fic: just to know you're alive (2/4)
Oct. 28th, 2009 06:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violaceapart one
Once Patrick started talking, he didn't want to stop.
"It's a disease," Patrick said around a mouthful of burrito. They sat on the curb on the dark side of the restaurant, because Patrick had insisted. "I'm not telling you anything where someone might hear," he'd said, folding his arm over his chest. Pete had looked around the dining room; the only other people in the place were the two bored workers, who had gone back to talking about the cashier's bitchy girlfriend the minute they'd given Pete his food. But Patrick had marched back outside, so Pete followed.
Patrick took a swig of his Coke and continued, gesturing with the hand that held the burrito. "Apparently, it's passed down in families. That's the only way to get it. You can't infect other people, it's just in our blood or something." He shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is that I started getting sick about three years ago. My skin was getting all these strange rashes - sunlight really hurt, I got all these nasty blisters and shit - and I was always tired. My mom started taking me to the doctor, and they were doing all these tests. But, then, one night, my uncle showed up. I'd never actually seen him before, he never comes to any of the family holidays or anything. He took my mom into her bedroom and talked to her for a long time. And then, he came to my room and told me. About the disease. He had it, and now I had it."
"Does it have a name?" Pete asked.
"Not really. It's not like we go to doctors or anything." Patrick shrugged, scowling. "I guess vampire works as well as anything. Though that always makes me feel like I should be wearing a cape and talking in a bad accent or something."
"Wow." Pete clapped Patrick on the shoulder. "That's ... kind of awesome, actually." And frightening, though Pete wasn't going to say that out loud. Because it seemed ridiculous, here in the sickly glowing light of the Taco Bell sign, to be scared of the small, pale boy wearing thick glasses and an old Michael Jackson t-shirt. But he remembered Patrick's teeth tearing into the skin of that guy's thigh, and something shuddered through Pete's body that he didn't quite want to put a name to.
Patrick's scowl deepened, and he inched away from Pete's grasp. "Says you. You're not the one who can't go out in sunlight any more. Even when you're a night person, that sucks."
"How do you go to school?"
"I don't. My mom homeschools me now." Patrick shoved the last of the burrito into his mouth. "She hates this," he muttered, his mouth full. "She's learned how to help me out, though. My uncle introduced her to this guy who works at a blood bank, and he gives her a few bags of blood every week. She thinks that's enough, and I'm not ever going to tell her different."
"It's not enough." It wasn't a question. Pete leaned his elbows on his knees and looked at Patrick.
"No. My uncle told me it wouldn't be." Patrick sucked on the straw of his soda. Pete tried to ignore his mouth. "There's something about taking the blood out of the body that makes it ... weaker. I don't know. Part of me wants to be a scientist so I can figure out why, but hey, guess what? I can't go to college." He balled up the empty burrito wrapper and threw it halfway across the parking lot. "Anyway, we can live on the blood bank stuff for a few days, but once a week or so, we need blood from an actual live person. Which is hard, because you can't really just ask someone 'hey, can I tear into your neck and suck your blood?' People don't really go for that stuff."
"Neck?" Pete asked, remembering Patrick on his knees.
Patrick blushed furiously. "The best arteries to use are the jugulars and the femorals - neck or thigh. You get the most blood in the least amount of time."
"Huh." Pete started piecing things together in his head. "So, you need to be able to drink blood from people, but you can't really tell the world what you are. That's where the mind whammy thing comes in?"
"Yeah. It's ..." Patrick bit his lip. The flush spread down to his neck, and he ducked his head to avoid Pete's gaze. "Tearing the skin and piercing the artery hurts, obviously. So, something about the disease also gives us the ability to cloud a person's mind. You know, make suggestions and stuff. You have to learn a trigger to start it. My uncle taps a certain rhythm on a person's arm and it kicks in. I use music because, well, it's the only thing I can really do." Patrick stared out into the empty lot. "It also makes the other person ... feel good. Like, aroused and stuff. My uncle thinks it has something to do with the fact that the disease doesn't manifest until puberty, that it's tied into hormones or something. I don't know. The point is, the only way to drink from someone without hurting them is to ... um, whammy them and drink during sex."
"Wow." Pete stared. "For real?"
"Yeah. Which is why I will never, ever tell my mom that I have to drink from real, live people. And that I have to coerce them to do it. Because that's really creepy."
Patrick looked miserable. Pete patted him on the arm. "If it makes you feel any better, the couple of people I've seen you with have seemed to enjoy themselves, like, a lot."
"Yeah, that's part of the mental thing, leaving them with a fake memory." Patrick glanced over at Pete, eyes narrowing. "Wait, a 'couple' of people?"
Pete quickly withdrew his hand. "I saw you at a party .... anyway," he said, "so you have sex with people, and drink their blood. Does taking the blood do anything bad to them?"
"No." Patrick shook his head. "I only have to take, like, half of what you'd give if you donated blood."
"What about diseases and shit?"
"Apparently, this disease overrides everything else. It's not like I can't die, I just have immunity from catching any diseases from someone I drink from. Somehow. That's what my uncle says, anyway, and it's not like I have any other experts to ask. I guess I'll prove him wrong if I die of AIDS or something."
"So, you take blood, you give orgasms, everyone's happy. I don't see any problems here."
"But I'm making people do things. I only pick people who are, you know, already looking to have sex with somebody, but still, they probably wouldn't be having sex with me if they had the choice." Pete couldn't figure out a way to disagree without sounding like a creep, so he kept quiet while Patrick leaned on his elbows and stared out into space again. "My uncle got lucky. He met my aunt when he was a teenager, and she didn't freak out when he told her what he was. So, she does everything for him during the day and lets him feed from her, and they're happy. Me ... I have to force people. It sucks."
They were silent for a few minutes. Pete listened to the cars passing on the street in front of the restaurant and Patrick sucking the last of his Coke out of the cup. "So," he asked finally, "why did you try to do your mind control thing to me?"
Patrick shrugged. "You weren't going to leave me alone about your band. And it's not like I knew if I could tell you the real reason why I had to say no."
"I still don't know why you said no. Okay, you can't go out during the day. Bands play shows at night. We can rehearse at night. No big deal."
"Right." Patrick rolled his eyes. "And then what happens if the band actually goes somewhere? If we have to travel to get to a show? I've had to ride in my mom's trunk before, I'm not doing that again."
"Huh. I didn't think of that."
"I did. Joe started talking about wanting to be in a band before he brought you over. I shouldn't have played for him." Patrick sighed. "I should have made him forget about me. But ... I don't know, it was nice having someone around, you know? Someone who wasn't my family."
"You want friends? Dude, I can introduce you to people. It's not like any of the people I hang with are going to think twice about the fact that they only see you at night. Most of them sleep until five o'clock anyway."
Patrick looked at Pete, blinking. "What?"
Pete poked him in the arm. "Okay, you're a vampire. You go out at night and have sex with strangers. Kid, that describes most of the people I know. Minus the drinking blood part, but whatever. Just don't try to mind whammy anyone, that's not a good way to make friends."
"I still don't know why it doesn't work on you," Patrick grumbled. "I even asked my uncle, but he's never heard of it not working before."
"I have a hard head."
"Obviously." But Pete caught the ghost of a grin on Patrick's face.
"Hey." Pete raised his eyebrows. "So how much of the stories are true? Garlic? Crosses? Anything?"
Patrick rolled his eyes. "I love garlic. My grandma's crucifix doesn't do anything to me. I'm sure a wooden stake through the heart would kill me, but so would shooting me or stabbing me, as far as I know. I'm not really that motivated to find out."
