fic: just to know you're alive (3/4)
Oct. 28th, 2009 06:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violaceapart one
part two
After the night of that first conversation, Pete hadn't actually seen Patrick feed. He tried to stay as far away from Patrick and his partners as possible. Everyone's sanity was safer that way, he figured. So, he honestly didn't mean to come home too early one night. In his defense, Patrick hadn't told him he was coming back to the apartment, and Pete had left the party early after Sabrina and her new guy appeared and proceeded to make out on the couch. Well, okay, the guy throwing the party had kicked him out after he downed three shots of whiskey and started loudly telling the whole room about Sabrina's sexual habits. Now that he was mostly sober, he regretted that a little, but the image of Sabrina straddling another guy was imprinted on his brain like a scar.
All he really wanted was to crash on the couch and watch late night Cartoon Network, but the minute he opened the door, he heard a loud, low-pitched female moan.
He should have backed out the door. But, instead, Pete walked forward until he could see inside the bedroom door, which had been left ajar. The light was low, but the glow from the lamp on the night stand showed him a naked woman spread out on his bed, with Patrick's head buried between her legs. After a moment, Pete didn't even try to pretend to himself that he wasn't fascinated. He crept closer to the door, grateful that the living room lights were all out. He finally stopped when he had a perfect view of Patrick when his face appeared over the girl's torso. His eyes were downcast, focused entirely on whatever it was his tongue was doing to cause his partner to quiver and pant. He had one hand gripped firmly on the girl's thigh, but the other had disappeared to somewhere underneath his mouth - also contributing to the rhythmic gasps she was making, Pete knew. Patrick bent his head to press his tongue firmly against her clit, causing his hair to fall forward and shine bright red in the lamplight. Pete's fingers itched with the urge to touch it, to feel Patrick's head underneath his hands as his mouth ... that thought, coming at the same time as a long, high-pitched "oh, god" from the girl, made Pete press the heel of his hand firmly against the base of his cock to steady himself.
Patrick started to hum against the girl's skin. Pete recognized the tune as the chorus of a song Patrick had been working on the night before; he could see Patrick chewing on a pencil, staring at the glow of his laptop and frowning at the screen while he hummed notes, determined to find the right combination. But then Patrick lifted his head, and all Pete could see was his dark, focused stare as he watched his partner slowly stop shaking from pleasure and relax back onto the bed. He sat up on his knees - he was still fully dressed, Pete noted - and crawled up the length of her body.
Pete watched as Patrick smoothed a patch of skin at the base of her throat with his thumb. His lips curled back, and Pete could see the shadow of the two points of his teeth, which were never visible at any other time. Then he bent over her neck, and all Pete could hear was a soft sucking sound.
The girl wasn't entirely still. Pete watched as her body arched slightly towards Patrick in rhythm with his feeding. She breathed in time with Patrick's mouth as well, small shallow breaths that caused her breasts to make tiny movements against the fabric of Patrick's shirt. Patrick only fed for a minute or two - Pete never remembered to ask him how he knew when to stop. Pete silently counted the number of breaths the girl took until Patrick finally lifted his head once again. A drop of blood dripped from his lower lip; Patrick swiped it with his finger and sucked it from his own skin. Pete's breathing stilled. Patrick wiped his mouth - thankfully, onto a towel he'd placed on the bed, Pete was grateful that his sheets were never bloody - and leaned back over to lick the wound closed.
Patrick slid back down between her legs. Pete listened to the soft melody Patrick sang as he rubbed his thumb over the girl's clit and bent his head low enough that it disappeared from Pete's view. The sudden sound the girl made was incoherent and urgent.
When she finally sat up, sated, the girl reached for Patrick. She fisted a hand in his t-shirt and pulled him close for a kiss. Pete watched their mouths meet in a brief, wet slide, Patrick's chin still glistening with moisture. The girl reached down and slipped a hand underneath Patrick's t-shirt. He pulled back from the kiss with a soft groan, one that sounded more pained than blissful to Pete's ears. He took her face in his hands sang a few words under his breath, low enough that Pete couldn't discern the song. She stilled, and her hand dropped from his body. Pete saw Patrick's mouth twist in a grimace, and he took a deep breath. "Get dressed," he said in a louder voice than Pete expected, "leave, and forget you were here."
Patrick held the girl's face in his hands for a split second longer, and then sat back on his heels and sang another soft phrase. He watched in silence as the girl climbed off the bed and collected her clothing. She didn't seem to even notice he existed until she was fully dressed, when he slid off the bed and handed her a small purse. She looked at him, but they didn't say anything. Patrick simply gestured towards the door.
Pete scrambled to press himself against the wall next to the door where the shadows would obscure him. Unless Patrick decided to turn on the light in the living room, then he'd be screwed. But luckily, he walked the girl to the door in silence. She left without saying anything - goodbye, thanks for the orgasm, call me sometime, anything. Patrick left a hand on the door for a moment after shutting it behind her. Pete's gaze wandered down his body; the obvious bulge in his jeans said that he wasn't necessarily all that comfortable. So, Pete wondered, why the hell had he sent the girl away?
Patrick stalked back to the bedroom without noticing Pete standing against the wall. A moment later, Pete heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper lowering, followed by a strangled noise that barely sounded human. Pete inched his way back to the door frame and carefully peered around it. Patrick knelt on the bed, cock in hand, eyes closed and mouth twisted in a grimace. Each time he exhaled, Pete could hear Patrick let out a small, plaintive whine that shot straight down his spine and caused Pete to grasp the doorframe in order to keep himself from sticking a hand inside his own jeans. He couldn't look away, though. Couldn't stop watching Patrick's fist sliding up and down his dick, the light flickering across the pale skin of his forearm as it moved, his wet mouth as it opened to gasp more air into his lungs. Pete entertained a brief thought of climbing up on the bed and kissing that mouth, taking Patrick's cock in his own hand and hearing the incoherent noises resolve into his name.
Pete didn't realize the groan he heard was his own voice until he saw Patrick's eyes snap open. He jerked back against the wall, out of view of the door. Seconds later, he heard a hoarse, drawn-out "fuuuuuck," along with a soft wet sound that made Pete close his own eyes and try to picture every ugly crone of a teacher he'd ever had in order to block out the mental image of Patrick coming in Pete's own bed. He stood there stone-still while he listened to the bed creak with movement, followed by Patrick's footsteps heading towards the bathroom. He was just about ready to creep back towards the front door - he'd pretend he was never there, that he was just coming home - when Patrick's voice stopped him. "I know you're there, Pete." His voice was shaky.
"Um." Pete stopped in the middle of the dark living room. "Sorry?"
