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4/4 (Common Time for iamtheenemy
Title: 4/4 (Common Time)
Author: mazily
Recipient: iamtheenemy
Band: Fall Out Boy
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Summary: Patrick sometimes wishes he'd never seen a horror flick. Never seen all the ways this could get even worse.
Warnings: The end of the world.
The radio signal flickers in and out, staticky raider warnings and predictions of more communications blackouts. Andy drumming against the steering wheel, Patrick catching the beat. Following, countering, playing. Pete sitting in the back, nervous bouncing leg and shotgun at the ready. Joe's sleeping. They take turns. Patrick yawns, pulls the shitty handwritten map from his pocket.
"Turn up ahead," Patrick says. "Left. Just past that old gas station."
Pete leans across the van, vinyl squeaking beneath him. "Movement, nine o', no, fuck, over there," he says. Voice hushed. Breath against Patrick's ear, moist and humid in the desert heat, arm around Patrick's shoulder as he points. "Behind that gas pump? Something moved, I think it's a person. Maybe two. Or really big dogs, I guess."
Patrick pulls his gun from the glove box, a pile of CDs and cassette tapes clattering to the ground. He disengages the safety. Wipes his glasses on the sleeve of his t-shirt. Takes a deep breath and waits. Humming "Purple Rain" as softly as he can, listening as Pete quietly wakes Joe and passes him one of the old rifles they keep in the red cooler.
The world is brown. Crackling and dry and broken; dead earth, dead trees, dead sky. The sun burning red.
Movement in the gas station, a shadow. A sound, something-- everyone in the van holding their breath, hushed and still, guns cocked and ready-- like a scream. A growl, a scream: something's out there. Joe sneezes, and Patrick flinches. Hits Pete's forehead with the back of his head, "fuck," Pete says, "you-"
"Shh," Andy says. "Just. Shut the fuck up. I need to concentrate, you assholes."
"Fucker," Pete says, but he glares at Patrick quietly after that. Patrick inhales, counts to ten. Forces himself not to strangle Pete, not to scream, "you stupid fuck, what the fuck where you doing standing right behind me like that?" while holding him down and squeezing. He concentrates on the gnarled tree, the dusty road. On watching the shadows twist and dance.
They drive. Kicking up the dirt behind them. Andy takes the turn as fast as he can; the tires squeal, the van shakes, but they make it.
"Okay," Andy says. His face white. "Now that's how it's done."
*
They sleep in the van-- "it'll be fine, just like the old days," Pete'd said, back when Pete still tried to make Patrick feel better-- in shifts of two, never three. Never three because one is not enough. One is not enough, and the Raiders are ruthless. Mindless, insane, living nightmares. Night of the Living Dead meets Twelve Monkeys meets 28 Days Later. Patrick sometimes wishes he'd never seen a horror flick. Never seen all the ways this could get even worse.
*
Spencer and Jon are late. Not that watches are particularly reliable, start-stuttering and hours folding back into themselves, repeating in infinite loops. It's raining, so they can't go outside. Pete can't climb the grey oak tree, "can't fucking see anything through this."
"They'll be here," Patrick says. "Or they'll send word. Something. They won't just not show."
No one answers. Only the rain, tapping and hissing on the roof.
The van smells of old socks. Of instruments too long unplayed, unwashed t-shirts, the can of beer Joe spilled three months ago. Patrick's fingers itch for the frets of his guitar, but it's too risky here. Too dangerous. Even the acoustic, barely strummed, makes too much noise. He fingers chords on his thighs, A, Am, C, Dm; new songs existing only in his head.
The radio isn't working. Cell phones all went out with the first blast. Standard protocol says they wait an hour, two if the weather's bad, after a scheduled meet then move on. It's been over an hour, Patrick thinks, not quite two. They wait. Every gust of wind a tightening of their hands on guns, on knives; every rumble of thunder is the sudden certainty that they're going to die.
Their biggest problem used to be the tabloids. Pete's dick on the internet. Girls. Perez Hilton and all the gossip and the lies. Patrick misses that.
