fic: just to know you're alive (1/4)
Oct. 28th, 2009 06:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violaceaTitle: Just To Know You're Alive
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Word Count: ~24,000
Rating: NC-17
Notes: This story would not exist without![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tuesdaysgone, who has read more versions of some of these scenes than I care to count and somehow didn't kill me in the process. She also fixed my rampant horde of roaming commas, for which I am extremely grateful. :) Much love also goes to tigs and ignipes, who both read and encouraged and helped fix some of my stupid mistakes. All three of them should possibly be canonized for putting up with me. The title quotes the Goo Goo Dolls. Judge if you must.
Patrick turned around to face Pete, and Pete started talking. "You can disappear into thin air. You can get into someone's head and make them do things. You rarely leave your basement. And, apparently, unless someone slipped acid into my drink tonight, you drink blood." Pete stopped in front of Patrick, who wore an expression like a caged animal. "Are you a motherfucking vampire?"
Pete watched Patrick swallow. "There's no such thing as vampires," he finally answered, his voice shaky.
The kid was a little pale – okay, a lot pale – but Pete didn’t think anything of it. He was a geeky redheaded teenager with glasses and fast, nervous speech that made Pete hiss at Joe, “Really?”
“Seriously,” Joe replied, a little louder than Pete would have preferred. “He’s great, we totally need him. If you can convince him to join the band.”
“We don’t have a band yet,” Pete reminded him.
“We will.”
The kid – Patrick – twitched as he led them downstairs into his basement. His mother, somewhere on the other side of the house, yelled, “Let me know if you guys want any soda or something.” Pete had to blink when he reached the bottom of the stairs. The large room was decorated entirely in wood paneling, probably left over from before any of them were born. There were a few music posters taped to the walls, but Pete couldn’t make out what they were because the only light in the basement came from two standing lamps, one in each far corner. The bulbs in the lamps couldn’t have been more than 75 watts each, Pete figured, not nearly enough light for the entire room. “Jesus, it’s a fucking cave,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“I like the dark.” Patrick walked across the basement and stood next to a drum kit. Pete also saw a guitar in the corner, as well as a spread of paper – handwritten sheet music, he noted when he squinted and walked closer – littering the floor around an amp. “I don’t know why you guys are here,” Patrick continued, folding his arms across his chest. The gesture made him look even smaller, like if Pete blinked, Patrick would disappear entirely. “I told you, Joe, I can’t be in your band. Any band,” he rushed on. “It’s not personal. I just can’t.”
“But you’re awesome,” Joe argued. “Is it a parent thing? Because I could have my mom talk to your mom, she’s really persuasive …”
“It’s not that. What are you doing?” The last was directed at Pete, who had picked up a sheet of paper.
Pete moved closer to a lamp, peering at the paper. The notes on the paper translated into music in his brain, and he looked back up at Patrick. “Can you play this?”
“I wrote it, of course I can fucking play it.” He snatched the paper back from Pete and folded his arms over his chest again.
“Then do it, jackass.”
“What?”
“Play it. Or,” Pete grabbed the paper back out of Patrick’s hand, “I’ll start singing the notes, and no one wants that. Right, Joe?”
Joe nodded furiously. “Trust me. You don’t want him to sing.”
Patrick continued to stare at Pete until Pete looked down at the paper and cleared his throat. The sound that came out of his mouth was strangled, and caused Patrick to wince and grab the paper back once again. “Fine, fine, whatever.”
“Told you,” Joe muttered under his breath.
Pete, however, was focused on Patrick, who sat cross-legged on the floor with his beat-up electric guitar. He barely looked at the sheet music; he began to play the melody with his eyes closed, opening them only when the tempo picked up. At that point, he bit his lower lip in concentration, causing the pink to disappear and leaving only a pale line that blended in with his unnaturally pale skin. Pete couldn’t stop staring. It was the music, he told himself – the melody was simple but super catchy, and Pete could already hear a club full of people singing along with it. “You’re in,” he said when Patrick’s guitar trailed off.
Patrick blinked up at him, startled. “What?”
“What?” Joe echoed. “I thought we were looking for a drummer! We already have a guitarist. You know, me.”
“Some bands have two guitarists, it’s fine.” Pete waved Joe off. “And I know someone for drums.”
“Andy already told you no, dude.”
“I haven’t asked enough times yet.”
They were interrupted by the sound of the guitar clattering to the floor. There was a small spot of color in Patrick’s cheeks, making the rest of his skin look even paler. “I can’t. Didn’t you hear me?”
“Bullshit, you can’t.” Pete circled to the darker side of the room. At this angle, Patrick had a dim halo of light surrounding him, which made Pete shake his head to clear his vision.
“I can’t,” Patrick repeated. “I’m not looking for a band. I don’t play in public.”
“Of course you’re looking for a band. What, you’ve just got a bunch of instruments set up down here just for the hell of it?”
“Maybe I do.” Patrick shrunk back into a shadow. All Pete could see of him was a flash of green eyes staring sorrowfully at him. “You guys should go. I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have come.”
“Patrick,” Joe said, taking a step forward. “Come on, we talked about it, this is going to be awesome …”
“I’m sure it will. You guys will be great.”
“We’ll be better with you,” Joe said, and Pete found himself nodding.
When they didn’t get a response, they both stared at the corner of the room where Patrick had been – where he was no longer standing. “Um,” Pete said, walking into the shadowy corner.
“Where’d he go?” Joe followed Pete, frowning.
“Hell if I know. He was just here!”
Joe examined the paneled walls. “There isn’t a door here or anything. Only on the other side of the room. Did he get over to the door without us noticing?”
He couldn’t, Pete thought, but any other explanation was impossible. Guys didn’t just disappear, not even tiny pale ones who seemed to want to disappear. “I guess.” Pete suppressed a shiver. “Dude, let’s get out of here, I totally need a hamburger.”
As they walked back up the stairs, Pete thought he could feel someone watching him. He didn’t turn around. “Creepy kid,” he muttered.
That night he dreamed about green eyes and a haunting melody.
Pete went back to Patrick’s house the next week. He couldn’t think of any logical reason why, except that the kid had appeared in his dreams three different times. “Stupid, creepy kid,” he muttered to himself for what seemed like the millionth time as he knocked on the door. Patrick’s mother answered, and Pete plastered his best nice-boy smile on his face. “Hey, I’m a friend of Patrick’s, is he here?”