"You're a gigantic fucking creep, you know that?"
Pete rubbed his temple as he slowly turned around. The twisting feeling in his stomach made him snap, "My apartment, remember?"
"Fuck off." Patrick's voice echoed through the apartment. "You could have turned around and walked out."
Pete took a deep breath. "Yeah. I know. I'm sorry."
Something slammed into the sink in the bathroom. Pete hoped whatever it was wasn't breakable. Or easily bruised. "Fuck you," Patrick said, his voice small.
Pete winced. "I'm really sorry," he repeated. "Um. Do you want me to leave?"
Patrick's voice was mocking. "It's your goddamned apartment, remember?"
They both fell silent for several minutes. Pete stood in the middle of the living room, weighing his options. He heard Patrick moving around in the bathroom - the water running, things clinking against the porcelain sink. Finally, Pete shrugged and took a step towards the bedroom. "Okay, I'm coming in."
"Good for you." Patrick's voice was muffled.
The overhead light switched on as Pete walked into the bedroom, causing him to squint and rub his eyes. When he focused, he saw Patrick standing in the bathroom doorway, dressed in his t-shirt and boxers, a towel clutched in his hand. "How long did you know I was there?" he asked.
"You first." Patrick tossed the towel on the bathroom floor and crossed his arms over his chest. "When did you get here?"
"Um. While she was still here?"
"I figured that out." Patrick closed his eyes and leaned his head against the door frame. "You weren't supposed to come home."
"I know. I said I was sorry."
Patrick opened his eyes and shrugged. His cheeks were stained red; from exertion or embarrassment, Pete didn't quite know. Probably a combination of the two. Pete remained silent while Patrick crossed to the bed and started stripping the sheets. Pete moved forward. "I can-"
"I've got it," Patrick interrupted, not looking up. "I always do. I promised."
Still, Pete walked over to the closet and took out a clean set of sheets. Silently, he started fitting them to the bed while Patrick shoved the dirty sheets into the laundry bag in the corner of the room. He left the top sheet in a heap on the top - what the hell, he always kicked it off in his sleep anyway - and turned to face Patrick, who now stood next to the door to the living room, watching him warily. "Okay, you can hit me if you want, but I have to ask," Pete finally said.
"What?"
"Why did you send her away? You know, before?"
Patrick sighed and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. "Fuck," he muttered.
"No, actually, you didn't, that's the question."
Patrick rolled his eyes and walked out of the bedroom. Pete followed him, flipping on lights as he went. He flopped down on the couch and watched Patrick cross to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. When Patrick tipped the carton of orange juice to his mouth, Pete couldn't resist. "You did wipe your mouth off in there, right?"
"No, jackass, you've totally been drinking blood for your breakfast for months. You'll be a vampire in no time."
"I knew you had some kind of evil plan." When Patrick came back to the living room and sprawled in the chair across from him, Pete turned serious again. "You had a gorgeous girl in there at your beck and call. And you ended the night with your own hand? Why the hell would you do that?"
Patrick covered his face with his hands. "None of your fucking business."
"Seriously, was she that bad? What was wrong? Did she have dog breath or something?"
"You're a nosy fucking bastard."
"Is this news?"
Patrick uncovered his face and looked at the ceiling. He was silent for several moments before speaking. "Because ... because it wouldn't have been right."
"Excuse me?"
"Listen." Patrick sighed deeply, then curled his legs up underneath him and looked at Pete. "I know everything I do is technically wrong. You know, morally. I'm coercing people to come with me and give me their blood without their permission. So, I do everything I can to make it ... well, less wrong, I guess? I only pick people who are looking to get laid, and I make sure they ... you know, enjoy themselves for their trouble."
"Yeah, I saw that." It was probably the wrong time to tell Patrick that he looked like he was really good at giving head. Some other time, maybe, when it sounded more like a joke, and was less likely to make Pete embarrass himself all over the couch. "That still doesn't answer the question."
"I guess it just feels like ... more of a violation, if I make them give me blood and get me off. Like I'm taking more than I'm giving." Patrick looked away. "It really feels like I'm being creepy and horrible most of the time. I'd feel even more creepy and horrible if I took more pleasure in it. If that makes any sense."
"Not really."
Patrick sighed again. "My mind control is kind of like putting something in their drink, don't you think? Making them more susceptible to what I want to do?"
"Huh." Pete frowned and thought about it for a minute. "So, let me make sure I understand. When do you start the mind whammy thing?"
"What?"
"When do you start your little humming thing and start making them forget what you're doing? Do you do it when you meet them? When you're trying to get them to go home with you?"
"No ..." Patrick looked confused. "I do it when I'm getting ready to feed. To make sure it doesn't hurt."
"So, everyone is coming back here and getting naked with you of their own free will, right?"
"Well ..." Patrick's eyebrows furrowed. "Yeah, I guess."
"So you're not whammying them into the sex, then, just the blood."
"I guess ..."
"No guessing. There are a whole lot of people who are more than willing to get nasty with a cute young redhead, your little power thing has nothing to do with it." Pete grinned when Patrick blushed and refused to meet his gaze. Pete thought for another second, then said, "Dude, have you ever gotten off with anyone other than yourself?"
"Fuck off."
"Is that a no?"
"No, it's not." Patrick still didn't look at him. "When I started ... I was fourteen, I had no idea what the hell I was doing with any of it. I had sex with a lot of really disgusting people, the kind of people who ... well, the kind of people who don't say no to a fourteen year old." He shivered. "But then a guy I knew when I used to go to school invited me to his band's concert one night, and I figured out that there were places I could maybe be feeding from people my own age. But it felt different, you know? Taking from guys who were mostly predators was way different than seducing kids from school, or even college kids. Suddenly I was the predator, and that sucked."
"Yeah, I can see that."
"There was a guy who used to hang around the all-ages shows I went to. College age, maybe older. He used to get underage kids - girls and boys, always the most innocent ones - drunk enough to go out to his car and suck his dick. I heard a couple of kids talking about him afterwards, and he'd never do anything that made them feel good, he just kicked them out of the car and left after he got off. He was a jackass. So, one night, I sat down next to him and pretended to let him do the whole routine with me. I kept pouring the drinks on the floor when he'd look away. So, we went outside, and I fed from him, and while he was still under control, I made him suck my dick." Patrick stared off into space, his mouth a thin line. "Then I told him he'd never think about touching a teenager ever again. I never saw him after that. And it was the last time I got off when I fed. I didn't want to be him."
"Jesus." Pete leaned forward. "You're not like that, you know that, right?"
"How do you know?"
"Because I just do."
