So some of you may or may not have been reading the epic vampire fic, Constructive Summer, that Kassie recently finished. This is the prologue sketch of Pete and Patrick's storyline from that. I wrote this back in June when we were working out the back stories for many of the characters and I decided to dust it off with her permission. If the timejumping makes you dizzy, my apologies.
Surprisingly, I think this might stand on it's own, but you'll probably get more out of it if you've read her series first. Which you can start here
. This part's gen, the rest of the story as a whole is not. Go Together Like Bullets and Guns
"Move your ass, Patrick!" Pete says over his shoulder through a laugh.
Patrick grunts and blinks his eyes against the rusty dust that Pete's Nikes are kicking up on the fire escape. The rebar digs into his palms as he follows Pete to the roof. In the grand scheme of things, it's not the craziest thing Pete's ever talked him into, scaling the roof of a recording studio. At least there aren't gorilla suits this time. He can't get the harmonies for "Grand Theft Autumn" out of his head, his voice is wrecked, they haven't eaten in three days, and it's the greatest he's every felt in his (very short) life.
At the top, Pete's standing on the corner ledge, arms out Leo DiCaprio style. Patrick waits for him to cry out "I'm king of the world!" because Pete totally would, the fucking drama queen. Instead he flicks his wrist, beckoning Patrick to come closer even though he can't see him.
"I'm right here, right behind you."
"Would you catch me?" Pete asks.
Pete makes him feel really old sometimes. He gets a glimpse of his future and wonders if maybe it was the argyle sweater that cast him in the perpetual role of dad. It should be Andy, he thinks. But the control freak in him decides to be honest with the rest of himself. Patrick moves into the edge of his vision. Pete's eyes flick his way once, but then resume looking out across the town. Patrick grabs the hand nearest him. "You know I would."
"Promise me, Patrick Stump."
"I promise, Peter Wentz."
"Jesus, Pete. Three fucking days. Where are
you?" Relief floods through his system. If this isn't the end of Jeanae fucking it up for all of them, he'll make it that way, he's certain. The fucking bitch.
"I'm hungry." Pete's voice is small and desperate, ready to hang up.
"It's gonna be okay. Where are you?" He asks again, soothingly this time. Pete gives him the address of a hotel. "I'll be there in thirty minutes. Don't do anything stupid." Patrick winces after he says it. He grabs for his shoes, drops his phone and misses Pete's "too late."
This is hell and Patrick's trying really hard not to cry right now. He swallows it down and puts on his stage face. He feels like he could crack from the strain. The dead girl in the corner of the room isn't helping this tableau of fun and gore at all.
"I thought dating a vampire would be cooler than this." Pete shares with the class of two.
"Wait. You knew?" Pete opens his mouth to respond and Patrick tells him not to answer that. Of course Pete knew Jeanae was a vampire. It explains a lot actually.
"We need to leave, like now." Pete tells him. "The Cleaners will be here soon." Patrick can't even listen to him. His best friend is dead and yet, not. Patrick punches him in the face. It feels really fucking good, even if all Pete does is sway slightly and blink at him. He wonders if any of the other million times he's wanted to punch Pete would have gotten them anywhere but this place right now if only he had.
"Show me." He commands. Pete's face goes blurry for a second and then there are fangs. His eyes glitter in a way Patrick's never seen any combination of chemical substances make them.
"Who's a Lost Boy now?" Pete says as he shakes off the fangs. He starts singing cry little sister
over and over again out of tune.
Patrick wants to scream. He knows if he does, he might never stop.
Patrick thinks there should be a book for this. No one provides him with one, of course. He could write it himself, The Care and Feeding of Newly-turned Bipolar Vampires
. All he gets instead is a phone number from Jeanae. "In case of emergencies," she tells him. "He's your problem now. I'm done."
The microwave dings and he holds his breath as he pulls the warm mug of blood out. The smell is terrible. Only to him though, he thinks as he feels Pete instantly by his side where he wasn't just a second ago. He hands the mug over. Pete gulps as Patrick steps away and focuses on an interesting spot on the wall just off Pete's shoulder. Pete sets the empty mug on the counter and wipes his hand over his mouth. They wait. Thirty seconds pass. Just when Patrick thinks he can let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding, Pete lurches to the sink and empties his stomach, staining the stainless steel red.
"So, not like on Buffy, then." Patrick says as he lays a hand between Pete's shoulder blades. Pete's leaning on his forearms over the sink.
"No more animal blood." Pete says, voice wrecked, as if he's only been doing this experimenting to humor Patrick. Thats probably true.