"Do you at least have a coffin?"
Patrick flipped him off. "My mom bought a big waterproof storage container, I use it if she has to drive me somewhere during the day. It sucks, I don't recommend it."
"Dude, if you're going to be a vampire, you should at least have a coffin. That's lame."
Patrick didn't dignify him with a reply. Instead, he stared out at the horizon, where the pink of the impending sunrise was beginning to mix with the night sky. "Crap. I have to get home." He looked at Pete, then at his shoes. "Can you drive me? I don't think I can walk fast enough."
"Sure."
Patrick was silent for most of the drive home. When they pulled into the driveway, he pulled his cap farther down his forehead. "Thanks," he mumbled.
Pete reached over and pulled the brim back up so that he could see Patrick's eyes. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"
"Huh?"
"Okay, well, tonight. Whatever."
"Um. Nothing?" He shrugged. "I don't have to feed for another week or so."
"I don't care about your feeding." Pete wasn't thinking about Patrick's mouth and his teeth and the smell of sex and blood. He wasn't. "Some of us are going to a movie. You do watch movies, don't you?"
Patrick blinked. For a moment, he looked impossibly young, and Pete felt guilty for the heat that pulsed through his body at the sight of Patrick biting his lip. "Yeah," Patrick said quietly, after a long silence. "I'd like that."
"Cool. I'll see you tonight, then."
After Patrick disappeared around the back of the house, Pete sat in the driveway for a long time. He only moved when the sun was bright enough to bring out the garbage trucks and the dog-walkers.
"Dude, why don't you use my place?"
Pete didn't think he'd regret the offer. He was doing Patrick a favor, right? "I have a bed, you know," Pete continued. "You tell me when you're going out to feed, I'll make sure the sheets are clean."
"Really?" Patrick looked dubious.
"Yeah. Here, have my extra key, mi casa es su casa, whatever." In the six months they'd been hanging out, Pete had watched Patrick disappear into every dark alley and shitty bathroom in the city, it seemed. It was stupid for him to have to feed in nasty places when Pete had a perfectly good apartment nearby. Well, an apartment that was marginally less nasty than club bathrooms, anyway.
"I can't drive," Patrick pointed out. "How am I supposed to get there?"
"I'll teach you to drive."
"I can't get a license. None of the DMV places are open at night, dumbass."
"I know a guy who knows a guy who can make good fake IDs. And, well, just don't speed or anything."
Patrick was dubious.
The months wore on. Pete started playing bass in a band with Joe and a couple of other guys they rounded up. They're weren't really much good, but Pete enjoyed the chance to fling himself around the stage every so often. Patrick came to all of their shows. Sometimes, Pete caught sight of him at the edge of the small crowd, looking hungrily at the stage. Pete tried to talk him into the band a couple of times, but Patrick was insistent. "I can't call that much attention to myself," he said sadly. "The more people notice me, the more they'll notice I do weird things."
"Like anyone in this crowd will blink at someone doing weird things."
"Oh, yeah, what happens when someone's friends notice that they disappear with the dude from the band? And that person can't remember what happened? I can't exactly whammy an entire bar full of people."
"You and your stupid logic, man." Pete made a face. "It sucks. You totally need to be in a band."
"I know." Patrick's expression was enough to convince Pete to never bring the subject up again.
A week or so later, Patrick found Pete after a show and tapped him on the shoulder. He leaned close to talk in Pete's ear. "Hey, I'm leaving."
His voice was lower than normal, and Pete repressed a shiver. "What?"
"There's a guy, he has a car. I can still go to your place, right?"
"Um. Yeah, go ahead, have fun."
Pete watched him walk away and grab the hand of a guy who was easily five years older than Patrick. Which, of course, he himself was, but he wasn't the one ... and that wasn't a thought Pete was going to follow, no sir. Still, he watched Patrick's ass until the two of them disappeared behind the crowd. Then, he threw himself into the mosh pit with reckless abandon.
After that, Patrick started using Pete's apartment for feeding on a regular basis. Most of the time, he timed his feeding schedule around shows that Pete's band played - that way, nobody else would be hanging around the apartment, and no one was likely to walk in at the wrong time.
A lot of people had a key to Pete's place. "You'd be a security expert's worst nightmare," Patrick had scoffed.
"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure the first thing a security expert would tell me is 'keep the vampire out', so fuck off." Pete had cuffed Patrick on the back of the head. He'd gotten shoved into a nearby table for his troubles, while Patrick scanned the club's crowd to make sure no one had overheard Pete.
Pete tried not to think about it. He did. He was self-aware enough, though, to realize that his own tendency to give and receive back-alley blow jobs coincided pretty often with Patrick's feeding schedule. He wasn't stupid. And coming home to sheets that smelled of sex and blood didn't help. "Jesus, can you at least do the laundry when you're done?" he griped one night when he came home.
Patrick, who had been sitting on the couch, looking at the floor and rubbing his neck, looked up. He looked tired, Pete noticed. Not really like a guy who'd just gotten laid a half hour earlier. "Sorry?" he said tentatively. "I can stop coming back here ..."
"No, it's fine, just change the sheets, will you?"
After that, his bed stopped smelling like Patrick. Pete tried to be grateful.
Months passed. Patrick spent more time at Pete's apartment than he did at home, which made his mother look suspiciously at Pete for a while. Eventually, though, she settled on being grateful that Patrick had a friend. "There aren't many people," she said to Pete one day, when Patrick was out of the room, "who would ... understand him."
Pete shrugged. "It's not his fault. It doesn't bother me."
It wasn't entirely true, but Patrick's mother didn't really need to know the ways in which Patrick's condition bothered him, Pete figured.
Pete lost his band - they hadn't been all that good, anyway, and Joe went off to play in a metal band with a couple of kids who used to come see Arma Angelus play - but gained a business with some friends, booking and promoting shows at the clubs he used to play. He was good at it, and he got a charge out of seeing bands he liked gain audience every time they played. "My big mouth should do somebody some good," he told Patrick, standing at the back of a club one night.
"Doesn't it feel weird? Not being up there?"
Pete felt a twinge low in his chest. "Nah," he said. "I suck, nobody wants to listen to me."
Patrick just poked Pete absently in the side and kept watching the stage. Pete slung an arm over his shoulder. Patrick didn't bother to shrug him off anymore; Pete could feel him lean almost imperceptibly closer. His body was warm - "I'm not dead, jackass, so why the hell would I be cold-blooded?" "I don't know, I just thought vampires were supposed to be all cold and shit." - making Pete feel even hotter than the airless club had previously felt. The sweat made Pete's t-shirt cling to his skin. He saw a widening patch of wetness on the front of Patrick's shirt. If he was still enough, Pete could feel the rhythm of Patrick's heartbeat underneath his skin and his shirt, even over the pounding bass drum. All he had to do was pick out the irregular rhythm; Patrick's heart always beat fast, every time Pete noticed it. He figured it was a vampire thing. Of course, as far as he'd known before, vampires didn't have heartbeats, so what did he know?
"You're too hot," Patrick said in his ear, to be heard over the music.
Pete shuddered, but masked it with a movement that pulled Patrick even closer. "Thanks, baby, you're really sexy, too," he yelled back, leering.
Patrick rolled his eyes. Pete leaned his head against Patrick's. He could feel Patrick sigh dramatically, but he didn't move away. They stood like that for the next two songs.