She looked at him kind of funny, but let him in and led him to the basement door. When Pete started to descend the stairs, he heard music – the same melody that had been running through his head for a week, only slightly different. The notes were being plunked out on the guitar, with a sour note at the end. Pete heard a soft curse, and then a surprisingly loud, clear voice sang the melody. It was the voice that made Pete stop in his tracks. It shouldn’t have been that interesting – it sounded like a teenage kid. There was some serious talent there, yeah, and Patrick would probably be a killer singer when he got through puberty. But that wasn’t why Pete had to grab the stair railing to steady himself. When he thought about it later, he couldn’t figure out why he did. It shouldn’t have been special. It just … was.
Patrick continued to sing to himself, playing the melody on the guitar at the same time. “Jesus, where the fuck is that note?” he muttered.
“You had it right the other night, I swear.” Pete continued down the stairs, wondering why he was breathing like he’d just run a mile.
Patrick was sitting on the floor again, guitar in hand, staring at the staircase with wide eyes magnified by his glasses. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” Pete answered honestly. “I just wanted to come over.”
“Well, go away.” Patrick looked back down at his guitar. “I’m trying to work.”
Pete sat on the ground in front of Patrick. “I told you, it sounded great the way you played it the other night.”
Patrick looked back up at him, scowling. It would have been a lot more intimidating, Pete thought, if he hadn’t also been blushing furiously. “Seriously, go away. I don’t want to be in your stupid band.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Not entirely, Pete mentally corrected himself. Especially after hearing Patrick sing – and why the thought of Patrick absently singing his melody made his skin itch, he had no idea. The whole thing was weird. “I just wanted to talk to you again.” Which was true, but was just as confusing to Pete as it apparently was to Patrick.
“Why?”
“Because you write awesome songs.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “I played you six bars of one unfinished song.”
“And I’ve been humming it ever since.”
“I’m not joining your band,” Patrick said stubbornly.
“Why not? And don’t give me that bullshit about playing in public again, either, I don’t believe in stage fright. You sit down here and write songs and play music, that means you want to play that music for other people.”
“No, it doesn’t. I play music because …” Patrick faltered, waving his hands in the air uselessly. “Because it’s what I do. It’s for me. Not anyone else.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Pete leaned forward and poked Patrick in the shoulder. Patrick smacked his hand away and stood up. Pete got to his feet while Patrick put his guitar back in its case. “Come on,” Pete said, stepping forward. Patrick stepped backward, away from Pete, but found himself caught between Pete and one of the lamps. “I’m not leaving until you give me a real answer.”
For a moment, Patrick’s eyes went wide with panic. Then, oddly, he started to hum under his breath, a tune that Pete had never heard before. Pete felt his muscles relax, in a way that reminded him of being on painkillers. Pleasant, but very weird, and why was it happening right now? He hadn’t taken painkillers since the last time he fucked up his knee.
He almost didn’t notice when Patrick’s humming turned to words. “Go home,” he said softly. Pete felt the words buzz in his ear like a fly. He would swat it away, he thought, if his arms would obey. “Go home, and never come back.”
Home, Pete thought. Yeah, he could still be in bed, it was Saturday, he was going out tonight. Why had he come here in the first place?
Patrick was still humming softly, but Pete barely noticed him, except for the fact that the sound vibrated in his chest. Pete turned around and started to walk back to the stairs. A moment later, the sound stopped, and so did Pete. He rubbed his ears. It felt like they’d popped, like he was on a plane or something. “What the fuck? Dude, I have no idea …”
Pete turned around. Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Pete gulped and took a step backward. Then he turned and walked back up the stairs as fast as his ego would allow.
Pete went back two days later. In the light of day, nothing about the previous meeting seemed real. “I imagined things,” he told himself as he walked up to the front door. “He probably thinks I’m a freak.” And he did, the feeling was definitely mutual. So why was he back at Patrick’s house? “Because I’m a freak.”
This time, Patrick was pacing around the basement when Pete appeared on the stairs. When he saw Pete, he stopped in his tracks. His mouth fell open wide enough that Pete wrinkled his nose. “Come on, I haven’t showered in a couple of days, but I don’t look that bad.”
“You … you …” Patrick sputtered. “You’re … you’re not supposed … what are you doing here?”
“You didn’t answer me.”
When Pete walked towards Patrick, the younger boy skittered away as if Pete threatened him. “But … but … you’re not supposed to …”
Pete stopped, frowning. “Come on, kid, I just want to know why you won’t leave your stupid basement.”
Patrick folded his arms around his waist. “I leave my basement,” he said, his voice low and sullen.
“Okay, then, come out and have a burger with me or something.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to!” Patrick suddenly burst into motion, circling around Pete. “And you’re not supposed to be here! You weren’t supposed to come back!”
“Why not? Because you said so?” Pete shrugged. “I’m not very good at taking orders.”
“Obviously,” Patrick muttered.
“And, dude,” Pete said, smacking Patrick’s arm when he circled close enough, “stop doing that thing where you just disappear without saying goodbye. It’s creepy. How do you do that, by the way?” He looked around the paneled walls of the room. “Is there, like, a secret door here or something? That’d be cool if there was.”
Patrick stopped and stared at Pete. He remained silent, rubbing the spot on his arm where Pete had smacked him. “Oh, it wasn’t that hard,” Pete said, rolling his eyes. “If this is your idea of social skills, it’s no wonder you don’t have any friends.”
“I have friends.”
“Oh, really?”
“Joe’s my friend.”
“Joe thinks you’re weird.” The look in Patrick’s eyes made Pete suddenly rush on. “But that’s okay, he thinks I’m weird too, and anyone who organizes his sock drawer by color has no room to talk.”
Patrick stalked back to his drum kit. He sat on the stool and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't know why you're here," he said plaintively.
"Stop whining and go to Sonic with me."
"No."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because I don't want to!" Patrick repeated. "Is that so fucking hard to believe?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Wow, it's too bad you don't have any ego."
Pete grinned, which made Patrick's scowl deepen. He walked over to the wall, where a small, waist-high refrigerator sat several feet from the drum kit. He leaned against the refrigerator. "Seriously, you look like you're dead, we need to get you some sunshine." Pete looked down; there was a coffee mug sitting next to his hand. Inside, he saw the thickest coffee he'd ever seen. "Jesus, do you drink this stuff or eat it with a fork?" He picked up the mug. He caught a whiff of the liquid inside - there was a metallic tang that made him frown. And, it looked a little ... red?