"That's convincing." Patrick snorted. "I'm just ... it works my way, okay? I get my blood, and I don't feel like a total disgusting creep. It's fine."
Abruptly, Patrick stood up and headed for the bedroom. When he returned, he was wearing his jeans and sneakers. "Where are you going?" Pete asked.
"Home. It's getting late. I'll take the bus."
"Fuck off, I'll drive you." Pete stood up and grabbed his keys before Patrick could protest.
Later, the sunrise crept in through the cracks around the window shade as Pete lay awake in his bed. On the night stand next to him, his phone blinked with several unanswered texts from Sabrina. She was, in fact, the farthest thing from his mind when he finally closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around his dick.
Life went on. Pete fucked his way through a generous handful of guys and girls, ones whose names he barely remembered the next time he saw them. Once, he caught Patrick staring at him as he threw his arm around a guy around Patrick's height. Pete looked away quickly and whispered a proposition in the guy's ear, something filthy that had half a chance of getting him punched in the stomach for his trouble. Luckily, though, the guy was interested. Pete let the guy fuck him that night; he propped himself up on his elbows and buried his face in a pillow, making noises that he hoped were muffled enough to not sound like actual words. Or names.
He and Patrick were careful to always miss each other during the appropriate times.
Meanwhile, Patrick found himself a job, flipping burgers on the overnight shift at a greasy diner. It was a horrible job, but Patrick took a lot of pride in being able to finally pay for his own dinners when he went out with their friends. A couple of months into the job, on one of Patrick's rare nights off, Pete poked him as they sat at a table in the back of a club. "So, are you going to live in your mom's basement for the rest of your life?"
Patrick raised an eyebrow. "You have a better idea?"
"My lease is up next month. I found this place down the road that has a two bedroom apartment in the basement. The windows are small, it'd be pretty easy to black them out."
"You want me to move in with you?"
"Why not? You're always at my place anyway. And now you can pay rent, so it's time to become a big boy and let go of mommy's apron strings."
Pete got himself knocked to the floor and put into a headlock for that statement, but a month later, they moved into their new apartment. Patrick's mom gave him a used car as a house warming gift; she didn't ask how he'd gotten his license, and Patrick didn't tell. "She probably knows it's fake," he said to Pete later. "But as long as I don't get arrested, she'll never have to deal with it."
Patrick worked a shift that ended at 4 in the morning - a perfect hour for him, giving him enough time to get home before dawn, sometimes even with a detour to pick Pete up from wherever he'd gotten drunk that night. "You're pathetic," Patrick grumbled one night, as Pete collapsed into the passenger seat.
"I'm having a good time," Pete protested, waving at the group of strangers he'd been partying with as they drove away.
"Which one of them did you fuck tonight?"
"I have no idea," Pete admitted. "And fuck off, like you've got room to talk."
"At least I've got an excuse."
"Oh, that's right. Poor Patrick, fucking his way through the Chicago scene and hating every minute of it."
When they got back to the apartment, Patrick stalked inside without a word. Pete sat in the car for a while, watching the sun creep over the horizon. When he got inside, Patrick's bedroom door was closed and sealed against the daylight.
Pete left a stack of new comic books by his door the next afternoon. The store that carried all the good new titles closed at five o'clock every night, so Patrick never got to go browse himself. When Pete returned with a pizza for dinner a couple of hours later, Patrick was sitting on the couch, reading and drinking a mug of the blood that lived in the small refrigerator in his bedroom. Pete only allowed himself to look at the red stain on Patrick's upper lip for a moment before turning to the kitchen and grabbing a beer. "Get it while it's hot," he said over his shoulder. When he turned back around, Patrick was standing over the dining room table, stuffing a slice of supreme pizza in his mouth. The red of the pizza sauce looked nothing like blood, and Pete was able to breathe normally again.
A couple of months later, Pete had just crawled into bed when his phone rang. He answered without looking at the display. "This had better be good, at five o'clock in the morning."
"Like you ever sleep anyway," Patrick scoffed on the other end of the line. Then his voice turned serious. "Pete, I need you to come pick me up from work."
Pete frowned and looked out his window. The black sky showed the beginnings of the purple tint of sunrise. "Why are you still there?"
"Some inventory nonsense. There's some big corporate visitor today, and they made everyone on the overnight shift say until the stock room was organized. I didn't even know it was so late until I came out and looked outside." Patrick paused, then lowered his voice. "I still have to restock my station before the manager will let me leave. I'm never going to make it out of here before the sun's up. I can't drive myself home when the sun's up, Pete. Help." A note of panic had crept into his voice.
Pete sat up and began feeling around his bed for his pants. "I'll be there in a half hour."
Actually, it took more like forty-five minutes for Pete to make it across town to the restaurant, due to an early emergence of rush hour and lamentably typical Chicago traffic. By the time he made it, the sun was already shining in his eyes as he drove eastward. He pulled into the diner parking lot and looked immediately at the front door. A moment later, he noticed a small figure sitting on the curb close to the side of the building, in the one patch of shade the building afforded. It was a warm summer morning, but the figure was bundled up in a black hoodie that covered every bit of skin it could reach. It took a moment for understanding to creep into Pete's sleep-deprived brain, but once he realized he was looking at Patrick, he screeched across the parking lot so that the passenger side of the car pulled up right next to the building.
When Patrick looked up, Pete saw a bubbling red welt taking up half of his right cheek. The hands that held the hoodie close were also angrily red. Pete leaned across the car and shoved the door open; Patrick ran from the shade to the car as fast as he could, but when he dove into the front seat, Pete smelled a horrible, burning scent in the air. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," he swore as Patrick pushed the front seat back and crouched in a ball on the floor. Pete reached into the back seat and grabbed two hoodies that were balled up on the floor. "Here, use these."
"Just fucking drive already." Patrick's voice was muffled by layers of clothing.
Pete drove away, but the morning sun continued to shine into the windows, and the burning smell just got worse. Finally, Pete swore under his breath and veered off the road into a parking ramp next to a shopping mall. Once they were inside, he tugged at the hoodies covering Patrick. "Come on, the trunk's probably better, right?"
When Patrick looked up at him, Pete cursed some more. The side of Patrick's face oozed some kind of substance that turned Pete's stomach, and he visibly shook as he tried to push himself up to a standing position. He opened the door himself, but collapsed onto the ground outside before Pete could get around the car. "Oh, god," Patrick said weakly when Pete crouched down next to him.
"Come on." Pete put his arms around Patrick's waist and pulled. For such a small dude, Patrick was solid, and it took a concerted effort to get both of them on their feet. But after a moment, Pete managed to shuffled them both around to the back of the car. Pete opened the trunk and let Patrick lean against the bumper. "Can you get in?"