Pete got a girlfriend. Sabrina was small, blonde, and entirely frightening, and she gave the best fucking blow jobs Pete had ever had. She definitely helped take the edge off of Pete's ... complex reactions to Patrick. Which was good, really, because right around that time Patrick turned into the biggest asshole imaginable. "For someone who has as much sex as you do," Pete observed one night, "you're certainly a pissy little bitch."
"Fuck off," Patrick muttered, flipping him off. "Shut up, I'm trying to write here."
Pete looked over Patrick's shoulder at the notes he was scratching onto sheet music. Part of him wanted to ask Patrick to sing the melody for him, but irritation won out. "Seriously, dude, I told you we were coming back here."
"So?"
"So, having sex in Sabrina's twin dorm room bed sucks ass. Especially since her roommate's in the middle of studying for finals. I told her we could have some alone time."
He didn't mention the part where Sabrina didn't like Patrick very much. "He's creepy," she said once, which had led to a three-day separation. In the end, she agreed to not mention Patrick, and Pete agreed to not make her hang out with Patrick too often. It wasn't like Patrick didn't already know how she felt. The feeling was definitely mutual. When they'd entered the apartment that night and seen Patrick hunched over the card table that doubled as a dining room table, Sabrina had scowled at Pete and immediately disappeared into the bathroom. Pete knew he had a very limited amount of time before she stormed out and he was left alone with his right hand for the night.
"Then make her roommate study in the library. I'm busy."
"Don't you have your mommy's entire basement to write that shit?" Pete asked, smacking the side of Patrick's head.
He saw Patrick flinch. Patrick's hand scrawled a couple more notes. Pete could hear him softly humming under his breath. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Pete said. "Who are you trying to whammy? Because you know it doesn't work on me."
Patrick slammed his pencil down and grabbed the paper and his music. "Nobody," he said through gritted teeth. "It's just goddamned music."
Pete wanted to snatch the music back, make Patrick show him what he was working on. But then the toilet flushed, and frustration bubbled back up. "Go home. I want to get laid."
"Fine. You always were better at fucking than music."
Pete scowled as Patrick stormed towards the door. "Yeah, sue me for wanting to be the one having sex in my bed for once. Why don't you go..." Pete bit off the last bit of his suggestion when he heard the bathroom door open. "... get something to eat," he finished.
Patrick turned around. "I plan on it," Patrick growled. He stared at Pete for a long moment. Pete blinked, his eyes fixed on Patrick's mouth, on the teeth that ran briefly over his lower lip. When Patrick's mouth closed into a hard line, Pete's gaze jerked back up to Patrick's eyes. Behind his glasses, his eyes were the unnatural green that Pete recognized as the vampire - the disease, whatever, Pete called it like he saw it. For a moment Patrick looked like he was going to say something else, but finally he shook his head and turned, slamming the door behind him.
That night, lying back on the bed with Sabrina's warm, enthusiastic mouth wrapped around his dick, Pete closed his eyes and could swear he felt the blood pumping through every corner of his body. When her nails dug into his thigh, biting hard enough that he could feel the indentations in his skin, he came without warning. She was a little irritated with him for that, but he made it up to her, multiple times. Later, with Sabrina asleep beside him, Pete rolled over and inspected the marks her nails had made in his flesh. He ran his fingers over the tiny red dents, and for just a moment, he imagined what it would feel like to have sharp teeth slide into that spot.
Pete didn't sleep that night.
Joe got his first apartment, and threw a housewarming party to celebrate. Thirty or so people jammed into the tiny one-bedroom, with people playing guitars and singing loudly enough to occasionally earn knocking on the walls from Joe's neighbors. Someone must have shoved a couple of shots down Patrick's throat while Pete wasn't looking, because he couldn't think of why else he'd suddenly be hearing Patrick's voice singing from the bedroom.
The entire party seemed to stop when Patrick started to play. Pete shoved his way through a mass of people in the doorway to see Patrick sitting on the edge of the bed, playing Joe's acoustic guitar and singing a song Pete recognized as the one Patrick had spent the last few weeks working on. He suddenly felt unreasonably jealous – if he closed his eyes, he could see Patrick sitting on his couch, singing to himself … and to Pete. Somehow, this voice, this song belonged to him … and that was crazy, because it was Patrick's song and he could sing it to anyone he chose. He just never chose to sing it to anyone other than Pete, until now.
“Wow,” the girl standing next to Pete murmured. “Is he in a band or something?”
“No, he's not,” Pete said shortly.
“He should be.”
When Patrick's voice trailed off at the end of the song, the room erupted in applause. Patrick looked up, his face turning bright red. Joe shouted at him from his seat in the bathroom, “See, dude, I told you that you should be on stage!”
Several voices chimed agreement. “I know a band that needs a singer,” someone said from the other side of the room. “You should meet them!”
Pete looked at Patrick, whose eyes were focused firmly on his lap. “He's not interested,” Pete said, but the room was too loud, everyone talking to each other. The guy who had spoken – someone Pete didn't recognize, which was unusual in this crowd – had pushed his way to the bed and sat down on the edge next to Patrick. “Seriously,” he said, “let me give you my number, we should totally talk. You need to be in a band!”
“I can't ...” Patrick said, waving a hand in the air.
Pete sat down on the stranger's other side. “Hey, dude, you know bands that I don't know? I'm Pete,” he said, sticking out his hands. “Pete Wentz. I'm a promoter.”
“Oh, yeah, I've heard about you! Joe said he'd introduce us.” The guy shook Pete's hand. “I'm Nick, nice to meet you.”
“What band were you talking about over there?”
“Well, I don't necessarily want to talk them up until they're ready. Which is why ...” Nick turned back around and gave a start. “Where'd he go?”
Patrick was no longer on the bed. Nick looked around in confusion, but the room was quickly clearing. Pete looked over at the doorway. For a moment, his vision seemed blurry; when he rubbed his eyes, one of the blurry forms in the doorway resolved into Patrick, moving slowly, taking care not to touch anyone as he moved. When he'd made it into the hallway, he glanced back over his shoulder. When he saw Pete staring at him, his eyes widened. Pete shrugged.
“Hey, Joe,” Nick said. Joe, who stood right next to Patrick, looked back into the room. “Did you see where Patrick went?”
Joe looked into the bedroom, then off into the hallway. His eyes were nearly level with Patrick's cap, only a half a foot away. Patrick remained still. “Nope, he must have gone outside or something,” Joe said.
“Huh.” Nick turned back to Pete. “Does he do that a lot? Disappear?”
Pete watched as Patrick moved slowly out of his view. “Yeah, you could say that.”
There was another party - somewhere, some night, Pete forgot the details almost as soon as he got there. But everyone was there; Patrick, Joe, Nick, a bunch of bands Pete booked, Sabrina ... and unfortunately, some other guy Sabrina was fucking. There was also a lot of whiskey and beer. Which is how Pete found himself in the front yard, punching Sabrina's other dude square in the face.
The next few minutes were a blur of anger and pain. Sabrina screamed. Pete groaned as his entire right side met the concrete. He saw stars and pretty much nothing else until he felt two people grab his arms and haul him to his feet. He vaguely heard Nick's voice. "Dude, can you get him home?"
And then Patrick - "Yeah, I've got him. Come on." The last was apparently directed at Pete, because he felt a tug on his arm.
He turned in the direction Patrick's voice had come from and blinked several times. A yellow light obscured everything behind Patrick, blurring the edges around his body in a halo-like effect. "Is that part of your thing?" he asked. His tongue felt heavy. "The light?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I've never seen that light before. All around you. Is that a vampire thing?"