Pete didn't see Patrick move until he'd snatched the mug out of his hand. "Get the fuck out.
"What?"
"Get out." Patrick shoved Pete in the chest. "Get out. Get out!"
"Seriously, what ..."
Patrick grabbed Pete by the chin. Pete felt his eyes glaze over. "Get. Out." Patrick's voice was little more than a hiss. Pete could feel it buzzing in the back of his head. Patrick whistled softly under his breath, and Pete felt himself sway slightly in time with the melody. "Get out, and forget you ever saw that."
"Forget what?" Pete murmured.
He saw the corners of Patrick's mouth turn up in a small, grim smile. "Exactly."
Patrick let go of Pete's face and retreated back behind the drums. Pete took two steps backward. Suddenly, he heard the strange popping sound in the air around him, and he rubbed his ears. "What the actual fuck was that?"
Patrick's eyes widened in horror. "What?"
"What you just did. What was that? What the fuck did you do to me?"
"You ... you ... what?" Patrick continued to retreat until he stood with his back to the corner, half obscured by shadows.
"You did it the other day, too! And I'm not even drunk or high or anything, so I'm not hallucinating, I swear. What was it?" Pete felt himself shaking. He could still hear the quiet melody Patrick had whistled playing in his head, and the sound made him want to turn around and walk up the stairs. He made himself stand still and stare at Patrick. He didn't always feel like he was in control of his own brain, but he wasn't going to let some weird kid do ... something, some kind of weird whammy bullshit to mess him up. When he said so he saw Patrick's eyes get so wide behind his glasses that Pete could no longer see any white.
Patrick clutched the coffee mug to his chest like a shield. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said weakly.
"Bullshit." Pete stepped forward, until the drum kit was the only thing separating him from Patrick.
Pete blinked. He only blinked, he knew it, it was less than a fraction of a second. But, somewhere in that fraction, Patrick disappeared. He was there, and then he wasn't. Pete stared at the corner. He stepped around the drums and ran his hands over the paneling in the corner. There were no doors, no cracks, no anything - simply solid walls, with nowhere for Patrick to disappear. And no time for him to go anywhere. "Patrick?" His voice echoed through the empty basement.
He stood in the corner for what seemed like a long time. It almost felt like someone was watching him, but every time he turned around to look in the dark corners, he found himself alone.
Pete didn't go back to Patrick's house. He told himself it was because the kid was too much of a freak, not because he was scared or anything. And certainly not because Patrick had put some kind of mind whammy on him. Because that shit didn't exist, no matter what kind of weird feeling he'd gotten back in that basement. And whatever had been in that coffee mug ... was not what Pete's brain thought it was. No way. Wasn't possible.
The last thing Pete expected, though, was to see Patrick at a house party the next weekend.
Pete didn't know whose house it was - some girl Chris knew. or someone who was friends with a girl Chris knew, or ... well, whatever, there was booze and loud music and wall-to-wall people, it didn't matter who was throwing the damned thing. Pete had stepped out onto the back porch for some air when he heard a low voice off in the yard. He looked over to see a couple pressed against a tree. The girl had her arms thrown around the boy's neck, and he had her hips held firmly against the tree trunk. Their kiss was loud and enthusiastic. The boy was obviously doing something right, because the girl writhed and moaned against his body. When they pulled apart, she kept her hands fisted in the back of his t-shirt. "Oh, please," Pete heard her say, her eyes closed. Pete chuckled under his breath, impressed. The boy looked to be a teenager, while the girl looked like she'd probably at least graduated from high school. While he hadn't done too badly with chicks when he was in high school, Pete was pretty sure he hadn't managed to make one look quite like that until he was at least eighteen.
The boy lifted his head enough for his face to catch the light coming from the living room window. Pete recognized Patrick and gaped.
While Pete stared, Patrick stepped away from the girl, untangling her hands from his shirt. She made a noise of protest, but he kept ahold of one of her hands and pulled her forward. "Come back behind the garage with me," Pete heard him say. The girl followed along docilely. As they walked further into the dark, Pete could hear Patrick's voice, humming softly.
Pete went back into the house, his mind whirling. He was immediately pulled into a loud conversation in the kitchen, though, and forgot all about the scene outside until he saw the same girl walk back inside some time later, a dreamy look on her face. Pete frowned, and abandoned his friends mid-sentence to go grab the girl's arm. "Hey," he said.
She looked at him and blinked several times. Pete watched her pupils dilate and contract, and a moment later shook her head. "Do I know you?" she asked.
"No," he replied, "but I know that guy you were just with outside. Where'd he go?"
"What?" She blinked again. "I don't ..." She stepped away from Pete, putting a hand to her head. "God, it's so loud in here!" She frowned, but then a smile spread across her face. "Yeah, that was nice. He left." She walked away from Pete without another word. He watched her leave the room, rubbing the side of her neck absently.
Suddenly, Pete wasn't much in the mood for a party.
He saw Patrick at a concert a few weeks later. Or, more accurately, in the bar's men's room, with his hand snaking down some guy's pants. Pete had decided his need to piss was more important than the bathroom's reputation as a cesspit of germs and filth. Apparently cleanliness didn't matter much to Patrick either, because he had his hands on the wall, framing a skinny scene kid wearing a bright pink t-shirt. The guy was half a head taller than Patrick, and had his head thrown back against the dirty tile of the wall. Patrick's mouth trailed down his neck; once he reached the collar of the guy's t-shirt, he dropped to his knees. He was humming, which somehow didn't surprise Pete at all. The melody he hummed seemed to match the scene kid's gasps and pants in a strange, staccato rhythm.
Pete took a step back, hopeful that the wall of the nearest stall would keep him out of sight. He could still see well enough to see Patrick - holy shit, Patrick; that strange kid somehow had a fucking amazing mouth - free the guy's cock from his jeans and take it into his mouth. Pete heard himself make a small sound; he clapped his hand over his mouth, but Patrick appeared to be too busy to notice, and the other guy seemed to notice no one but Patrick. Pete couldn't blame him. He felt himself hardening as he watched Patrick's head bob up and down. His partner's ecstatic moans echoed through the otherwise empty bathroom. Pete swallowed hard. Leaving the bathroom was probably his best option. It was definitely the most polite, least crazy-making option.
He stayed in the doorway, eyes riveted to the scene.