He misses making music for a living. Making music whenever he wanted (all the time). Playing and writing and recording. Gigs in basements, in small clubs, in arenas; him and Pete, in a room, Pete's words and Patrick's melodies and everything coming together in GarageBand. The studios. Patrick misses a lot of things. He even misses LA. He hated LA.
The rain stops in a staccato burst. The ground outside is still sizzling.
"Let's just wait a little longer," Pete says.
Andy frowns. "We really should-"
"A couple more minutes," Patrick says, "half an hour. It was raining pretty hard out there, maybe they had to pull over, wait it out."
"Joe?" Andy asks.
Joe nods, yes, but he doesn't look sure. He looks out the window, at the charred bushes lining the off ramp, at the sky. He grabs a bottle of water from the floor. Twists the cap on and off, eeny-meeny-miny-moe, and finally takes a drink. Swallows. "But if they're not here in thirty minutes or less, the pizza's free."
*
The guys from Panic!--and Patrick doesn't mean to think of them that way, not when Ryan and Jon are adamant that, no, really, they're still the Young Veins, even now when they're just four guys living in an abandoned old house in the middle of the desert--only travel when they have to. And then only in twos. Last time, it was Spencer and Brendon. This time it's Spencer and Jon.
"Thank god," Pete whispers. Patrick squeezes his hand. Ignores the sweaty palm.
Spencer pulls up to the van in their Mercedes, stopping when his window lines up with Patrick's. He doesn't turn off the engine. Doesn't open his door. He rolls down the window, and says, "Sorry, the rain. Ryan's stupid tires don't have great traction, and the radios aren't working again so we couldn't. I'm sort of surprised you're still here. We were sure you'd be long gone by now."
"Well, you know," Patrick says, "the rain. We figured."
"Thanks," Jon says, leaning across Spencer to stick his head out the window and pass a padded envelope across the gap between cars. Patrick can't read the writing scrawled across the front; he's been getting headaches, a sure sign that it's time for a new prescription, and it's probably Brendon's chicken-scratch anyway. "Really. It would've sucked to drive all the way out here just to turn around and reschedule."
Pete pushes his way onto Patrick's seat, legs across Patrick's lap, knees bumping against Patrick's chest. Grabbing the package from Patrick's hand, "gimme gimme gimme," and tearing into it. There are three CDs, black sharpie text scribbled across them. Andy reaches over, takes them from Pete and slips them into his bag. He pulls out a few of their CDs, along with some Cobra and the newest MCR, and wraps them in an old Walmart bag. Passes them to Patrick, who hands them to Jon.
"Sweet," Jon says. He settles back into his own seat, plastic bag rustling almost too loud, almost like a song.
Spencer smiles. His hair is getting long again, and he brushes it away from his eyes. "Thanks, guys, seriously."
"Thank Gerard," Patrick says, "this is all his plan. Uh, or we could, you know, we're heading out to Jersey, so if you wanted-"
"-Fuck," Jon says-
"-to send a message, we could definitely deliver it for you. Since you don't-"
"-leave the luxurious desert, like, ever?" Spencer asks. He's laughing, and there are new lines ringing his mouth, Patrick thinks. His eyes crinkle more. He's a man now, they all are, and Patrick half-wishes he could travel back in time and protect them from all this ("so, what," the Pete in his head asks, "you'd rather he were, what, dead? A raider? In one of the camps?").
Patrick smiles. "You said it, not me," he says. "So, any messages you want passed on?"
"Just the CDs," Jon says. And, softer, fondly; Patrick can barely hear him, "Stop fucking with them, Smith."
"You know you love it, Walker," Spencer says. Jon smacks him upside the head, and everyone in both cars laughs. Patrick's about to ask if anyone wants something to drink--they've got some old Fantas and bottled water in the blue cooler, and there might even be some Hostess snack cakes left lying around that they could snack on--when a wolf howls somewhere too close for comfort.
Andy calls out the code to clear out, "five, five, zero," and shifts into first. Spencer peels out in front of them, takes a quick U-turn, and speeds away. Andy pulls out and drives in the opposite direction.