Patrick's mouth tightened, and somewhere behind Pete, Nick laughed. "You're seeing the light from the front door, asswipe," Patrick said, "and I know you're wasted if you're talking about vampires."
"But," Pete protested, "you are a vampire, and your eyes get all weird, so why wouldn't you have light, too?"
Nick's laughter got louder. Patrick jerked Pete's arm hard enough that the stars danced in his eyes again. "Jesus Christ," Patrick muttered. "You need to never drink again."
"Are you sure you're okay with him?" Nick asked. "I mean, you're not going to drink his blood and leave him to die, are you?"
Patrick rolled his eyes, but even in his drunken haze, Pete could see a spark of terror flash in his eyes. "You're really funny, jackass. Go back inside and make sure nobody's going to call the cops or something, will you?"
"Good luck, man."
Patrick shoved Pete towards his car. "Can you drive?" Pete asked.
"You should know, you taught me."
"Yeah, that's why I asked." When they reached the car, Pete leaned his arms on the hood and bent his head between them for a moment, while a wave of dizziness passed. He groaned when he stood back up. "I'm sorry," he said as Patrick's hand pressed against his back to steady him.
"Do you need to go to the hospital?" Patrick asked. "You might have a concussion."
"No, I'm just drunk, I'm fine." Pete waved his hand in the air, and the movement nearly made him stumble off the curb.
"Get in the car," Patrick sighed.
In the car, Pete closed his eyes and started talking. If he talked, he didn't notice the feeling of his brain doing somersaults inside his head. "She didn't want me. Not the real me. Wanted the guy I pretend to be. I pretend really good, until I don't any more. I wish I could pretend again. Easier to be ... not me. Someone else. Someone normal."
"What the hell is normal, anyway?" Patrick muttered, almost to himself. "Not that I'd ever recognize it."
"Whatever it is, it isn't me. Us. You're not normal. You make me feel normal. Or, wait, just ... I don't know. My head hurts. When you're around it feels like I'm sorta okay. I don't pretend. I like not pretending." Patrick remained silent, so Pete kept talking. "I can't get anyone else to stick. Nobody but you. Sabrina didn't like me once she knew me. I wasn't good enough. That other guy probably listened better. He's definitely taller. Probably gives better head, too. I bet he's better than me in every way. I'm not very good. Can't play bass. Can't keep a girl. Can't even punch a guy properly."
Patrick still wasn't talking. Pete wanted to look at him, but opening his eyes seemed like too much effort. So, he drowsed in a half-sleep until the car jerked to a halt. "Hey, you didn't kill us, good job."
"Fuck off," Patrick said, his voice getting farther away. Then the car door slammed. Pete wondered if it would be okay if he just slept in the car. Then the door next to him opened, and Patrick was tugging on his arm again. "Get up. I can't actually haul your ass all the way upstairs."
Pete opened his eyes. Patrick loomed above him, scowling. His eyes were the freaky green that Pete associated with vampire. Pete frowned, confused. And then he remembered. "Dude, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to talk about the vampire thing in front of everyone. I was drunk, just tell them that."
"I think they know you were drunk, dude." Patrick yanked on his arm, hard enough that Pete felt it in his shoulder blade. "Get the fuck up."
Pete grabbed onto Patrick's arm and hauled himself out of the car. The ground swayed underneath him. He leaned into Patrick and put an arm around his shoulders to steady himself. For a moment, Patrick's face was only inches away from Pete's. He stared at Pete - or, not at him, but at a spot somewhere above Pete's eyes. Pete could hear him inhale slowly through his nose. Patrick's mouth was open slightly, and his eyes were so green that Pete felt like he might fall in and drown. An instant later, Patrick's gaze snapped back to the front door of the apartment building, away from Pete. He could feel Patrick's body tremble slightly. Patrick stepped away, leaving Pete swaying alone. Pete took a couple of deep breaths, and the ground slowly came to a stop. Patrick motioned him forward. "Inside," he growled. "And try not to kill yourself."
Pete made it into his apartment without falling, which he considered an accomplishment. He did not, however, make it to the couch; instead, he leaned against the wall next to the front door and slid down until he was sitting, his knees in front of him. He rested his chin on his knees and watched Patrick as he tossed the keys on the coffee table and went into the kitchen. A moment later, he emerged with a bottle of water. "Not thirsty any more," Pete said.
"Drink it anyway. You're an asshole when you're hung over."
"I'm an asshole anyway. And how do you know what I'm like when I'm hung over? I'm always hung over in the morning, and you're never here in the morning."
"Your hungover assholishness lasts into the evening. So drink the damned water." Patrick tossed the bottle at Pete. It hit Pete in the side of the leg, and then rolled off across the hardwood floor. Patrick sighed and chased it down. He sat down next to Pete and handed him the bottle. "I'm sorry," he said.
"What for?"
"That Sabrina was cheating on you. That sucks."
"Yeah. Yeah, it does." Pete pressed the cool bottle to his forehead. When he pulled it away, he saw a smear of red mixed with the condensation. "I'm bleeding," he observed in surprise.
"Yeah." Patrick let out a humorless laugh. "Shockingly, that's what happens when your head hits concrete."
Pete touched his finger to his head. Just above his eye, he could feel a patch of shredded skin that was probably going to hurt like a motherfucker when he wasn't wasted. "Ow," he said, even though he couldn't feel the pain. "Am I bleeding anywhere else?"
"There's a cut on your arm, and one on your chin," Patrick said.
"Ow," Pete repeated. "And my whole body kinda aches. This is going to suck tomorrow."
"Probably. You sure you don't need a doctor?"
"Nah, just fetch me a bottle of Advil and some band-aids."
Patrick didn't move for a moment. Pete looked over at him. Patrick was looking at the floor, breathing too evenly to be entirely calm. "You okay?" Pete asked, poking at Patrick's face.
Patrick made a strangled noise and grabbed Pete's wrist. Suddenly, Pete realized the fingers he used to poke Patrick were smeared with his own blood. Patrick stared at Pete's hand for a long moment, his uncanny green eyes unfocused. Pete went still, staring at Patrick's eyes and the small smear of blood that now shone brightly on the pale skin of Patrick's cheek. He remembered how it had looked, how the red and pale skin mixed around his mouth when he'd fed. For one second - one long, terrifying, exhilarating second - Pete wanted desperately to touch his fingers to Patrick's open mouth, to touch the bloody tip of his finger to the tip of Patrick's tongue, just to see what would happen.
Then, Patrick dropped Pete's hand and leapt to his feet. He disappeared into the bedroom without saying a word. Pete slumped back against the wall and closed his eyes. The room still spun behind his eyelids.
A few minutes later, he felt something drop into his lap. He opened his eyes to see an Advil bottle and a box of band-aids. When he looked up, Patrick was grabbing the car keys again. "I'm taking your car. You can come get it during the day tomorrow."
"Where are you going?" Pete clutched the bottle in his hand, rolling it over and over. "It's not even close to dawn yet."
"I have to go." Patrick didn't look at him, but stopped when his hand was on the doorknob. He took a breath, but then shook his head slightly. "I have to go," he repeated.
When he was gone, Pete swallowed six Advil without the water, and curled up on the floor without looking at the band-aids. He woke up like that the next day, dried blood on the floor and an entire drum line pounding in his head. When he struggled to an upright position, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Patrick's number. "Thanks for taking care of me," he said to the voice mail. "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure quite what he was apologizing for.
part three
Once Patrick started talking, he didn't want to stop.