Pete didn't notice when Patrick shoved the guy's jeans down past his knees - how was he supposed to notice anything but Patrick's mouth and the obscene wet sound it made as it slid on and off the guy's cock? But after a few minutes, Patrick pulled off and moved one of his hands so that he was only gripping one of the guy's thighs. The guy didn't seem to notice the break in the action, if his incoherent mumbling was any indication. Patrick rubbed his thumbs over the skin of his thigh, humming to himself. He turned his head sideways for a moment, which allowed Pete to see the flush of his cheeks, along with a strangely apprehensive expression. Pete frowned. Patrick had seemed to be enjoying himself, but if this other dude had coerced him somehow, that wasn't cool. Patrick was young - okay, so it wasn't like Pete hadn't had his dick sucked by guys and girls Patrick's age before, but ...
Pete's mental monologue was silenced when Patrick turned back to the scene kid and sunk his teeth into the flesh of his thigh.
Everything was quiet. Pete's breathing, the bathroom, the scene kid ... there was no sound in the room except a faint sucking noise. Mouth slack, Pete inched forward to get a better look. Because he wasn't seeing what he thought he was seeing, right? It wasn't possible, he'd been watching too many late-night movies on Showtime - but a different angle showed Patrick's mouth fixed to the guy's skin, with a trickle of blood creeping down the inside of his thigh. Pete looked up, but despite his silence, the kid's face made it look like he was lost in a cloud of ecstasy. He was definitely still turned on, as his cock bobbed hard and heavy next to Patrick. A moment later, Patrick pulled back. His teeth - no, Pete was not seeing two little white points protruding below his lip. He wasn't seeing fangs, and he wasn't seeing Patrick's mouth stained a deep red. There had to be an explanation for this. Maybe someone spiked his drink? Pete didn't know, but something was causing hallucinations.
As Pete watched, Patrick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat back on his heels. He reached up to grasp the still-bobbing cock, and sang a few indistinct words under his breath. Suddenly, the scene kid was moaning like he'd never stopped. Patrick went back to sucking him off. Pete could see a smear of blood on the hand Patrick used to brace himself against the wall behind the other guy.
Pete retreated from the bathroom quietly, one hand over his mouth.
He had managed to do two shots of tequila at the bar before he saw the bathroom door open. The scene kid came out first, looking dreamy and smug. About five minutes later, Patrick emerged and started to slink towards the door. Pete was off his barstool and heading him off before the bartender could yell at him for not paying his tab.
Patrick was clinging to the wall, hunched over as if that would keep him from catching anyone's attention. Pete hurried to the entrance of the club and leaned on the wall, directly in Patrick's path. When Patrick reached him, he automatically looked up. Pete watched his eyes widen in horror when he recognized Pete. "Hey, I guess you do leave your basement," Pete said. His voice sounded totally calm, which he was proud of, because he could still feel his legs shaking.
Patrick tried to duck around him, but Pete moved in front of him. Patrick scowled. His face was ghost-white, but when he looked up, Pete could see a spot of red remaining on the corner of his mouth. Pete temporarily lost the ability to breathe. When he recovered, he clapped a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Where are you going? Leaving so soon?"
"I have to get home," Patrick muttered. He tried to shake Pete off, but Pete just pulled him closer and slung an arm around his shoulder. "Let me go, asshole."
"No." Patrick's body was warm against Pete's side. "So ..." Pete looked down at Patrick - or at Patrick's trucker cap, as Patrick was looking intently at his own feet - and took a deep breath. "I saw you in the bathroom."
He felt Patrick's body still. "Let me go," he said softly.
Suddenly, Pete heard a low humming, and he felt something buzz inside his head. Before the weird feeling could set in, he shoved Patrick away. "Stop with that bullshit already."
Patrick stumbled. When he stood back up, his eyes were like saucers as he stared at Pete. "How do you do that??"
"That's my question, jackass."
"No, really." Patrick continued staring. "You're not supposed to be able to ..."
"To what?"
"Resist!" Patrick shouted. He immediately clapped a hand over his mouth.
A group of girls jostled Patrick on their way to the club's exit. He moved closer to Pete. Pete grabbed his arm. When Patrick looked up at him, he shrugged. "I don't want you to do that stupid disappearing thing, either."
He felt Patrick go still. When he looked up, his face was only inches away from Pete's. His eyes were almost entirely green, with only a small rim of white around the edges, and a tiny black dot for the pupils. His breath was hot against Pete's face. Pete shivered. He told himself it was from the remaining tiny blood stain on the corner of Patrick's mouth, and not from the mental flash of Patrick's mouth wrapped around that guy's dick. "You missed a spot," he said.
Patrick blinked. "What?"
"There." Pete reached up and touched his index finger to Patrick's lip. "Blood."
Patrick's eyes flared entirely green before he wrenched his arm out of Patrick's grip. He swiped at the corner of his mouth ineffectually. "I have to go," he said, not meeting Pete's eyes. "I really have to get the fuck out of here."
He walked past Pete. Pete followed him out the door and into the parking lot, which was deserted except for a couple making out against the side of a car. Patrick started to run when he hit the blacktop. Pete moved to follow, but then stopped on the curb and shouted, his voice echoing across the lot. "What the fuck are you, Patrick??"
Patrick stopped. The couple stopped kissing and stared at Pete curiously. He waved them off, and then jogged over to where Patrick was standing at the far edge of the parking lot. Patrick turned around to face Pete, and Pete started talking. "You can disappear into thin air. You can get into someone's head and make them do things. You rarely leave your basement. And, apparently, unless someone slipped acid into my drink tonight, you drink blood." Pete stopped in front of Patrick, who wore an expression like a caged animal. "Are you a motherfucking vampire?"
Pete watched Patrick swallow. "There's no such thing as vampires," he finally answered, his voice shaky.
"Okay, then, you tell me what the hell you are."
They stared at each other for a long minute. Suddenly, a car alarm blared, causing both of them to jump. Pete looked behind him to see the couple sitting on the ground, laughing hysterically. When he looked back, Patrick was biting his lip and swaying slightly. Pete cocked his head. "I'm hungry," Patrick muttered. Pete raised his eyebrows. "For actual food," Patrick clarified. "I do eat real food, you know."
"No, I don't know." Pete took a deep breath. Despite the three shots he'd downed in the bar, he felt stone cold sober. He gestured down the street. "Come on, let's go to Taco Bell."