"That was close," he says.
"Too close," Joe says. "Next time, less of the Old Bands' Home Social Hour, okay, Patrick? I know you miss-"
"Fine," Patrick says. He gets it. "Next time, it's a clean drop-and-run."
*
They head north.
Patrick's navigating, Pete's driving, Andy's sleeping, and Joe's telling knock-knock jokes. Bad ones. "I will stop this van," Pete says, "and drop you on the side of the road if you do not stop that, and fucking yesterday." Joe shuts up, which is good. Now Patrick doesn't have to kill him.
"Thanks," Patrick says.
Their headlights barely cut through the darkness, and Patrick hopes that Pete can see the road better than he can. It feels like they've been swallowed alive. Like the world is a Black Sabbath song, twisted and remixed by Marilyn Manson and then sung by Barry White. A heavy dance beat and a throng of dancers closing in. Patrick can't breathe. Everything's too heavy.
"Which way?" Pete asks. "There's a fork, just ahead. Left or right, dude?"
It's dark, and Patrick's eyes won't focus. He squints at the map. "Left," he says. He crosses his fingers. Says a quick prayer to David Bowie and looks back up at the road.
"A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar," Joe says. Patrick throws an empty can at his head.
Pete drives: north or something like it.
They pull up to the former AK Chicago at sunrise. The streets are empty. Black car husks lining the roads, skeletal high-rises, small eyes peering out from behind blackout curtains (being pulled back, fast enough to make the curtains flutter). Pink and orange light filters through the ash and dust, and Patrick sneezes.
"Home sweet Chi-town," Joe says. "Damn."
Andy stretches, pressing his palms against the roof of the van. His neck cracks. He yawns, says, "Fuck, it looks worse than I'd remembered" through the yawn. His voice sounds like taffy. Patrick's hungry. He hopes there's still some of that whole wheat "just add water!" pancake mix hidden under that tile in the bathroom.
"Those bitches better have breakfast on the table," Pete says. "Eggs , yum, with cheesy animal product goodness."
Andy gives him the finger, and Joe laughs. Patrick sneezes again and hopes he isn't getting sick. "C'mon," he says, "flash the code so we can get in there already."
Pete does. The door slides open like a sci-fi movie, and they drive inside. After the door's closed behind them, click thunk click, Chris and Greta come through the connecting door, guns in hand. Patrick smiles at Greta and says, "FBR7984IOH80PMS."
Chris nods. "FBR8687LVCXX."
Greta smiles, and she sets the safety on her Glock. "C'mon in," she says, "our casa es su casa, and, oh, Patrick, Darren's making those pancakes you like." The members of the band formerly known as the Hush Sound--their term, not Patrick's--all wound up at AK after the end. Stumbling, without meaning to, they took up arms together and protect home base. Patrick hates that it took this to get them all in a room, making music only when they're not fighting for their lives.
Patrick takes his time gathering his belongings; he refolds his last Bowie t-shirt, puts it under the Prince one. Switches them around. Pete rolls his eyes and grabs his shit. Manages to slap both Andy and Joe upside the head simultaneously and says, "c'mon, kids, let's go eat."
*
"If it isn't the phlegm monster," Pete says. Patrick gives him the finger and throws a tissue at his head with his other hand. "Eww, fucking gross," Pete says. "Singer cooties."
Patrick's pretty sure he's lying in Greta's bed. Lying in a mountain of dirty kleenex. Everything hurts. This must be what dying feels like. Like he's been carrying Andy's drum-kit uphill for days, and now his muscles, his blood, his bones, everything's leaking out his nose.
"You're not going to die," Pete says.
"Did I say that out loud?" Can Pete actually read his mind now?
Pete smirks, but his eyes look worried. Patrick tries not to read too much into that. "Yeah, a little, man. The talking thing, not the mind reading. Though wouldn't that be fucking sweet, dude?"
"Um, sure?" Patrick really, really doesn't think that'd be cool at all. There are some things that Pete never needs to know about Patrick. Ever. The huge crush he had on Pete when he was fifteen, for example, or the jerk-off fantasy he still occasionally uses.
