hurt my back!" Patrick hissed.

"Whatever, babe. I have needs."

"You're a freaking nympho!"

"No, you're just irresistible, and you looked so adorable in that apron when you were making waffles!"

"If you want waffles ever again, you will let me go to Chemistry class so I don't get bitched out by the old man again! He's already been on my case every day this week!"

Pete pulled back, pouting, "Fine then." before leaning over and kissing him on the cheek, "I expect compensation though." He grinned, tearing out the keys and hopping out of the car. Patrick sighed, before grabbing his back pack and tearing through the student parking lot to his class. Pete was such a handful, and he could be a big baby about a lot of things.

Patrick was very, very glad that Pete hadn't liked his girlfriend, because frankly (now) Patrick didn't like her that much either.

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