He took a chance and started walking down the road. He felt a ridiculous sort of pleasure when Patrick jogged to catch up to him a moment later.
part two
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Word Count: ~24,000
Rating: NC-17
Notes: This story would not exist without
tuesdaysgone, who has read more versions of some of these scenes than I care to count and somehow didn't kill me in the process. She also fixed my rampant horde of roaming commas, for which I am extremely grateful. :) Much love also goes to tigs and ignipes, who both read and encouraged and helped fix some of my stupid mistakes. All three of them should possibly be canonized for putting up with me. The title quotes the Goo Goo Dolls. Judge if you must.Patrick turned around to face Pete, and Pete started talking. "You can disappear into thin air. You can get into someone's head and make them do things. You rarely leave your basement. And, apparently, unless someone slipped acid into my drink tonight, you drink blood." Pete stopped in front of Patrick, who wore an expression like a caged animal. "Are you a motherfucking vampire?"
Pete watched Patrick swallow. "There's no such thing as vampires," he finally answered, his voice shaky.
The kid was a little pale – okay, a lot pale – but Pete didn’t think anything of it. He was a geeky redheaded teenager with glasses and fast, nervous speech that made Pete hiss at Joe, “Really?”
“Seriously,” Joe replied, a little louder than Pete would have preferred. “He’s great, we totally need him. If you can convince him to join the band.”
“We don’t have a band yet,” Pete reminded him.
“We will.”
The kid – Patrick – twitched as he led them downstairs into his basement. His mother, somewhere on the other side of the house, yelled, “Let me know if you guys want any soda or something.” Pete had to blink when he reached the bottom of the stairs. The large room was decorated entirely in wood paneling, probably left over from before any of them were born. There were a few music posters taped to the walls, but Pete couldn’t make out what they were because the only light in the basement came from two standing lamps, one in each far corner. The bulbs in the lamps couldn’t have been more than 75 watts each, Pete figured, not nearly enough light for the entire room. “Jesus, it’s a fucking cave,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“I like the dark.” Patrick walked across the basement and stood next to a drum kit. Pete also saw a guitar in the corner, as well as a spread of paper – handwritten sheet music, he noted when he squinted and walked closer – littering the floor around an amp. “I don’t know why you guys are here,” Patrick continued, folding his arms across his chest. The gesture made him look even smaller, like if Pete blinked, Patrick would disappear entirely. “I told you, Joe, I can’t be in your band. Any band,” he rushed on. “It’s not personal. I just can’t.”
“But you’re awesome,” Joe argued. “Is it a parent thing? Because I could have my mom talk to your mom, she’s really persuasive …”
“It’s not that. What are you doing?” The last was directed at Pete, who had picked up a sheet of paper.
Pete moved closer to a lamp, peering at the paper. The notes on the paper translated into music in his brain, and he looked back up at Patrick. “Can you play this?”
“I wrote it, of course I can fucking play it.” He snatched the paper back from Pete and folded his arms over his chest again.
“Then do it, jackass.”
“What?”
“Play it. Or,” Pete grabbed the paper back out of Patrick’s hand, “I’ll start singing the notes, and no one wants that. Right, Joe?”
Joe nodded furiously. “Trust me. You don’t want him to sing.”
Patrick continued to stare at Pete until Pete looked down at the paper and cleared his throat. The sound that came out of his mouth was strangled, and caused Patrick to wince and grab the paper back once again. “Fine, fine, whatever.”
“Told you,” Joe muttered under his breath.
Pete, however, was focused on Patrick, who sat cross-legged on the floor with his beat-up electric guitar. He barely looked at the sheet music; he began to play the melody with his eyes closed, opening them only when the tempo picked up. At that point, he bit his lower lip in concentration, causing the pink to disappear and leaving only a pale line that blended in with his unnaturally pale skin. Pete couldn’t stop staring. It was the music, he told himself – the melody was simple but super catchy, and Pete could already hear a club full of people singing along with it. “You’re in,” he said when Patrick’s guitar trailed off.
Patrick blinked up at him, startled. “What?”
“What?” Joe echoed. “I thought we were looking for a drummer! We already have a guitarist. You know, me.”
“Some bands have two guitarists, it’s fine.” Pete waved Joe off. “And I know someone for drums.”
“Andy already told you no, dude.”
“I haven’t asked enough times yet.”
They were interrupted by the sound of the guitar clattering to the floor. There was a small spot of color in Patrick’s cheeks, making the rest of his skin look even paler. “I can’t. Didn’t you hear me?”
“Bullshit, you can’t.” Pete circled to the darker side of the room. At this angle, Patrick had a dim halo of light surrounding him, which made Pete shake his head to clear his vision.
“I can’t,” Patrick repeated. “I’m not looking for a band. I don’t play in public.”
“Of course you’re looking for a band. What, you’ve just got a bunch of instruments set up down here just for the hell of it?”
“Maybe I do.” Patrick shrunk back into a shadow. All Pete could see of him was a flash of green eyes staring sorrowfully at him. “You guys should go. I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have come.”
“Patrick,” Joe said, taking a step forward. “Come on, we talked about it, this is going to be awesome …”
“I’m sure it will. You guys will be great.”
“We’ll be better with you,” Joe said, and Pete found himself nodding.
When they didn’t get a response, they both stared at the corner of the room where Patrick had been – where he was no longer standing. “Um,” Pete said, walking into the shadowy corner.
“Where’d he go?” Joe followed Pete, frowning.
“Hell if I know. He was just here!”
Joe examined the paneled walls. “There isn’t a door here or anything. Only on the other side of the room. Did he get over to the door without us noticing?”
He couldn’t, Pete thought, but any other explanation was impossible. Guys didn’t just disappear, not even tiny pale ones who seemed to want to disappear. “I guess.” Pete suppressed a shiver. “Dude, let’s get out of here, I totally need a hamburger.”
As they walked back up the stairs, Pete thought he could feel someone watching him. He didn’t turn around. “Creepy kid,” he muttered.
That night he dreamed about green eyes and a haunting melody.
Pete went back to Patrick’s house the next week. He couldn’t think of any logical reason why, except that the kid had appeared in his dreams three different times. “Stupid, creepy kid,” he muttered to himself for what seemed like the millionth time as he knocked on the door. Patrick’s mother answered, and Pete plastered his best nice-boy smile on his face. “Hey, I’m a friend of Patrick’s, is he here?”