"It's a disease," Patrick said around a mouthful of burrito. They sat on the curb on the dark side of the restaurant, because Patrick had insisted. "I'm not telling you anything where someone might hear," he'd said, folding his arm over his chest. Pete had looked around the dining room; the only other people in the place were the two bored workers, who had gone back to talking about the cashier's bitchy girlfriend the minute they'd given Pete his food. But Patrick had marched back outside, so Pete followed.
Patrick took a swig of his Coke and continued, gesturing with the hand that held the burrito. "Apparently, it's passed down in families. That's the only way to get it. You can't infect other people, it's just in our blood or something." He shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is that I started getting sick about three years ago. My skin was getting all these strange rashes - sunlight really hurt, I got all these nasty blisters and shit - and I was always tired. My mom started taking me to the doctor, and they were doing all these tests. But, then, one night, my uncle showed up. I'd never actually seen him before, he never comes to any of the family holidays or anything. He took my mom into her bedroom and talked to her for a long time. And then, he came to my room and told me. About the disease. He had it, and now I had it."
"Does it have a name?" Pete asked.
"Not really. It's not like we go to doctors or anything." Patrick shrugged, scowling. "I guess vampire works as well as anything. Though that always makes me feel like I should be wearing a cape and talking in a bad accent or something."
"Wow." Pete clapped Patrick on the shoulder. "That's ... kind of awesome, actually." And frightening, though Pete wasn't going to say that out loud. Because it seemed ridiculous, here in the sickly glowing light of the Taco Bell sign, to be scared of the small, pale boy wearing thick glasses and an old Michael Jackson t-shirt. But he remembered Patrick's teeth tearing into the skin of that guy's thigh, and something shuddered through Pete's body that he didn't quite want to put a name to.
Patrick's scowl deepened, and he inched away from Pete's grasp. "Says you. You're not the one who can't go out in sunlight any more. Even when you're a night person, that sucks."
"How do you go to school?"
"I don't. My mom homeschools me now." Patrick shoved the last of the burrito into his mouth. "She hates this," he muttered, his mouth full. "She's learned how to help me out, though. My uncle introduced her to this guy who works at a blood bank, and he gives her a few bags of blood every week. She thinks that's enough, and I'm not ever going to tell her different."
"It's not enough." It wasn't a question. Pete leaned his elbows on his knees and looked at Patrick.
"No. My uncle told me it wouldn't be." Patrick sucked on the straw of his soda. Pete tried to ignore his mouth. "There's something about taking the blood out of the body that makes it ... weaker. I don't know. Part of me wants to be a scientist so I can figure out why, but hey, guess what? I can't go to college." He balled up the empty burrito wrapper and threw it halfway across the parking lot. "Anyway, we can live on the blood bank stuff for a few days, but once a week or so, we need blood from an actual live person. Which is hard, because you can't really just ask someone 'hey, can I tear into your neck and suck your blood?' People don't really go for that stuff."
"Neck?" Pete asked, remembering Patrick on his knees.
Patrick blushed furiously. "The best arteries to use are the jugulars and the femorals - neck or thigh. You get the most blood in the least amount of time."
"Huh." Pete started piecing things together in his head. "So, you need to be able to drink blood from people, but you can't really tell the world what you are. That's where the mind whammy thing comes in?"
"Yeah. It's ..." Patrick bit his lip. The flush spread down to his neck, and he ducked his head to avoid Pete's gaze. "Tearing the skin and piercing the artery hurts, obviously. So, something about the disease also gives us the ability to cloud a person's mind. You know, make suggestions and stuff. You have to learn a trigger to start it. My uncle taps a certain rhythm on a person's arm and it kicks in. I use music because, well, it's the only thing I can really do." Patrick stared out into the empty lot. "It also makes the other person ... feel good. Like, aroused and stuff. My uncle thinks it has something to do with the fact that the disease doesn't manifest until puberty, that it's tied into hormones or something. I don't know. The point is, the only way to drink from someone without hurting them is to ... um, whammy them and drink during sex."
"Wow." Pete stared. "For real?"
"Yeah. Which is why I will never, ever tell my mom that I have to drink from real, live people. And that I have to coerce them to do it. Because that's really creepy."
Patrick looked miserable. Pete patted him on the arm. "If it makes you feel any better, the couple of people I've seen you with have seemed to enjoy themselves, like, a lot."
"Yeah, that's part of the mental thing, leaving them with a fake memory." Patrick glanced over at Pete, eyes narrowing. "Wait, a 'couple' of people?"
Pete quickly withdrew his hand. "I saw you at a party .... anyway," he said, "so you have sex with people, and drink their blood. Does taking the blood do anything bad to them?"
"No." Patrick shook his head. "I only have to take, like, half of what you'd give if you donated blood."
"What about diseases and shit?"
"Apparently, this disease overrides everything else. It's not like I can't die, I just have immunity from catching any diseases from someone I drink from. Somehow. That's what my uncle says, anyway, and it's not like I have any other experts to ask. I guess I'll prove him wrong if I die of AIDS or something."
"So, you take blood, you give orgasms, everyone's happy. I don't see any problems here."
"But I'm making people do things. I only pick people who are, you know, already looking to have sex with somebody, but still, they probably wouldn't be having sex with me if they had the choice." Pete couldn't figure out a way to disagree without sounding like a creep, so he kept quiet while Patrick leaned on his elbows and stared out into space again. "My uncle got lucky. He met my aunt when he was a teenager, and she didn't freak out when he told her what he was. So, she does everything for him during the day and lets him feed from her, and they're happy. Me ... I have to force people. It sucks."
They were silent for a few minutes. Pete listened to the cars passing on the street in front of the restaurant and Patrick sucking the last of his Coke out of the cup. "So," he asked finally, "why did you try to do your mind control thing to me?"
Patrick shrugged. "You weren't going to leave me alone about your band. And it's not like I knew if I could tell you the real reason why I had to say no."
"I still don't know why you said no. Okay, you can't go out during the day. Bands play shows at night. We can rehearse at night. No big deal."
"Right." Patrick rolled his eyes. "And then what happens if the band actually goes somewhere? If we have to travel to get to a show? I've had to ride in my mom's trunk before, I'm not doing that again."
"Huh. I didn't think of that."
"I did. Joe started talking about wanting to be in a band before he brought you over. I shouldn't have played for him." Patrick sighed. "I should have made him forget about me. But ... I don't know, it was nice having someone around, you know? Someone who wasn't my family."
"You want friends? Dude, I can introduce you to people. It's not like any of the people I hang with are going to think twice about the fact that they only see you at night. Most of them sleep until five o'clock anyway."
Patrick looked at Pete, blinking. "What?"
Pete poked him in the arm. "Okay, you're a vampire. You go out at night and have sex with strangers. Kid, that describes most of the people I know. Minus the drinking blood part, but whatever. Just don't try to mind whammy anyone, that's not a good way to make friends."
"I still don't know why it doesn't work on you," Patrick grumbled. "I even asked my uncle, but he's never heard of it not working before."
"I have a hard head."
"Obviously." But Pete caught the ghost of a grin on Patrick's face.
"Hey." Pete raised his eyebrows. "So how much of the stories are true? Garlic? Crosses? Anything?"
Patrick rolled his eyes. "I love garlic. My grandma's crucifix doesn't do anything to me. I'm sure a wooden stake through the heart would kill me, but so would shooting me or stabbing me, as far as I know. I'm not really that motivated to find out."