"Yeah," Patrick breathed. Pete frowned doubtfully, but he stepped back as Patrick sat on the edge and slowly pulled his legs up until he slid into the trunk. He looked back at the boxes and tools that littered the trunk, but Pete pushed them all to the side until Patrick had enough room to lay down. "It's a good thing I'm short," Patrick said, his mouth turning upwards into what Pete supposed should be a smile. However, the burn on his face made the expression lopsided enough that Pete winced at the sight. Patrick closed his eyes and pulled his knees close to his chest. "Home," he murmured.
Pete shut the trunk carefully as he looked around the mostly empty ramp, grateful that it was still early enough that no one was around. He drove home as quickly as he could manage, speed limits be damned.
Their apartment building presented another problem - even if Pete parked in the closest spot to the door, Patrick would still have to walk a good thirty feet to the building, and then manage to get to the basement stairs down a sunlit hallway. "Motherfucker," he said, pressing his fingers to his temples. "Think, Pete, think."
A moment later, a solution occurred to him. He got out of the car and went around to the trunk. "Be right back," he said through the keyhole, and hoped Patrick could hear him.
He ran inside, to the first apartment door on the first floor. He knocked urgently. After a minute, a woman wearing a bathrobe and a confused expression answered the door. "I'm so sorry to bother you," Pete said, hoping he looked as unthreatening as possible, "but I live downstairs, and I saw you guys moving in over the weekend. I wonder if you still have the dolly you were using?"
"What?"
"I've got a box in the car that I can't lift by myself, and I really need to get it inside. I'm really sorry," he repeated, "I know it's early, but I have to get this out of my car before I go to work, because we need to haul more boxes around when I get there."
"We had to return the dolly," the woman said, "but if two people can handle it, I can probably get my husband to come out and help you. He's in the shower, but if you can wait ten minutes?"
Pete cursed mentally, but he smiled gratefully at the woman. "You're a lifesaver. I'll wait outside, thank you so much."
After the woman closed the door, he ran quickly downstairs and grabbed the large plastic container Patrick's mom had given them when they moved in. "Just in case," she'd said. Pete offered up a silent prayer of thanks that someone had been prepared at some point.
He ran back outside and crouched down by the trunk. "Patrick? Can you hear me?"
"Yeah," came the muffled response.
"I have your box. You have to get into it, and quickly, because someone's going to come help me carry you inside. It'll probably be better if he doesn't know he's carrying a body."
Pete could hear thumping inside the trunk. "Okay," Patrick said, and his voice was closer to the back of the trunk. "Leave the box open right underneath the bumper, and open the trunk."
He did as instructed, and Patrick climbed out of the trunk with more agility than Pete expected him to. The smell of burning flesh followed him out of the trunk. Pete tried not to gag. Patrick's knees gave out as soon as he was standing inside the box, and he simply lay down in a small ball. Pete grabbed the top and covered him as quickly as he could. He had just managed to seal it entirely when a man with wet hair came walking out of the door. "Hey," Pete said to him. "Thanks, I will totally owe you a beer or something."
The man merely grunted, and grabbed a side of the box. Pete grabbed the other side and prayed that Patrick wouldn't make any sounds. When they lifted the box, Pete felt more than heard the thumping of movement inside. The man grimaced. "What the hell do you have in here?"
"Music gear," Pete improvised. "I have a band."
The man grunted again. Pete took that to mean he bought the explanation, or just didn't care. They carried the box to the door in silence.
When they reached the basement apartment, Pete pushed the door open and they set the box down just inside the door. Pete stuck out his hand. "Thanks, man. I'm Pete. Come down and knock if you ever need anything."
His savior shook his hand, but departed without introducing himself or saying goodbye. Pete barely noticed. As soon as the man was halfway up the stairs, Pete slammed the door and pried the box open. Patrick lay curled in a ball on the bottom, his eyes closed and his jaw slack. Pete's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. Patrick's upturned cheek was a mess of red and pus, and the exposed hand wasn't any better. The burning smell hit Pete in the face when he bent over. He swallowed bile and made a conscious effort not to breathe through his nose. He touched Patrick's arm gingerly. "Patrick. Patrick, we're inside."
Patrick opened his eyes. Or, tried - the swelling on his skin nearly obscured his vision. But, somehow, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "I need ..." he started, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I need to get to my bedroom."
Pete glanced around. The living room windows were fairly well blacked out, but since Pete occasionally opened them, it wasn't perfect. "Yeah. Can you walk?"
Patrick answered by grabbing the wall and attempting to stand. He shook so badly that Pete leaned over and wrapped an arm around his waist. Patrick winced. "Sorry," Pete murmured.
"Just help."
They got Patrick to the bedroom, with a lot of effort. The minute he could lean on his bed, Patrick started to tug at his clothes. "Off," he said. "They hurt. Fuck. They hurt."
Pete helped him pull off the hoodie and his t-shirt. Underneath, Patrick's skin was a mess. His arms were criss-crossed with bubbling burns; the skin that had been protected by the fabric of his shirt was merely red, the color of a nasty summer sunburn. "Wouldn't let me sit inside," Patrick started babbling. He sat on the bed, and Pete saw him shaking. "The fucking corporate inspector showed up early, and my manager didn't w...want to have me lurking around. So he made me go outside. I tried to stay. I tried to stand inside the door, but the jackass pushed me out." He tried to bend over to untie his shoes, but the movement made him let out a high-pitched whine. Pete knelt at his feet and started to unlace the sneakers. "Thanks," Patrick said, his teeth chattering. "He told me that having employees hanging around in the restaurant was a mark against us. And it was a beautiful day, so I should sit outside." He grimaced as Pete pulled his socks off. "I'm so glad ... glad I had the hoodie."
"I promise I will never make fun of you for dressing in seven hundred layers during the summer again," Pete promised.
"Better not."
Pete stood up and looked at Patrick. "Jesus. You need a hospital."
"Right. And tell them what?"
Pete rubbed his face as Patrick scooted gingerly up the bed. His hands fumbled with the button on his jeans. "What do we do?"
"Call my mom," Patrick said, giving up on his jeans and closing his eyes. "She's got ... stuff. It's never been this bad, though. Oh, god," he breathed as he lay back, letting the sheets touch his burned skin bit by bit.
Pete stood helplessly next to the bed, unable to think of anything he could possibly do to ease Patrick's pain. Patrick found a position that didn't make him grimace any worse than he already was and fell still. Pete couldn't tell if he fell asleep, or if he was just trying to move as little as possible. Eventually, Pete turned around and grabbed his cell phone to dial Patrick's mother.