She looked at him kind of funny, but let him in and led him to the basement door. When Pete started to descend the stairs, he heard music – the same melody that had been running through his head for a week, only slightly different. The notes were being plunked out on the guitar, with a sour note at the end. Pete heard a soft curse, and then a surprisingly loud, clear voice sang the melody. It was the voice that made Pete stop in his tracks. It shouldn’t have been that interesting – it sounded like a teenage kid. There was some serious talent there, yeah, and Patrick would probably be a killer singer when he got through puberty. But that wasn’t why Pete had to grab the stair railing to steady himself. When he thought about it later, he couldn’t figure out why he did. It shouldn’t have been special. It just … was.
Patrick continued to sing to himself, playing the melody on the guitar at the same time. “Jesus, where the fuck is that note?” he muttered.
“You had it right the other night, I swear.” Pete continued down the stairs, wondering why he was breathing like he’d just run a mile.
Patrick was sitting on the floor again, guitar in hand, staring at the staircase with wide eyes magnified by his glasses. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” Pete answered honestly. “I just wanted to come over.”
“Well, go away.” Patrick looked back down at his guitar. “I’m trying to work.”
Pete sat on the ground in front of Patrick. “I told you, it sounded great the way you played it the other night.”
Patrick looked back up at him, scowling. It would have been a lot more intimidating, Pete thought, if he hadn’t also been blushing furiously. “Seriously, go away. I don’t want to be in your stupid band.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Not entirely, Pete mentally corrected himself. Especially after hearing Patrick sing – and why the thought of Patrick absently singing his melody made his skin itch, he had no idea. The whole thing was weird. “I just wanted to talk to you again.” Which was true, but was just as confusing to Pete as it apparently was to Patrick.
“Why?”
“Because you write awesome songs.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “I played you six bars of one unfinished song.”
“And I’ve been humming it ever since.”
“I’m not joining your band,” Patrick said stubbornly.
“Why not? And don’t give me that bullshit about playing in public again, either, I don’t believe in stage fright. You sit down here and write songs and play music, that means you want to play that music for other people.”
“No, it doesn’t. I play music because …” Patrick faltered, waving his hands in the air uselessly. “Because it’s what I do. It’s for me. Not anyone else.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Pete leaned forward and poked Patrick in the shoulder. Patrick smacked his hand away and stood up. Pete got to his feet while Patrick put his guitar back in its case. “Come on,” Pete said, stepping forward. Patrick stepped backward, away from Pete, but found himself caught between Pete and one of the lamps. “I’m not leaving until you give me a real answer.”
For a moment, Patrick’s eyes went wide with panic. Then, oddly, he started to hum under his breath, a tune that Pete had never heard before. Pete felt his muscles relax, in a way that reminded him of being on painkillers. Pleasant, but very weird, and why was it happening right now? He hadn’t taken painkillers since the last time he fucked up his knee.
He almost didn’t notice when Patrick’s humming turned to words. “Go home,” he said softly. Pete felt the words buzz in his ear like a fly. He would swat it away, he thought, if his arms would obey. “Go home, and never come back.”
Home, Pete thought. Yeah, he could still be in bed, it was Saturday, he was going out tonight. Why had he come here in the first place?
Patrick was still humming softly, but Pete barely noticed him, except for the fact that the sound vibrated in his chest. Pete turned around and started to walk back to the stairs. A moment later, the sound stopped, and so did Pete. He rubbed his ears. It felt like they’d popped, like he was on a plane or something. “What the fuck? Dude, I have no idea …”
Pete turned around. Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Pete gulped and took a step backward. Then he turned and walked back up the stairs as fast as his ego would allow.
Pete went back two days later. In the light of day, nothing about the previous meeting seemed real. “I imagined things,” he told himself as he walked up to the front door. “He probably thinks I’m a freak.” And he did, the feeling was definitely mutual. So why was he back at Patrick’s house? “Because I’m a freak.”
This time, Patrick was pacing around the basement when Pete appeared on the stairs. When he saw Pete, he stopped in his tracks. His mouth fell open wide enough that Pete wrinkled his nose. “Come on, I haven’t showered in a couple of days, but I don’t look that bad.”
“You … you …” Patrick sputtered. “You’re … you’re not supposed … what are you doing here?”
“You didn’t answer me.”
When Pete walked towards Patrick, the younger boy skittered away as if Pete threatened him. “But … but … you’re not supposed to …”
Pete stopped, frowning. “Come on, kid, I just want to know why you won’t leave your stupid basement.”
Patrick folded his arms around his waist. “I leave my basement,” he said, his voice low and sullen.
“Okay, then, come out and have a burger with me or something.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to!” Patrick suddenly burst into motion, circling around Pete. “And you’re not supposed to be here! You weren’t supposed to come back!”
“Why not? Because you said so?” Pete shrugged. “I’m not very good at taking orders.”
“Obviously,” Patrick muttered.
“And, dude,” Pete said, smacking Patrick’s arm when he circled close enough, “stop doing that thing where you just disappear without saying goodbye. It’s creepy. How do you do that, by the way?” He looked around the paneled walls of the room. “Is there, like, a secret door here or something? That’d be cool if there was.”
Patrick stopped and stared at Pete. He remained silent, rubbing the spot on his arm where Pete had smacked him. “Oh, it wasn’t that hard,” Pete said, rolling his eyes. “If this is your idea of social skills, it’s no wonder you don’t have any friends.”
“I have friends.”
“Oh, really?”
“Joe’s my friend.”
“Joe thinks you’re weird.” The look in Patrick’s eyes made Pete suddenly rush on. “But that’s okay, he thinks I’m weird too, and anyone who organizes his sock drawer by color has no room to talk.”
Patrick stalked back to his drum kit. He sat on the stool and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't know why you're here," he said plaintively.
"Stop whining and go to Sonic with me."
"No."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because I don't want to!" Patrick repeated. "Is that so fucking hard to believe?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Wow, it's too bad you don't have any ego."
Pete grinned, which made Patrick's scowl deepen. He walked over to the wall, where a small, waist-high refrigerator sat several feet from the drum kit. He leaned against the refrigerator. "Seriously, you look like you're dead, we need to get you some sunshine." Pete looked down; there was a coffee mug sitting next to his hand. Inside, he saw the thickest coffee he'd ever seen. "Jesus, do you drink this stuff or eat it with a fork?" He picked up the mug. He caught a whiff of the liquid inside - there was a metallic tang that made him frown. And, it looked a little ... red?
Pete didn't see Patrick move until he'd snatched the mug out of his hand. "Get the fuck out.
"What?"
"Get out." Patrick shoved Pete in the chest. "Get out. Get out!"
"Seriously, what ..."