"Do you at least have a coffin?"
Patrick flipped him off. "My mom bought a big waterproof storage container, I use it if she has to drive me somewhere during the day. It sucks, I don't recommend it."
"Dude, if you're going to be a vampire, you should at least have a coffin. That's lame."
Patrick didn't dignify him with a reply. Instead, he stared out at the horizon, where the pink of the impending sunrise was beginning to mix with the night sky. "Crap. I have to get home." He looked at Pete, then at his shoes. "Can you drive me? I don't think I can walk fast enough."
"Sure."
Patrick was silent for most of the drive home. When they pulled into the driveway, he pulled his cap farther down his forehead. "Thanks," he mumbled.
Pete reached over and pulled the brim back up so that he could see Patrick's eyes. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"
"Huh?"
"Okay, well, tonight. Whatever."
"Um. Nothing?" He shrugged. "I don't have to feed for another week or so."
"I don't care about your feeding." Pete wasn't thinking about Patrick's mouth and his teeth and the smell of sex and blood. He wasn't. "Some of us are going to a movie. You do watch movies, don't you?"
Patrick blinked. For a moment, he looked impossibly young, and Pete felt guilty for the heat that pulsed through his body at the sight of Patrick biting his lip. "Yeah," Patrick said quietly, after a long silence. "I'd like that."
"Cool. I'll see you tonight, then."
After Patrick disappeared around the back of the house, Pete sat in the driveway for a long time. He only moved when the sun was bright enough to bring out the garbage trucks and the dog-walkers.
"Dude, why don't you use my place?"
Pete didn't think he'd regret the offer. He was doing Patrick a favor, right? "I have a bed, you know," Pete continued. "You tell me when you're going out to feed, I'll make sure the sheets are clean."
"Really?" Patrick looked dubious.
"Yeah. Here, have my extra key, mi casa es su casa, whatever." In the six months they'd been hanging out, Pete had watched Patrick disappear into every dark alley and shitty bathroom in the city, it seemed. It was stupid for him to have to feed in nasty places when Pete had a perfectly good apartment nearby. Well, an apartment that was marginally less nasty than club bathrooms, anyway.
"I can't drive," Patrick pointed out. "How am I supposed to get there?"
"I'll teach you to drive."
"I can't get a license. None of the DMV places are open at night, dumbass."
"I know a guy who knows a guy who can make good fake IDs. And, well, just don't speed or anything."
Patrick was dubious.
The months wore on. Pete started playing bass in a band with Joe and a couple of other guys they rounded up. They're weren't really much good, but Pete enjoyed the chance to fling himself around the stage every so often. Patrick came to all of their shows. Sometimes, Pete caught sight of him at the edge of the small crowd, looking hungrily at the stage. Pete tried to talk him into the band a couple of times, but Patrick was insistent. "I can't call that much attention to myself," he said sadly. "The more people notice me, the more they'll notice I do weird things."
"Like anyone in this crowd will blink at someone doing weird things."
"Oh, yeah, what happens when someone's friends notice that they disappear with the dude from the band? And that person can't remember what happened? I can't exactly whammy an entire bar full of people."
"You and your stupid logic, man." Pete made a face. "It sucks. You totally need to be in a band."
"I know." Patrick's expression was enough to convince Pete to never bring the subject up again.
A week or so later, Patrick found Pete after a show and tapped him on the shoulder. He leaned close to talk in Pete's ear. "Hey, I'm leaving."
His voice was lower than normal, and Pete repressed a shiver. "What?"
"There's a guy, he has a car. I can still go to your place, right?"
"Um. Yeah, go ahead, have fun."
Pete watched him walk away and grab the hand of a guy who was easily five years older than Patrick. Which, of course, he himself was, but he wasn't the one ... and that wasn't a thought Pete was going to follow, no sir. Still, he watched Patrick's ass until the two of them disappeared behind the crowd. Then, he threw himself into the mosh pit with reckless abandon.
After that, Patrick started using Pete's apartment for feeding on a regular basis. Most of the time, he timed his feeding schedule around shows that Pete's band played - that way, nobody else would be hanging around the apartment, and no one was likely to walk in at the wrong time.
A lot of people had a key to Pete's place. "You'd be a security expert's worst nightmare," Patrick had scoffed.
"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure the first thing a security expert would tell me is 'keep the vampire out', so fuck off." Pete had cuffed Patrick on the back of the head. He'd gotten shoved into a nearby table for his troubles, while Patrick scanned the club's crowd to make sure no one had overheard Pete.
Pete tried not to think about it. He did. He was self-aware enough, though, to realize that his own tendency to give and receive back-alley blow jobs coincided pretty often with Patrick's feeding schedule. He wasn't stupid. And coming home to sheets that smelled of sex and blood didn't help. "Jesus, can you at least do the laundry when you're done?" he griped one night when he came home.
Patrick, who had been sitting on the couch, looking at the floor and rubbing his neck, looked up. He looked tired, Pete noticed. Not really like a guy who'd just gotten laid a half hour earlier. "Sorry?" he said tentatively. "I can stop coming back here ..."
"No, it's fine, just change the sheets, will you?"
After that, his bed stopped smelling like Patrick. Pete tried to be grateful.
Months passed. Patrick spent more time at Pete's apartment than he did at home, which made his mother look suspiciously at Pete for a while. Eventually, though, she settled on being grateful that Patrick had a friend. "There aren't many people," she said to Pete one day, when Patrick was out of the room, "who would ... understand him."
Pete shrugged. "It's not his fault. It doesn't bother me."
It wasn't entirely true, but Patrick's mother didn't really need to know the ways in which Patrick's condition bothered him, Pete figured.
Pete lost his band - they hadn't been all that good, anyway, and Joe went off to play in a metal band with a couple of kids who used to come see Arma Angelus play - but gained a business with some friends, booking and promoting shows at the clubs he used to play. He was good at it, and he got a charge out of seeing bands he liked gain audience every time they played. "My big mouth should do somebody some good," he told Patrick, standing at the back of a club one night.
"Doesn't it feel weird? Not being up there?"
Pete felt a twinge low in his chest. "Nah," he said. "I suck, nobody wants to listen to me."
Patrick just poked Pete absently in the side and kept watching the stage. Pete slung an arm over his shoulder. Patrick didn't bother to shrug him off anymore; Pete could feel him lean almost imperceptibly closer. His body was warm - "I'm not dead, jackass, so why the hell would I be cold-blooded?" "I don't know, I just thought vampires were supposed to be all cold and shit." - making Pete feel even hotter than the airless club had previously felt. The sweat made Pete's t-shirt cling to his skin. He saw a widening patch of wetness on the front of Patrick's shirt. If he was still enough, Pete could feel the rhythm of Patrick's heartbeat underneath his skin and his shirt, even over the pounding bass drum. All he had to do was pick out the irregular rhythm; Patrick's heart always beat fast, every time Pete noticed it. He figured it was a vampire thing. Of course, as far as he'd known before, vampires didn't have heartbeats, so what did he know?
"You're too hot," Patrick said in his ear, to be heard over the music.
Pete shuddered, but masked it with a movement that pulled Patrick even closer. "Thanks, baby, you're really sexy, too," he yelled back, leering.
Patrick rolled his eyes. Pete leaned his head against Patrick's. He could feel Patrick sigh dramatically, but he didn't move away. They stood like that for the next two songs.