He managed to wait until he hung up before running to the bathroom to puke.
part four
part two
After the night of that first conversation, Pete hadn't actually seen Patrick feed. He tried to stay as far away from Patrick and his partners as possible. Everyone's sanity was safer that way, he figured. So, he honestly didn't mean to come home too early one night. In his defense, Patrick hadn't told him he was coming back to the apartment, and Pete had left the party early after Sabrina and her new guy appeared and proceeded to make out on the couch. Well, okay, the guy throwing the party had kicked him out after he downed three shots of whiskey and started loudly telling the whole room about Sabrina's sexual habits. Now that he was mostly sober, he regretted that a little, but the image of Sabrina straddling another guy was imprinted on his brain like a scar.
All he really wanted was to crash on the couch and watch late night Cartoon Network, but the minute he opened the door, he heard a loud, low-pitched female moan.
He should have backed out the door. But, instead, Pete walked forward until he could see inside the bedroom door, which had been left ajar. The light was low, but the glow from the lamp on the night stand showed him a naked woman spread out on his bed, with Patrick's head buried between her legs. After a moment, Pete didn't even try to pretend to himself that he wasn't fascinated. He crept closer to the door, grateful that the living room lights were all out. He finally stopped when he had a perfect view of Patrick when his face appeared over the girl's torso. His eyes were downcast, focused entirely on whatever it was his tongue was doing to cause his partner to quiver and pant. He had one hand gripped firmly on the girl's thigh, but the other had disappeared to somewhere underneath his mouth - also contributing to the rhythmic gasps she was making, Pete knew. Patrick bent his head to press his tongue firmly against her clit, causing his hair to fall forward and shine bright red in the lamplight. Pete's fingers itched with the urge to touch it, to feel Patrick's head underneath his hands as his mouth ... that thought, coming at the same time as a long, high-pitched "oh, god" from the girl, made Pete press the heel of his hand firmly against the base of his cock to steady himself.
Patrick started to hum against the girl's skin. Pete recognized the tune as the chorus of a song Patrick had been working on the night before; he could see Patrick chewing on a pencil, staring at the glow of his laptop and frowning at the screen while he hummed notes, determined to find the right combination. But then Patrick lifted his head, and all Pete could see was his dark, focused stare as he watched his partner slowly stop shaking from pleasure and relax back onto the bed. He sat up on his knees - he was still fully dressed, Pete noted - and crawled up the length of her body.
Pete watched as Patrick smoothed a patch of skin at the base of her throat with his thumb. His lips curled back, and Pete could see the shadow of the two points of his teeth, which were never visible at any other time. Then he bent over her neck, and all Pete could hear was a soft sucking sound.
The girl wasn't entirely still. Pete watched as her body arched slightly towards Patrick in rhythm with his feeding. She breathed in time with Patrick's mouth as well, small shallow breaths that caused her breasts to make tiny movements against the fabric of Patrick's shirt. Patrick only fed for a minute or two - Pete never remembered to ask him how he knew when to stop. Pete silently counted the number of breaths the girl took until Patrick finally lifted his head once again. A drop of blood dripped from his lower lip; Patrick swiped it with his finger and sucked it from his own skin. Pete's breathing stilled. Patrick wiped his mouth - thankfully, onto a towel he'd placed on the bed, Pete was grateful that his sheets were never bloody - and leaned back over to lick the wound closed.
Patrick slid back down between her legs. Pete listened to the soft melody Patrick sang as he rubbed his thumb over the girl's clit and bent his head low enough that it disappeared from Pete's view. The sudden sound the girl made was incoherent and urgent.
When she finally sat up, sated, the girl reached for Patrick. She fisted a hand in his t-shirt and pulled him close for a kiss. Pete watched their mouths meet in a brief, wet slide, Patrick's chin still glistening with moisture. The girl reached down and slipped a hand underneath Patrick's t-shirt. He pulled back from the kiss with a soft groan, one that sounded more pained than blissful to Pete's ears. He took her face in his hands sang a few words under his breath, low enough that Pete couldn't discern the song. She stilled, and her hand dropped from his body. Pete saw Patrick's mouth twist in a grimace, and he took a deep breath. "Get dressed," he said in a louder voice than Pete expected, "leave, and forget you were here."
Patrick held the girl's face in his hands for a split second longer, and then sat back on his heels and sang another soft phrase. He watched in silence as the girl climbed off the bed and collected her clothing. She didn't seem to even notice he existed until she was fully dressed, when he slid off the bed and handed her a small purse. She looked at him, but they didn't say anything. Patrick simply gestured towards the door.
Pete scrambled to press himself against the wall next to the door where the shadows would obscure him. Unless Patrick decided to turn on the light in the living room, then he'd be screwed. But luckily, he walked the girl to the door in silence. She left without saying anything - goodbye, thanks for the orgasm, call me sometime, anything. Patrick left a hand on the door for a moment after shutting it behind her. Pete's gaze wandered down his body; the obvious bulge in his jeans said that he wasn't necessarily all that comfortable. So, Pete wondered, why the hell had he sent the girl away?
Patrick stalked back to the bedroom without noticing Pete standing against the wall. A moment later, Pete heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper lowering, followed by a strangled noise that barely sounded human. Pete inched his way back to the door frame and carefully peered around it. Patrick knelt on the bed, cock in hand, eyes closed and mouth twisted in a grimace. Each time he exhaled, Pete could hear Patrick let out a small, plaintive whine that shot straight down his spine and caused Pete to grasp the doorframe in order to keep himself from sticking a hand inside his own jeans. He couldn't look away, though. Couldn't stop watching Patrick's fist sliding up and down his dick, the light flickering across the pale skin of his forearm as it moved, his wet mouth as it opened to gasp more air into his lungs. Pete entertained a brief thought of climbing up on the bed and kissing that mouth, taking Patrick's cock in his own hand and hearing the incoherent noises resolve into his name.
Pete didn't realize the groan he heard was his own voice until he saw Patrick's eyes snap open. He jerked back against the wall, out of view of the door. Seconds later, he heard a hoarse, drawn-out "fuuuuuck," along with a soft wet sound that made Pete close his own eyes and try to picture every ugly crone of a teacher he'd ever had in order to block out the mental image of Patrick coming in Pete's own bed. He stood there stone-still while he listened to the bed creak with movement, followed by Patrick's footsteps heading towards the bathroom. He was just about ready to creep back towards the front door - he'd pretend he was never there, that he was just coming home - when Patrick's voice stopped him. "I know you're there, Pete." His voice was shaky.
"Um." Pete stopped in the middle of the dark living room. "Sorry?"
"You're a gigantic fucking creep, you know that?"