Patrick grabbed Pete by the chin. Pete felt his eyes glaze over. "Get. Out." Patrick's voice was little more than a hiss. Pete could feel it buzzing in the back of his head. Patrick whistled softly under his breath, and Pete felt himself sway slightly in time with the melody. "Get out, and forget you ever saw that."
"Forget what?" Pete murmured.
He saw the corners of Patrick's mouth turn up in a small, grim smile. "Exactly."
Patrick let go of Pete's face and retreated back behind the drums. Pete took two steps backward. Suddenly, he heard the strange popping sound in the air around him, and he rubbed his ears. "What the actual fuck was that?"
Patrick's eyes widened in horror. "What?"
"What you just did. What was that? What the fuck did you do to me?"
"You ... you ... what?" Patrick continued to retreat until he stood with his back to the corner, half obscured by shadows.
"You did it the other day, too! And I'm not even drunk or high or anything, so I'm not hallucinating, I swear. What was it?" Pete felt himself shaking. He could still hear the quiet melody Patrick had whistled playing in his head, and the sound made him want to turn around and walk up the stairs. He made himself stand still and stare at Patrick. He didn't always feel like he was in control of his own brain, but he wasn't going to let some weird kid do ... something, some kind of weird whammy bullshit to mess him up. When he said so he saw Patrick's eyes get so wide behind his glasses that Pete could no longer see any white.
Patrick clutched the coffee mug to his chest like a shield. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said weakly.
"Bullshit." Pete stepped forward, until the drum kit was the only thing separating him from Patrick.
Pete blinked. He only blinked, he knew it, it was less than a fraction of a second. But, somewhere in that fraction, Patrick disappeared. He was there, and then he wasn't. Pete stared at the corner. He stepped around the drums and ran his hands over the paneling in the corner. There were no doors, no cracks, no anything - simply solid walls, with nowhere for Patrick to disappear. And no time for him to go anywhere. "Patrick?" His voice echoed through the empty basement.
He stood in the corner for what seemed like a long time. It almost felt like someone was watching him, but every time he turned around to look in the dark corners, he found himself alone.
Pete didn't go back to Patrick's house. He told himself it was because the kid was too much of a freak, not because he was scared or anything. And certainly not because Patrick had put some kind of mind whammy on him. Because that shit didn't exist, no matter what kind of weird feeling he'd gotten back in that basement. And whatever had been in that coffee mug ... was not what Pete's brain thought it was. No way. Wasn't possible.
The last thing Pete expected, though, was to see Patrick at a house party the next weekend.
Pete didn't know whose house it was - some girl Chris knew. or someone who was friends with a girl Chris knew, or ... well, whatever, there was booze and loud music and wall-to-wall people, it didn't matter who was throwing the damned thing. Pete had stepped out onto the back porch for some air when he heard a low voice off in the yard. He looked over to see a couple pressed against a tree. The girl had her arms thrown around the boy's neck, and he had her hips held firmly against the tree trunk. Their kiss was loud and enthusiastic. The boy was obviously doing something right, because the girl writhed and moaned against his body. When they pulled apart, she kept her hands fisted in the back of his t-shirt. "Oh, please," Pete heard her say, her eyes closed. Pete chuckled under his breath, impressed. The boy looked to be a teenager, while the girl looked like she'd probably at least graduated from high school. While he hadn't done too badly with chicks when he was in high school, Pete was pretty sure he hadn't managed to make one look quite like that until he was at least eighteen.
The boy lifted his head enough for his face to catch the light coming from the living room window. Pete recognized Patrick and gaped.
While Pete stared, Patrick stepped away from the girl, untangling her hands from his shirt. She made a noise of protest, but he kept ahold of one of her hands and pulled her forward. "Come back behind the garage with me," Pete heard him say. The girl followed along docilely. As they walked further into the dark, Pete could hear Patrick's voice, humming softly.
Pete went back into the house, his mind whirling. He was immediately pulled into a loud conversation in the kitchen, though, and forgot all about the scene outside until he saw the same girl walk back inside some time later, a dreamy look on her face. Pete frowned, and abandoned his friends mid-sentence to go grab the girl's arm. "Hey," he said.
She looked at him and blinked several times. Pete watched her pupils dilate and contract, and a moment later shook her head. "Do I know you?" she asked.
"No," he replied, "but I know that guy you were just with outside. Where'd he go?"
"What?" She blinked again. "I don't ..." She stepped away from Pete, putting a hand to her head. "God, it's so loud in here!" She frowned, but then a smile spread across her face. "Yeah, that was nice. He left." She walked away from Pete without another word. He watched her leave the room, rubbing the side of her neck absently.
Suddenly, Pete wasn't much in the mood for a party.
He saw Patrick at a concert a few weeks later. Or, more accurately, in the bar's men's room, with his hand snaking down some guy's pants. Pete had decided his need to piss was more important than the bathroom's reputation as a cesspit of germs and filth. Apparently cleanliness didn't matter much to Patrick either, because he had his hands on the wall, framing a skinny scene kid wearing a bright pink t-shirt. The guy was half a head taller than Patrick, and had his head thrown back against the dirty tile of the wall. Patrick's mouth trailed down his neck; once he reached the collar of the guy's t-shirt, he dropped to his knees. He was humming, which somehow didn't surprise Pete at all. The melody he hummed seemed to match the scene kid's gasps and pants in a strange, staccato rhythm.
Pete took a step back, hopeful that the wall of the nearest stall would keep him out of sight. He could still see well enough to see Patrick - holy shit, Patrick; that strange kid somehow had a fucking amazing mouth - free the guy's cock from his jeans and take it into his mouth. Pete heard himself make a small sound; he clapped his hand over his mouth, but Patrick appeared to be too busy to notice, and the other guy seemed to notice no one but Patrick. Pete couldn't blame him. He felt himself hardening as he watched Patrick's head bob up and down. His partner's ecstatic moans echoed through the otherwise empty bathroom. Pete swallowed hard. Leaving the bathroom was probably his best option. It was definitely the most polite, least crazy-making option.
He stayed in the doorway, eyes riveted to the scene.
Pete didn't notice when Patrick shoved the guy's jeans down past his knees - how was he supposed to notice anything but Patrick's mouth and the obscene wet sound it made as it slid on and off the guy's cock? But after a few minutes, Patrick pulled off and moved one of his hands so that he was only gripping one of the guy's thighs. The guy didn't seem to notice the break in the action, if his incoherent mumbling was any indication. Patrick rubbed his thumbs over the skin of his thigh, humming to himself. He turned his head sideways for a moment, which allowed Pete to see the flush of his cheeks, along with a strangely apprehensive expression. Pete frowned. Patrick had seemed to be enjoying himself, but if this other dude had coerced him somehow, that wasn't cool. Patrick was young - okay, so it wasn't like Pete hadn't had his dick sucked by guys and girls Patrick's age before, but ...