"Dude," Pete says, "Still talking. And, wow, uh-"
"Oh my god, shut up."
"You talking to yourself or to me?" Pete thinks he's hilarious. He's not. Patrick throws another tissue, a used one this time, and it hits Pete in the mouth. Pete spits and stomps, a little tornado of rage, and it's almost like watching him on stage again. Patrick laughs until he can't breathe, literally, and he's coughing and wheezing and, fuck, he hates being sick.
"Fuck, I hate being sick," he says.
Pete climbs up into the bed with him, pulls Patrick to his chest and combs his fingers through Patrick's hair. Patrick feels sweaty and gross, his hair sticking to his forehead. Pete's chest is cool, the coldest thing in the world, and he's petting Patrick like he's Hemingway.
"Mmm," Patrick said, "I miss Hemmy. He was nice."
"Yeah," Pete says. He kisses Patrick's forehead. "Yeah, he was."
Patrick turns, tries to look Pete in the eyes because this is important. He has important things to say. Everything's sort of spinning. Blurry. He's not sure where his glasses are, and he checks to make sure they're not on his face. They're not. "Pete," he says. "This is important, okay?"
Pete nods. Pulls Patrick back against his chest. Says, "Talk, Trick."
Patrick's mouth is dry. "Okay," he says. "This is important. Listen. Hemmy was the best dog, and I loved him. And he's dead, now, which is just wrong. But so's pretty much everything, isn't it? I mean, everything. So what I'm saying is, okay, I think this might be the plague. And if I die-"
"Shut the fuck up right now," Pete says. "You are not fucking dying and that's that. You are sick, you have a cold, maybe the flu, and you will stay in bed and get lots of liquids and I'll dress up in a nurse's costume and you will get better. Got it?"
"Mmmm," Patrick says. Wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I can't sleep. Tell me a story?"
Pete turns them so he can curl himself around Patrick. Lifting his head so he can whisper into his ear. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Once upon a time, there was a bulldog named Hemingway and he had a boy named Pete, and they lived in a nice house in a city of angels where the demons and monsters roamed free."
Patrick falls asleep between one word and the next. He doesn't dream.
*
Morning: Pete says, "wake up, you big stud you." Patrick is alone in the bed.
*
Morning: Patrick is alone in bed, and he wipes the sleep from his eyes. Pete is sitting in the chair across the room. Smiling. Legs bouncing. Excited.
"Hey," Patrick says, wrapping himself in a blanket. "You moved. What's-"
"Everyone's in the kitchen. I think they're planning to kidnap you, actually, which is totally not going to happen. If I have to tie you up and put you in the van myself."
"Uh, okay?" Patrick's still half-asleep. Too used to safety and a warm bed already.
"Okay," Pete says. He rubs his hands over his eyes. Looks straight at Patrick-- Patrick pulls at his blanket, makes sure he's completely covered-- and doesn't look away. "You know I'm serious, right? They want you to stay. Not that I blame them, of course." He laughs. Dry and brittle. "I won't stop you though. I'll want to, I'll probably try-I'm sort of a dick like that; maybe you've noticed?-but I won't. Not if you really want to."
Patrick blinks. "Wait, what? I. I don't. Okay, okay, speak English now."
"They want you to stay. Here. In Chicago. Where there are instruments in a sound-proofed room and people to play with and you wouldn't have to waste your life driving around in a crappy van with me. I'd miss you like fucking crazy and I'll probably act like a dick about it, but I'll get over it. I will. " Pete looks almost angry, almost fallen in on himself. Like he really wants Patrick to stay. To go. To believe him. To believe in him.
"You'll get over it," Patrick says. He walks over to the closet, grabs a hoodie and puts it on. It's a little tight. A little bright pink. Probably Greta's. He zips it up and pulls the hood up over his head. He's not sure where his hats are.
"Yeah." Pete pulls his knees into his body. Leans in over himself. "I will. You don't have to worry about me, Wendy Bird, I'm all grown up now."