Pete got a girlfriend. Sabrina was small, blonde, and entirely frightening, and she gave the best fucking blow jobs Pete had ever had. She definitely helped take the edge off of Pete's ... complex reactions to Patrick. Which was good, really, because right around that time Patrick turned into the biggest asshole imaginable. "For someone who has as much sex as you do," Pete observed one night, "you're certainly a pissy little bitch."
"Fuck off," Patrick muttered, flipping him off. "Shut up, I'm trying to write here."
Pete looked over Patrick's shoulder at the notes he was scratching onto sheet music. Part of him wanted to ask Patrick to sing the melody for him, but irritation won out. "Seriously, dude, I told you we were coming back here."
"So?"
"So, having sex in Sabrina's twin dorm room bed sucks ass. Especially since her roommate's in the middle of studying for finals. I told her we could have some alone time."
He didn't mention the part where Sabrina didn't like Patrick very much. "He's creepy," she said once, which had led to a three-day separation. In the end, she agreed to not mention Patrick, and Pete agreed to not make her hang out with Patrick too often. It wasn't like Patrick didn't already know how she felt. The feeling was definitely mutual. When they'd entered the apartment that night and seen Patrick hunched over the card table that doubled as a dining room table, Sabrina had scowled at Pete and immediately disappeared into the bathroom. Pete knew he had a very limited amount of time before she stormed out and he was left alone with his right hand for the night.
"Then make her roommate study in the library. I'm busy."
"Don't you have your mommy's entire basement to write that shit?" Pete asked, smacking the side of Patrick's head.
He saw Patrick flinch. Patrick's hand scrawled a couple more notes. Pete could hear him softly humming under his breath. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Pete said. "Who are you trying to whammy? Because you know it doesn't work on me."
Patrick slammed his pencil down and grabbed the paper and his music. "Nobody," he said through gritted teeth. "It's just goddamned music."
Pete wanted to snatch the music back, make Patrick show him what he was working on. But then the toilet flushed, and frustration bubbled back up. "Go home. I want to get laid."
"Fine. You always were better at fucking than music."
Pete scowled as Patrick stormed towards the door. "Yeah, sue me for wanting to be the one having sex in my bed for once. Why don't you go..." Pete bit off the last bit of his suggestion when he heard the bathroom door open. "... get something to eat," he finished.
Patrick turned around. "I plan on it," Patrick growled. He stared at Pete for a long moment. Pete blinked, his eyes fixed on Patrick's mouth, on the teeth that ran briefly over his lower lip. When Patrick's mouth closed into a hard line, Pete's gaze jerked back up to Patrick's eyes. Behind his glasses, his eyes were the unnatural green that Pete recognized as the vampire - the disease, whatever, Pete called it like he saw it. For a moment Patrick looked like he was going to say something else, but finally he shook his head and turned, slamming the door behind him.
That night, lying back on the bed with Sabrina's warm, enthusiastic mouth wrapped around his dick, Pete closed his eyes and could swear he felt the blood pumping through every corner of his body. When her nails dug into his thigh, biting hard enough that he could feel the indentations in his skin, he came without warning. She was a little irritated with him for that, but he made it up to her, multiple times. Later, with Sabrina asleep beside him, Pete rolled over and inspected the marks her nails had made in his flesh. He ran his fingers over the tiny red dents, and for just a moment, he imagined what it would feel like to have sharp teeth slide into that spot.
Pete didn't sleep that night.
Joe got his first apartment, and threw a housewarming party to celebrate. Thirty or so people jammed into the tiny one-bedroom, with people playing guitars and singing loudly enough to occasionally earn knocking on the walls from Joe's neighbors. Someone must have shoved a couple of shots down Patrick's throat while Pete wasn't looking, because he couldn't think of why else he'd suddenly be hearing Patrick's voice singing from the bedroom.
The entire party seemed to stop when Patrick started to play. Pete shoved his way through a mass of people in the doorway to see Patrick sitting on the edge of the bed, playing Joe's acoustic guitar and singing a song Pete recognized as the one Patrick had spent the last few weeks working on. He suddenly felt unreasonably jealous – if he closed his eyes, he could see Patrick sitting on his couch, singing to himself … and to Pete. Somehow, this voice, this song belonged to him … and that was crazy, because it was Patrick's song and he could sing it to anyone he chose. He just never chose to sing it to anyone other than Pete, until now.
“Wow,” the girl standing next to Pete murmured. “Is he in a band or something?”
“No, he's not,” Pete said shortly.
“He should be.”
When Patrick's voice trailed off at the end of the song, the room erupted in applause. Patrick looked up, his face turning bright red. Joe shouted at him from his seat in the bathroom, “See, dude, I told you that you should be on stage!”
Several voices chimed agreement. “I know a band that needs a singer,” someone said from the other side of the room. “You should meet them!”
Pete looked at Patrick, whose eyes were focused firmly on his lap. “He's not interested,” Pete said, but the room was too loud, everyone talking to each other. The guy who had spoken – someone Pete didn't recognize, which was unusual in this crowd – had pushed his way to the bed and sat down on the edge next to Patrick. “Seriously,” he said, “let me give you my number, we should totally talk. You need to be in a band!”
“I can't ...” Patrick said, waving a hand in the air.
Pete sat down on the stranger's other side. “Hey, dude, you know bands that I don't know? I'm Pete,” he said, sticking out his hands. “Pete Wentz. I'm a promoter.”
“Oh, yeah, I've heard about you! Joe said he'd introduce us.” The guy shook Pete's hand. “I'm Nick, nice to meet you.”
“What band were you talking about over there?”
“Well, I don't necessarily want to talk them up until they're ready. Which is why ...” Nick turned back around and gave a start. “Where'd he go?”
Patrick was no longer on the bed. Nick looked around in confusion, but the room was quickly clearing. Pete looked over at the doorway. For a moment, his vision seemed blurry; when he rubbed his eyes, one of the blurry forms in the doorway resolved into Patrick, moving slowly, taking care not to touch anyone as he moved. When he'd made it into the hallway, he glanced back over his shoulder. When he saw Pete staring at him, his eyes widened. Pete shrugged.
“Hey, Joe,” Nick said. Joe, who stood right next to Patrick, looked back into the room. “Did you see where Patrick went?”
Joe looked into the bedroom, then off into the hallway. His eyes were nearly level with Patrick's cap, only a half a foot away. Patrick remained still. “Nope, he must have gone outside or something,” Joe said.
“Huh.” Nick turned back to Pete. “Does he do that a lot? Disappear?”
Pete watched as Patrick moved slowly out of his view. “Yeah, you could say that.”
There was another party - somewhere, some night, Pete forgot the details almost as soon as he got there. But everyone was there; Patrick, Joe, Nick, a bunch of bands Pete booked, Sabrina ... and unfortunately, some other guy Sabrina was fucking. There was also a lot of whiskey and beer. Which is how Pete found himself in the front yard, punching Sabrina's other dude square in the face.
The next few minutes were a blur of anger and pain. Sabrina screamed. Pete groaned as his entire right side met the concrete. He saw stars and pretty much nothing else until he felt two people grab his arms and haul him to his feet. He vaguely heard Nick's voice. "Dude, can you get him home?"
And then Patrick - "Yeah, I've got him. Come on." The last was apparently directed at Pete, because he felt a tug on his arm.
He turned in the direction Patrick's voice had come from and blinked several times. A yellow light obscured everything behind Patrick, blurring the edges around his body in a halo-like effect. "Is that part of your thing?" he asked. His tongue felt heavy. "The light?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I've never seen that light before. All around you. Is that a vampire thing?"