Pete's mental monologue was silenced when Patrick turned back to the scene kid and sunk his teeth into the flesh of his thigh.
Everything was quiet. Pete's breathing, the bathroom, the scene kid ... there was no sound in the room except a faint sucking noise. Mouth slack, Pete inched forward to get a better look. Because he wasn't seeing what he thought he was seeing, right? It wasn't possible, he'd been watching too many late-night movies on Showtime - but a different angle showed Patrick's mouth fixed to the guy's skin, with a trickle of blood creeping down the inside of his thigh. Pete looked up, but despite his silence, the kid's face made it look like he was lost in a cloud of ecstasy. He was definitely still turned on, as his cock bobbed hard and heavy next to Patrick. A moment later, Patrick pulled back. His teeth - no, Pete was not seeing two little white points protruding below his lip. He wasn't seeing fangs, and he wasn't seeing Patrick's mouth stained a deep red. There had to be an explanation for this. Maybe someone spiked his drink? Pete didn't know, but something was causing hallucinations.
As Pete watched, Patrick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat back on his heels. He reached up to grasp the still-bobbing cock, and sang a few indistinct words under his breath. Suddenly, the scene kid was moaning like he'd never stopped. Patrick went back to sucking him off. Pete could see a smear of blood on the hand Patrick used to brace himself against the wall behind the other guy.
Pete retreated from the bathroom quietly, one hand over his mouth.
He had managed to do two shots of tequila at the bar before he saw the bathroom door open. The scene kid came out first, looking dreamy and smug. About five minutes later, Patrick emerged and started to slink towards the door. Pete was off his barstool and heading him off before the bartender could yell at him for not paying his tab.
Patrick was clinging to the wall, hunched over as if that would keep him from catching anyone's attention. Pete hurried to the entrance of the club and leaned on the wall, directly in Patrick's path. When Patrick reached him, he automatically looked up. Pete watched his eyes widen in horror when he recognized Pete. "Hey, I guess you do leave your basement," Pete said. His voice sounded totally calm, which he was proud of, because he could still feel his legs shaking.
Patrick tried to duck around him, but Pete moved in front of him. Patrick scowled. His face was ghost-white, but when he looked up, Pete could see a spot of red remaining on the corner of his mouth. Pete temporarily lost the ability to breathe. When he recovered, he clapped a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Where are you going? Leaving so soon?"
"I have to get home," Patrick muttered. He tried to shake Pete off, but Pete just pulled him closer and slung an arm around his shoulder. "Let me go, asshole."
"No." Patrick's body was warm against Pete's side. "So ..." Pete looked down at Patrick - or at Patrick's trucker cap, as Patrick was looking intently at his own feet - and took a deep breath. "I saw you in the bathroom."
He felt Patrick's body still. "Let me go," he said softly.
Suddenly, Pete heard a low humming, and he felt something buzz inside his head. Before the weird feeling could set in, he shoved Patrick away. "Stop with that bullshit already."
Patrick stumbled. When he stood back up, his eyes were like saucers as he stared at Pete. "How do you do that??"
"That's my question, jackass."
"No, really." Patrick continued staring. "You're not supposed to be able to ..."
"To what?"
"Resist!" Patrick shouted. He immediately clapped a hand over his mouth.
A group of girls jostled Patrick on their way to the club's exit. He moved closer to Pete. Pete grabbed his arm. When Patrick looked up at him, he shrugged. "I don't want you to do that stupid disappearing thing, either."
He felt Patrick go still. When he looked up, his face was only inches away from Pete's. His eyes were almost entirely green, with only a small rim of white around the edges, and a tiny black dot for the pupils. His breath was hot against Pete's face. Pete shivered. He told himself it was from the remaining tiny blood stain on the corner of Patrick's mouth, and not from the mental flash of Patrick's mouth wrapped around that guy's dick. "You missed a spot," he said.
Patrick blinked. "What?"
"There." Pete reached up and touched his index finger to Patrick's lip. "Blood."
Patrick's eyes flared entirely green before he wrenched his arm out of Patrick's grip. He swiped at the corner of his mouth ineffectually. "I have to go," he said, not meeting Pete's eyes. "I really have to get the fuck out of here."
He walked past Pete. Pete followed him out the door and into the parking lot, which was deserted except for a couple making out against the side of a car. Patrick started to run when he hit the blacktop. Pete moved to follow, but then stopped on the curb and shouted, his voice echoing across the lot. "What the fuck are you, Patrick??"
Patrick stopped. The couple stopped kissing and stared at Pete curiously. He waved them off, and then jogged over to where Patrick was standing at the far edge of the parking lot. Patrick turned around to face Pete, and Pete started talking. "You can disappear into thin air. You can get into someone's head and make them do things. You rarely leave your basement. And, apparently, unless someone slipped acid into my drink tonight, you drink blood." Pete stopped in front of Patrick, who wore an expression like a caged animal. "Are you a motherfucking vampire?"
Pete watched Patrick swallow. "There's no such thing as vampires," he finally answered, his voice shaky.
"Okay, then, you tell me what the hell you are."
They stared at each other for a long minute. Suddenly, a car alarm blared, causing both of them to jump. Pete looked behind him to see the couple sitting on the ground, laughing hysterically. When he looked back, Patrick was biting his lip and swaying slightly. Pete cocked his head. "I'm hungry," Patrick muttered. Pete raised his eyebrows. "For actual food," Patrick clarified. "I do eat real food, you know."
"No, I don't know." Pete took a deep breath. Despite the three shots he'd downed in the bar, he felt stone cold sober. He gestured down the street. "Come on, let's go to Taco Bell."
He took a chance and started walking down the road. He felt a ridiculous sort of pleasure when Patrick jogged to catch up to him a moment later.
part two
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Date: 2009-10-28 11:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 12:23 am (UTC)♥
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Date: 2009-10-29 12:19 am (UTC)Now I can go link this to everyone I know :DDD
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Date: 2009-10-29 12:23 am (UTC)♥
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Date: 2009-10-29 12:27 am (UTC)♥ x a million
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Date: 2009-10-29 01:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 01:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 02:01 am (UTC)