"You're all." Patrick wants to punch him. Pull him up by his hair and kick him until he bleeds. "You fucking shit. You do not get to say that to me, you fucker, you do not get to treat me like that. Of course I'm not." He hits Pete upside the head and pulls him up into a hug. "Just, fuck you, man."
"Fuck you too," Pete says. Pressing his mouth against Patrick's neck like a whisper. "I have no clue what that means."
"It means that you can't get rid of me that easily, dickwad, and you're just going to have to deal with it." He slips his hand under Pete's hoodie, placing the palm against his neck--"oh my god, you ass, your hand's ice!," Pete says, squirming and twisting away--and kissing his cheek as loudly and as melodramatically as he can. "Oh, and you're an idiot."
"Well, duh," Pete says. "Hurry up and get dressed, I'll save you some of Chris's magical mystery egg things."
Patrick flips Pete off. "Yum," he says. "Can't wait."
*
They leave as soon as it's light enough to drive without the headlights on. Greta slips her CD into Patrick's hand; Patrick tries to offer one of theirs in exchange, but she says, "Nah, we've got that intel already. I expect a fresh copy of whatever My Chem's put together the second you get out of there, though."
"Aye aye," Patrick says. He mock salutes before pulling Greta into a hug. He pretends not to hear her telling them to stay safe. "If we're not back in six months," he tells her.
"Shut up," she says.
He climbs into the van, and pulls the door shut behind him. Pete clings to him like a monkey. Arms around his neck, cheeks pressed together. Side by side in the backseat. "I'm glad you're not staying," he says.
Patrick sighs. Leans into Pete's side. "Yeah," he says, "me too."
The garage door clatters open, and Andy turns the ignition.
Joe laughs. "Yippee kay-yi-yay, motherfuckers," he says.
"No sleep til Brooklyn," Andy adds.
"Cause tonight I'm gonna take that ride across the river to the Jersey side," says Pete.
Patrick remembers being 16 and driving from gig to gig in a van smaller than this, breaking down and living on whatever they could scam from bars and venues. "Chicago is so two years ago," he says. He remembers thinking, 16 and half-terrified all the time, that this band was the best thing to ever happen to him. Pete is warm against his side, comforting in ways he shouldn't be. "This band is the best thing to ever happen to me," he whispers into Pete's hair.
"Yeah," Pete says. He rubs his thumb across Patrick's lower lip and snuggles in closer. "Hell yeah."
They drive. Patrick falls asleep to the rhythmic in-out of Pete's breath against his neck.
*
New Jersey is a warzone. Literally.
"We should stop in Philly, do some recon," Andy says. Signs reading, "Philadelphia 30 miles / Camden 45 miles" litter the roadside. Charred, broken, spray painted with messages obscene and not ("Fuck you", "My Child needs Food!", "We're all screwed"). Shell casings and abandoned vehicles. The occasional corpse, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Patrick hates this part of the country. The dead zones. The warzones. The ends of the Earth.
His skin goes hot, then cold. He shivers. Pete leans back into him, fingers at the nape of Patrick's neck. Just barely touching. Just barely. "Thinking about Chicago?"
"Huh?" Patrick leans into Pete's touch.
"You look sad, thought you might be regretting your decision." Pete shrugs. Faking non-chalance as hard as he can. "It's okay, you know. I know you love me best."
"I'm fine," Patrick says. "It wasn't. This is where I belong." He pulls Pete into a headlock and noogies him. "I'm fine, you're fine, everyone's fine, and now we have to figure out how the fuck we're going to cross into Jersey because god forbid My Chem live anywhere else."
"Stupid fucks," Joe says. He pauses, tilts his head to the side. "Us, actually, not them. Why the fuck don't we just wait to meet with them when they're back on the road, save ourselves the scenic trip through hell on earth? Please tell me there's a reason other than, 'oh, I hope Mikey's okay.' Because I like those guys, don't get me wrong, but I'd like them a whole hell of a lot more in, say, Cleveland."
"It's more than just 'I hope Mikey's okay,'" Andy says, "And you know it."
"I just really hate New Jersey," Joe says.
"Who doesn't?" Pete laughs. Snorts. "Hell, even before."