"Okay, we could try..." The world tilts and his head bangs against the tile of the kitchen floor, a sharp sparkling pain. Pete's breath is warm against his neck, acrid.
"You smell like the sun." He mouths against his pulse. Lips and tongue tasting.
"Don't," Patrick whispers. It means too many things - Don't do this, don't leave, don't kill anyone else, don't make me have to end you.
Pete lifts up enough to look him in the eye. Patrick doesn't blink, not even when Pete leans in again and he feels fangs slide into his skin, a hot knife through butter. He lays on the floor long after he hears Pete take off. Don't make me hate you.
They're somewhere in Texas on the hottest line up Warped has ever billed, he has a hit record climbing the charts, a new record label of (partially) his own with new bands he can't wait to get his hands on, and he's finally able to buy beer. By any level of reason, it should be the summer of his fucking life.
Instead, Pete turns half the label. Travis, Bill, Brendon, and Ryan are all part of 'the club' (Pete calls them the Vampkateers, there aren't any hats yet) in a matter of weeks. Patrick wonders if the Panic kids knew about that particular rider in their shiny new contracts. It's Pete's punishment for every time Pete begs, "Just let me do it, Patrick. Please," and he says no. He wonders if any of the others even got a choice. Then realizes he knows the answer. He can hear a timer ticking inside him as the world he knows turns into a fucking Anne Rice novel around him. Turns out Jenae's "in case of emergencies" meant a blood bank that delivers pretty much anywhere. Sometimes the delivery person is also the delivery. It doesn't keep Pete from climbing into his bunk on nights like tonight and promising he'll stop if Patrick will just let him have a little.
If he has to go jack off after Pete leaves, he doesn't let his mind draw the correlation between the two points.
It's quiet as he steps off the bus and pads his way over to where he thinks the mess tent is, hoping to find some orange juice. The sky is mostly black still with a full moon sinking over the horizon that's just turning grey. He can't remember the last time he slept through the night.
Laughter breaks through the silence from a few buses up, parked on the edge of the treeline bordering the lot. He wasn't expecting it to be because Gabe Saporta from Midtown is running in circles around a small campfire -- naked
-- with a purple blanket thrown over his shoulders like a cape while a girl and a boy point and giggle.
Before he can turn around and head the other way, Gabe spots him. "Hey, little buddy!" He calls out.
Patrick pulls his hand out of his pocket and fans his fingers. "Hey, uh, sorry. I'll just..." he points over his shoulder as the boy turns around and the glint off his glasses gives him away. "Uh, hey Mikey."
More time passes than it should before Mikey says, "Hey, Patrick! Want a s'more?" Mikey waves a bag of marshmallows Patrick didn't notice he was holding as a visual aid.
Patrick moves toward the fire. Sugar and chocolate sound way better than tinny warm orange juice. "Sure. Uh, is he going to put some pants on?"
"Not unless you can get them on him yourself." The girl says. "I'm Jamia." She tucks a box of graham crackers under her elbow and holds out her hand. Patrick shakes it as she looks him in the eye. Her eyes dart to his neck so fast he thinks he may have imagined it. "I'm with Eyeball and I'm fucking Frank Iero."
"How's that working out for you?"
"Some days are better than others." She muses. He wonders which part she means.
Gabe decides to fashion his blanket into a toga. He's pogo-ing on the balls of his feet behind Mikey with his hands on his shoulders. His nose twitches before he says, "Patrick from Fall Out Boy, right? We met like..." he stops moving for a moment to consider it.
"You played in Chicago a while back. We were the first of like five crappy bands that opened for you."
"Yeah! Okay. I hear you got better."
"We're doing alright."
"Cool. So which one of you is the vampire?"
Pete is afraid of Jamia in a way that Patrick's never seen him afraid before. It's fairly impressive. There's a respect involved in it that keeps him saying hello to her instead of running away screaming, he tells Patrick, but only barely. He also quits asking Patrick for things he's not willing to give, mostly. Patrick thinks that has more to do with Mikey than Jamia. He isn't sure who's idea Mission: Mikey Distracts Pete So Patrick Can Not Go Insane was, but he'd kiss them if he knew.
"Do all werewolves take a handful of peyote just before the full moon rises, or is that your very own special brand of crazy?" Patrick asks from his perch on the picnic table at the end of another unremarkable parking lot. He stares at the treeline a few yards off.
One of Gabe's golden eyes winks in answer before he's gone. Patrick lays down on the table wrapped in a purple blanket and listens for his howl.