Pete rubbed his temple as he slowly turned around. The twisting feeling in his stomach made him snap, "My apartment, remember?"
"Fuck off." Patrick's voice echoed through the apartment. "You could have turned around and walked out."
Pete took a deep breath. "Yeah. I know. I'm sorry."
Something slammed into the sink in the bathroom. Pete hoped whatever it was wasn't breakable. Or easily bruised. "Fuck you," Patrick said, his voice small.
Pete winced. "I'm really sorry," he repeated. "Um. Do you want me to leave?"
Patrick's voice was mocking. "It's your goddamned apartment, remember?"
They both fell silent for several minutes. Pete stood in the middle of the living room, weighing his options. He heard Patrick moving around in the bathroom - the water running, things clinking against the porcelain sink. Finally, Pete shrugged and took a step towards the bedroom. "Okay, I'm coming in."
"Good for you." Patrick's voice was muffled.
The overhead light switched on as Pete walked into the bedroom, causing him to squint and rub his eyes. When he focused, he saw Patrick standing in the bathroom doorway, dressed in his t-shirt and boxers, a towel clutched in his hand. "How long did you know I was there?" he asked.
"You first." Patrick tossed the towel on the bathroom floor and crossed his arms over his chest. "When did you get here?"
"Um. While she was still here?"
"I figured that out." Patrick closed his eyes and leaned his head against the door frame. "You weren't supposed to come home."
"I know. I said I was sorry."
Patrick opened his eyes and shrugged. His cheeks were stained red; from exertion or embarrassment, Pete didn't quite know. Probably a combination of the two. Pete remained silent while Patrick crossed to the bed and started stripping the sheets. Pete moved forward. "I can-"
"I've got it," Patrick interrupted, not looking up. "I always do. I promised."
Still, Pete walked over to the closet and took out a clean set of sheets. Silently, he started fitting them to the bed while Patrick shoved the dirty sheets into the laundry bag in the corner of the room. He left the top sheet in a heap on the top - what the hell, he always kicked it off in his sleep anyway - and turned to face Patrick, who now stood next to the door to the living room, watching him warily. "Okay, you can hit me if you want, but I have to ask," Pete finally said.
"What?"
"Why did you send her away? You know, before?"
Patrick sighed and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. "Fuck," he muttered.
"No, actually, you didn't, that's the question."
Patrick rolled his eyes and walked out of the bedroom. Pete followed him, flipping on lights as he went. He flopped down on the couch and watched Patrick cross to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. When Patrick tipped the carton of orange juice to his mouth, Pete couldn't resist. "You did wipe your mouth off in there, right?"
"No, jackass, you've totally been drinking blood for your breakfast for months. You'll be a vampire in no time."
"I knew you had some kind of evil plan." When Patrick came back to the living room and sprawled in the chair across from him, Pete turned serious again. "You had a gorgeous girl in there at your beck and call. And you ended the night with your own hand? Why the hell would you do that?"
Patrick covered his face with his hands. "None of your fucking business."
"Seriously, was she that bad? What was wrong? Did she have dog breath or something?"
"You're a nosy fucking bastard."
"Is this news?"
Patrick uncovered his face and looked at the ceiling. He was silent for several moments before speaking. "Because ... because it wouldn't have been right."
"Excuse me?"
"Listen." Patrick sighed deeply, then curled his legs up underneath him and looked at Pete. "I know everything I do is technically wrong. You know, morally. I'm coercing people to come with me and give me their blood without their permission. So, I do everything I can to make it ... well, less wrong, I guess? I only pick people who are looking to get laid, and I make sure they ... you know, enjoy themselves for their trouble."
"Yeah, I saw that." It was probably the wrong time to tell Patrick that he looked like he was really good at giving head. Some other time, maybe, when it sounded more like a joke, and was less likely to make Pete embarrass himself all over the couch. "That still doesn't answer the question."
"I guess it just feels like ... more of a violation, if I make them give me blood and get me off. Like I'm taking more than I'm giving." Patrick looked away. "It really feels like I'm being creepy and horrible most of the time. I'd feel even more creepy and horrible if I took more pleasure in it. If that makes any sense."
"Not really."
Patrick sighed again. "My mind control is kind of like putting something in their drink, don't you think? Making them more susceptible to what I want to do?"
"Huh." Pete frowned and thought about it for a minute. "So, let me make sure I understand. When do you start the mind whammy thing?"
"What?"
"When do you start your little humming thing and start making them forget what you're doing? Do you do it when you meet them? When you're trying to get them to go home with you?"
"No ..." Patrick looked confused. "I do it when I'm getting ready to feed. To make sure it doesn't hurt."
"So, everyone is coming back here and getting naked with you of their own free will, right?"
"Well ..." Patrick's eyebrows furrowed. "Yeah, I guess."
"So you're not whammying them into the sex, then, just the blood."
"I guess ..."
"No guessing. There are a whole lot of people who are more than willing to get nasty with a cute young redhead, your little power thing has nothing to do with it." Pete grinned when Patrick blushed and refused to meet his gaze. Pete thought for another second, then said, "Dude, have you ever gotten off with anyone other than yourself?"
"Fuck off."
"Is that a no?"
"No, it's not." Patrick still didn't look at him. "When I started ... I was fourteen, I had no idea what the hell I was doing with any of it. I had sex with a lot of really disgusting people, the kind of people who ... well, the kind of people who don't say no to a fourteen year old." He shivered. "But then a guy I knew when I used to go to school invited me to his band's concert one night, and I figured out that there were places I could maybe be feeding from people my own age. But it felt different, you know? Taking from guys who were mostly predators was way different than seducing kids from school, or even college kids. Suddenly I was the predator, and that sucked."
"Yeah, I can see that."
"There was a guy who used to hang around the all-ages shows I went to. College age, maybe older. He used to get underage kids - girls and boys, always the most innocent ones - drunk enough to go out to his car and suck his dick. I heard a couple of kids talking about him afterwards, and he'd never do anything that made them feel good, he just kicked them out of the car and left after he got off. He was a jackass. So, one night, I sat down next to him and pretended to let him do the whole routine with me. I kept pouring the drinks on the floor when he'd look away. So, we went outside, and I fed from him, and while he was still under control, I made him suck my dick." Patrick stared off into space, his mouth a thin line. "Then I told him he'd never think about touching a teenager ever again. I never saw him after that. And it was the last time I got off when I fed. I didn't want to be him."
"Jesus." Pete leaned forward. "You're not like that, you know that, right?"
"How do you know?"
"Because I just do."
"That's convincing." Patrick snorted. "I'm just ... it works my way, okay? I get my blood, and I don't feel like a total disgusting creep. It's fine."