Patrick's mouth tightened, and somewhere behind Pete, Nick laughed. "You're seeing the light from the front door, asswipe," Patrick said, "and I know you're wasted if you're talking about vampires."
"But," Pete protested, "you are a vampire, and your eyes get all weird, so why wouldn't you have light, too?"
Nick's laughter got louder. Patrick jerked Pete's arm hard enough that the stars danced in his eyes again. "Jesus Christ," Patrick muttered. "You need to never drink again."
"Are you sure you're okay with him?" Nick asked. "I mean, you're not going to drink his blood and leave him to die, are you?"
Patrick rolled his eyes, but even in his drunken haze, Pete could see a spark of terror flash in his eyes. "You're really funny, jackass. Go back inside and make sure nobody's going to call the cops or something, will you?"
"Good luck, man."
Patrick shoved Pete towards his car. "Can you drive?" Pete asked.
"You should know, you taught me."
"Yeah, that's why I asked." When they reached the car, Pete leaned his arms on the hood and bent his head between them for a moment, while a wave of dizziness passed. He groaned when he stood back up. "I'm sorry," he said as Patrick's hand pressed against his back to steady him.
"Do you need to go to the hospital?" Patrick asked. "You might have a concussion."
"No, I'm just drunk, I'm fine." Pete waved his hand in the air, and the movement nearly made him stumble off the curb.
"Get in the car," Patrick sighed.
In the car, Pete closed his eyes and started talking. If he talked, he didn't notice the feeling of his brain doing somersaults inside his head. "She didn't want me. Not the real me. Wanted the guy I pretend to be. I pretend really good, until I don't any more. I wish I could pretend again. Easier to be ... not me. Someone else. Someone normal."
"What the hell is normal, anyway?" Patrick muttered, almost to himself. "Not that I'd ever recognize it."
"Whatever it is, it isn't me. Us. You're not normal. You make me feel normal. Or, wait, just ... I don't know. My head hurts. When you're around it feels like I'm sorta okay. I don't pretend. I like not pretending." Patrick remained silent, so Pete kept talking. "I can't get anyone else to stick. Nobody but you. Sabrina didn't like me once she knew me. I wasn't good enough. That other guy probably listened better. He's definitely taller. Probably gives better head, too. I bet he's better than me in every way. I'm not very good. Can't play bass. Can't keep a girl. Can't even punch a guy properly."
Patrick still wasn't talking. Pete wanted to look at him, but opening his eyes seemed like too much effort. So, he drowsed in a half-sleep until the car jerked to a halt. "Hey, you didn't kill us, good job."
"Fuck off," Patrick said, his voice getting farther away. Then the car door slammed. Pete wondered if it would be okay if he just slept in the car. Then the door next to him opened, and Patrick was tugging on his arm again. "Get up. I can't actually haul your ass all the way upstairs."
Pete opened his eyes. Patrick loomed above him, scowling. His eyes were the freaky green that Pete associated with vampire. Pete frowned, confused. And then he remembered. "Dude, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to talk about the vampire thing in front of everyone. I was drunk, just tell them that."
"I think they know you were drunk, dude." Patrick yanked on his arm, hard enough that Pete felt it in his shoulder blade. "Get the fuck up."
Pete grabbed onto Patrick's arm and hauled himself out of the car. The ground swayed underneath him. He leaned into Patrick and put an arm around his shoulders to steady himself. For a moment, Patrick's face was only inches away from Pete's. He stared at Pete - or, not at him, but at a spot somewhere above Pete's eyes. Pete could hear him inhale slowly through his nose. Patrick's mouth was open slightly, and his eyes were so green that Pete felt like he might fall in and drown. An instant later, Patrick's gaze snapped back to the front door of the apartment building, away from Pete. He could feel Patrick's body tremble slightly. Patrick stepped away, leaving Pete swaying alone. Pete took a couple of deep breaths, and the ground slowly came to a stop. Patrick motioned him forward. "Inside," he growled. "And try not to kill yourself."
Pete made it into his apartment without falling, which he considered an accomplishment. He did not, however, make it to the couch; instead, he leaned against the wall next to the front door and slid down until he was sitting, his knees in front of him. He rested his chin on his knees and watched Patrick as he tossed the keys on the coffee table and went into the kitchen. A moment later, he emerged with a bottle of water. "Not thirsty any more," Pete said.
"Drink it anyway. You're an asshole when you're hung over."
"I'm an asshole anyway. And how do you know what I'm like when I'm hung over? I'm always hung over in the morning, and you're never here in the morning."
"Your hungover assholishness lasts into the evening. So drink the damned water." Patrick tossed the bottle at Pete. It hit Pete in the side of the leg, and then rolled off across the hardwood floor. Patrick sighed and chased it down. He sat down next to Pete and handed him the bottle. "I'm sorry," he said.
"What for?"
"That Sabrina was cheating on you. That sucks."
"Yeah. Yeah, it does." Pete pressed the cool bottle to his forehead. When he pulled it away, he saw a smear of red mixed with the condensation. "I'm bleeding," he observed in surprise.
"Yeah." Patrick let out a humorless laugh. "Shockingly, that's what happens when your head hits concrete."
Pete touched his finger to his head. Just above his eye, he could feel a patch of shredded skin that was probably going to hurt like a motherfucker when he wasn't wasted. "Ow," he said, even though he couldn't feel the pain. "Am I bleeding anywhere else?"
"There's a cut on your arm, and one on your chin," Patrick said.
"Ow," Pete repeated. "And my whole body kinda aches. This is going to suck tomorrow."
"Probably. You sure you don't need a doctor?"
"Nah, just fetch me a bottle of Advil and some band-aids."
Patrick didn't move for a moment. Pete looked over at him. Patrick was looking at the floor, breathing too evenly to be entirely calm. "You okay?" Pete asked, poking at Patrick's face.
Patrick made a strangled noise and grabbed Pete's wrist. Suddenly, Pete realized the fingers he used to poke Patrick were smeared with his own blood. Patrick stared at Pete's hand for a long moment, his uncanny green eyes unfocused. Pete went still, staring at Patrick's eyes and the small smear of blood that now shone brightly on the pale skin of Patrick's cheek. He remembered how it had looked, how the red and pale skin mixed around his mouth when he'd fed. For one second - one long, terrifying, exhilarating second - Pete wanted desperately to touch his fingers to Patrick's open mouth, to touch the bloody tip of his finger to the tip of Patrick's tongue, just to see what would happen.
Then, Patrick dropped Pete's hand and leapt to his feet. He disappeared into the bedroom without saying a word. Pete slumped back against the wall and closed his eyes. The room still spun behind his eyelids.
A few minutes later, he felt something drop into his lap. He opened his eyes to see an Advil bottle and a box of band-aids. When he looked up, Patrick was grabbing the car keys again. "I'm taking your car. You can come get it during the day tomorrow."
"Where are you going?" Pete clutched the bottle in his hand, rolling it over and over. "It's not even close to dawn yet."
"I have to go." Patrick didn't look at him, but stopped when his hand was on the doorknob. He took a breath, but then shook his head slightly. "I have to go," he repeated.
When he was gone, Pete swallowed six Advil without the water, and curled up on the floor without looking at the band-aids. He woke up like that the next day, dried blood on the floor and an entire drum line pounding in his head. When he struggled to an upright position, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Patrick's number. "Thanks for taking care of me," he said to the voice mail. "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure quite what he was apologizing for.
part three