Abruptly, Patrick stood up and headed for the bedroom. When he returned, he was wearing his jeans and sneakers. "Where are you going?" Pete asked.
"Home. It's getting late. I'll take the bus."
"Fuck off, I'll drive you." Pete stood up and grabbed his keys before Patrick could protest.
Later, the sunrise crept in through the cracks around the window shade as Pete lay awake in his bed. On the night stand next to him, his phone blinked with several unanswered texts from Sabrina. She was, in fact, the farthest thing from his mind when he finally closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around his dick.
Life went on. Pete fucked his way through a generous handful of guys and girls, ones whose names he barely remembered the next time he saw them. Once, he caught Patrick staring at him as he threw his arm around a guy around Patrick's height. Pete looked away quickly and whispered a proposition in the guy's ear, something filthy that had half a chance of getting him punched in the stomach for his trouble. Luckily, though, the guy was interested. Pete let the guy fuck him that night; he propped himself up on his elbows and buried his face in a pillow, making noises that he hoped were muffled enough to not sound like actual words. Or names.
He and Patrick were careful to always miss each other during the appropriate times.
Meanwhile, Patrick found himself a job, flipping burgers on the overnight shift at a greasy diner. It was a horrible job, but Patrick took a lot of pride in being able to finally pay for his own dinners when he went out with their friends. A couple of months into the job, on one of Patrick's rare nights off, Pete poked him as they sat at a table in the back of a club. "So, are you going to live in your mom's basement for the rest of your life?"
Patrick raised an eyebrow. "You have a better idea?"
"My lease is up next month. I found this place down the road that has a two bedroom apartment in the basement. The windows are small, it'd be pretty easy to black them out."
"You want me to move in with you?"
"Why not? You're always at my place anyway. And now you can pay rent, so it's time to become a big boy and let go of mommy's apron strings."
Pete got himself knocked to the floor and put into a headlock for that statement, but a month later, they moved into their new apartment. Patrick's mom gave him a used car as a house warming gift; she didn't ask how he'd gotten his license, and Patrick didn't tell. "She probably knows it's fake," he said to Pete later. "But as long as I don't get arrested, she'll never have to deal with it."
Patrick worked a shift that ended at 4 in the morning - a perfect hour for him, giving him enough time to get home before dawn, sometimes even with a detour to pick Pete up from wherever he'd gotten drunk that night. "You're pathetic," Patrick grumbled one night, as Pete collapsed into the passenger seat.
"I'm having a good time," Pete protested, waving at the group of strangers he'd been partying with as they drove away.
"Which one of them did you fuck tonight?"
"I have no idea," Pete admitted. "And fuck off, like you've got room to talk."
"At least I've got an excuse."
"Oh, that's right. Poor Patrick, fucking his way through the Chicago scene and hating every minute of it."
When they got back to the apartment, Patrick stalked inside without a word. Pete sat in the car for a while, watching the sun creep over the horizon. When he got inside, Patrick's bedroom door was closed and sealed against the daylight.
Pete left a stack of new comic books by his door the next afternoon. The store that carried all the good new titles closed at five o'clock every night, so Patrick never got to go browse himself. When Pete returned with a pizza for dinner a couple of hours later, Patrick was sitting on the couch, reading and drinking a mug of the blood that lived in the small refrigerator in his bedroom. Pete only allowed himself to look at the red stain on Patrick's upper lip for a moment before turning to the kitchen and grabbing a beer. "Get it while it's hot," he said over his shoulder. When he turned back around, Patrick was standing over the dining room table, stuffing a slice of supreme pizza in his mouth. The red of the pizza sauce looked nothing like blood, and Pete was able to breathe normally again.
A couple of months later, Pete had just crawled into bed when his phone rang. He answered without looking at the display. "This had better be good, at five o'clock in the morning."
"Like you ever sleep anyway," Patrick scoffed on the other end of the line. Then his voice turned serious. "Pete, I need you to come pick me up from work."
Pete frowned and looked out his window. The black sky showed the beginnings of the purple tint of sunrise. "Why are you still there?"
"Some inventory nonsense. There's some big corporate visitor today, and they made everyone on the overnight shift say until the stock room was organized. I didn't even know it was so late until I came out and looked outside." Patrick paused, then lowered his voice. "I still have to restock my station before the manager will let me leave. I'm never going to make it out of here before the sun's up. I can't drive myself home when the sun's up, Pete. Help." A note of panic had crept into his voice.
Pete sat up and began feeling around his bed for his pants. "I'll be there in a half hour."
Actually, it took more like forty-five minutes for Pete to make it across town to the restaurant, due to an early emergence of rush hour and lamentably typical Chicago traffic. By the time he made it, the sun was already shining in his eyes as he drove eastward. He pulled into the diner parking lot and looked immediately at the front door. A moment later, he noticed a small figure sitting on the curb close to the side of the building, in the one patch of shade the building afforded. It was a warm summer morning, but the figure was bundled up in a black hoodie that covered every bit of skin it could reach. It took a moment for understanding to creep into Pete's sleep-deprived brain, but once he realized he was looking at Patrick, he screeched across the parking lot so that the passenger side of the car pulled up right next to the building.
When Patrick looked up, Pete saw a bubbling red welt taking up half of his right cheek. The hands that held the hoodie close were also angrily red. Pete leaned across the car and shoved the door open; Patrick ran from the shade to the car as fast as he could, but when he dove into the front seat, Pete smelled a horrible, burning scent in the air. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," he swore as Patrick pushed the front seat back and crouched in a ball on the floor. Pete reached into the back seat and grabbed two hoodies that were balled up on the floor. "Here, use these."
"Just fucking drive already." Patrick's voice was muffled by layers of clothing.
Pete drove away, but the morning sun continued to shine into the windows, and the burning smell just got worse. Finally, Pete swore under his breath and veered off the road into a parking ramp next to a shopping mall. Once they were inside, he tugged at the hoodies covering Patrick. "Come on, the trunk's probably better, right?"
When Patrick looked up at him, Pete cursed some more. The side of Patrick's face oozed some kind of substance that turned Pete's stomach, and he visibly shook as he tried to push himself up to a standing position. He opened the door himself, but collapsed onto the ground outside before Pete could get around the car. "Oh, god," Patrick said weakly when Pete crouched down next to him.
"Come on." Pete put his arms around Patrick's waist and pulled. For such a small dude, Patrick was solid, and it took a concerted effort to get both of them on their feet. But after a moment, Pete managed to shuffled them both around to the back of the car. Pete opened the trunk and let Patrick lean against the bumper. "Can you get in?"
"Yeah," Patrick breathed. Pete frowned doubtfully, but he stepped back as Patrick sat on the edge and slowly pulled his legs up until he slid into the trunk. He looked back at the boxes and tools that littered the trunk, but Pete pushed them all to the side until Patrick had enough room to lay down. "It's a good thing I'm short," Patrick said, his mouth turning upwards into what Pete supposed should be a smile. However, the burn on his face made the expression lopsided enough that Pete winced at the sight. Patrick closed his eyes and pulled his knees close to his chest. "Home," he murmured.
Pete shut the trunk carefully as he looked around the mostly empty ramp, grateful that it was still early enough that no one was around. He drove home as quickly as he could manage, speed limits be damned.
Their apartment building presented another problem - even if Pete parked in the closest spot to the door, Patrick would still have to walk a good thirty feet to the building, and then manage to get to the basement stairs down a sunlit hallway. "Motherfucker," he said, pressing his fingers to his temples. "Think, Pete, think."
A moment later, a solution occurred to him. He got out of the car and went around to the trunk. "Be right back," he said through the keyhole, and hoped Patrick could hear him.
He ran inside, to the first apartment door on the first floor. He knocked urgently. After a minute, a woman wearing a bathrobe and a confused expression answered the door. "I'm so sorry to bother you," Pete said, hoping he looked as unthreatening as possible, "but I live downstairs, and I saw you guys moving in over the weekend. I wonder if you still have the dolly you were using?"
"What?"
"I've got a box in the car that I can't lift by myself, and I really need to get it inside. I'm really sorry," he repeated, "I know it's early, but I have to get this out of my car before I go to work, because we need to haul more boxes around when I get there."
"We had to return the dolly," the woman said, "but if two people can handle it, I can probably get my husband to come out and help you. He's in the shower, but if you can wait ten minutes?"
Pete cursed mentally, but he smiled gratefully at the woman. "You're a lifesaver. I'll wait outside, thank you so much."
After the woman closed the door, he ran quickly downstairs and grabbed the large plastic container Patrick's mom had given them when they moved in. "Just in case," she'd said. Pete offered up a silent prayer of thanks that someone had been prepared at some point.
He ran back outside and crouched down by the trunk. "Patrick? Can you hear me?"
"Yeah," came the muffled response.
"I have your box. You have to get into it, and quickly, because someone's going to come help me carry you inside. It'll probably be better if he doesn't know he's carrying a body."
Pete could hear thumping inside the trunk. "Okay," Patrick said, and his voice was closer to the back of the trunk. "Leave the box open right underneath the bumper, and open the trunk."
He did as instructed, and Patrick climbed out of the trunk with more agility than Pete expected him to. The smell of burning flesh followed him out of the trunk. Pete tried not to gag. Patrick's knees gave out as soon as he was standing inside the box, and he simply lay down in a small ball. Pete grabbed the top and covered him as quickly as he could. He had just managed to seal it entirely when a man with wet hair came walking out of the door. "Hey," Pete said to him. "Thanks, I will totally owe you a beer or something."
The man merely grunted, and grabbed a side of the box. Pete grabbed the other side and prayed that Patrick wouldn't make any sounds. When they lifted the box, Pete felt more than heard the thumping of movement inside. The man grimaced. "What the hell do you have in here?"
"Music gear," Pete improvised. "I have a band."
The man grunted again. Pete took that to mean he bought the explanation, or just didn't care. They carried the box to the door in silence.
When they reached the basement apartment, Pete pushed the door open and they set the box down just inside the door. Pete stuck out his hand. "Thanks, man. I'm Pete. Come down and knock if you ever need anything."
His savior shook his hand, but departed without introducing himself or saying goodbye. Pete barely noticed. As soon as the man was halfway up the stairs, Pete slammed the door and pried the box open. Patrick lay curled in a ball on the bottom, his eyes closed and his jaw slack. Pete's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. Patrick's upturned cheek was a mess of red and pus, and the exposed hand wasn't any better. The burning smell hit Pete in the face when he bent over. He swallowed bile and made a conscious effort not to breathe through his nose. He touched Patrick's arm gingerly. "Patrick. Patrick, we're inside."
Patrick opened his eyes. Or, tried - the swelling on his skin nearly obscured his vision. But, somehow, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "I need ..." he started, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I need to get to my bedroom."
Pete glanced around. The living room windows were fairly well blacked out, but since Pete occasionally opened them, it wasn't perfect. "Yeah. Can you walk?"
Patrick answered by grabbing the wall and attempting to stand. He shook so badly that Pete leaned over and wrapped an arm around his waist. Patrick winced. "Sorry," Pete murmured.
"Just help."
They got Patrick to the bedroom, with a lot of effort. The minute he could lean on his bed, Patrick started to tug at his clothes. "Off," he said. "They hurt. Fuck. They hurt."
Pete helped him pull off the hoodie and his t-shirt. Underneath, Patrick's skin was a mess. His arms were criss-crossed with bubbling burns; the skin that had been protected by the fabric of his shirt was merely red, the color of a nasty summer sunburn. "Wouldn't let me sit inside," Patrick started babbling. He sat on the bed, and Pete saw him shaking. "The fucking corporate inspector showed up early, and my manager didn't w...want to have me lurking around. So he made me go outside. I tried to stay. I tried to stand inside the door, but the jackass pushed me out." He tried to bend over to untie his shoes, but the movement made him let out a high-pitched whine. Pete knelt at his feet and started to unlace the sneakers. "Thanks," Patrick said, his teeth chattering. "He told me that having employees hanging around in the restaurant was a mark against us. And it was a beautiful day, so I should sit outside." He grimaced as Pete pulled his socks off. "I'm so glad ... glad I had the hoodie."
"I promise I will never make fun of you for dressing in seven hundred layers during the summer again," Pete promised.
"Better not."
Pete stood up and looked at Patrick. "Jesus. You need a hospital."
"Right. And tell them what?"
Pete rubbed his face as Patrick scooted gingerly up the bed. His hands fumbled with the button on his jeans. "What do we do?"
"Call my mom," Patrick said, giving up on his jeans and closing his eyes. "She's got ... stuff. It's never been this bad, though. Oh, god," he breathed as he lay back, letting the sheets touch his burned skin bit by bit.
Pete stood helplessly next to the bed, unable to think of anything he could possibly do to ease Patrick's pain. Patrick found a position that didn't make him grimace any worse than he already was and fell still. Pete couldn't tell if he fell asleep, or if he was just trying to move as little as possible. Eventually, Pete turned around and grabbed his cell phone to dial Patrick's mother.
He managed to wait until he hung up before running to the bathroom to puke.
part four