Patrick tries to hold it in, but he can't. Soon everyone's laughing hysterically, clutching their sides and moaning. Saying, "ow, fuck, that hurts," and, "I hate you all, oh my god." Hitting and throwing empty plastic bottles and even more laughter. It feels good. Better than that. It feels like home.
Andy pulls off the highway at the next exit. Sudden silence, interrupted only by Joe's occasional hiccup. Pete's leg (tap, tap, tap). Patrick moves his hand to Pete's knee, pressing his finger against the skin through a hole in Pete's jeans. Pete stills. Exhales loudly. His entire body relaxes, practically melting into Patrick's side.
"So, Philadelphia," Patrick says. "Do we know anyone there?"
"I've got a friend," Andy says. He checks his rearview mirror, adjusts it, checks again. "Not a musician, but she's trustworthy. Smart. She's got a whole network set up."
"Yeah, okay. Sounds good." Joe nods. Reaches under his seat for some bottles of water. Tosses one to Pete. Another to Patrick. Twists off the cap of the third, takes a drink, and passes it to Andy. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Any objections?"
"Nope," Patrick says. Pete shakes his head.
"Okay then, to Philadelphia we go." Andy makes a sharp left turn. Pete falls face-first into Patrick's lap. Patrick can feel himself turning bright red, and Joe just laughs until he's clutching his stomach and wheezing. Pete doesn't move away. Patrick doesn't push him.
*
Andy's friend lives in an abandoned old school. She is also very, very, "like, Playboy-centerfold levels of very fucking hot," Joe says. "Where do you find these people?" Andy shrugs. Steps out of the van and kisses his friend hello.
*
And hello.
*
And hello some more.
Patrick's tempted to cover his eyes. Out of some misplaced sense of propriety. Or maybe embarrassment. He doesn't, though, because he remembers Andy's lectures about societal mores and sexuality and shame, but mostly because it's pretty hot. And it's not as if Joe and Pete are looking away.
In fact: "Pete, you're drooling," Patrick says.
Pete lifts a hand, fingers going to the corners of his mouth. "Fucker," he says, "was not."
"Figuratively, then. You're the one who's good with words."
"Joe," Pete says, "you're drooling." Joe flips him off and continues to look out the window. Pete grins. Flicks a finger against Patrick's cheek. Again. And again, until Patrick turns his face and bites, snapping the tip of Pete's index finger between his teeth. "Worth a try," Pete says. Wiping his finger on Patrick's nose as he licks the spot behind Patrick's ear.
"Fuck off," Patrick says. Shivering. Pushing Pete away.
Only Pete presses closer. "Patrick," he says, and then there's a beat, the tempo changes, and Pete's mouth is moving over Patrick's. Big teeth and a tongue that never stops moving--Patrick thinks he's still talking-and Patrick kisses back and climbs into Pete's lap. There's the beat of his heart, blood and air, and the clank of their teeth. A melody Patrick's trying to piece together.
A drumroll countering the rhythm, the scratch of a needle across an LP. Andy's banging his fist on the passenger window. Once, twice, and he yells, "c'mon, you lazy fuckers, let's go."
They scramble for their things, stuffing hoodies and t-shirts and CDs into overflowing duffle bags. Zipping them shut through sheer force of will. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Patrick says as the lid of a trucker cap pops up through the gap. "Get back in you fucker." Pete reaches over and grabs the hat. Sticks it on his head.
"There," he says, "done. C'mon, let's go."
"You look like an asshole," Patrick says, but he climbs out of the van behind Pete. They follow Andy through doors marked "Girls' Entrance" and down a candle-lined hallway. One after another, like ducklings in a row. "Quack," Patrick mutters.
"What?" Pete stops. Waits for Patrick to catch up to him and slips his arm around Patrick's waist. "Did you say something, dude?"
"Nah," Patrick says. "Just thinking out loud." Pete opens his mouth, probably to say something stupid. Patrick kisses him, short and close-mouthed, to keep him quiet. "Shut up, okay. Just don't."
"Okay," Pete says. "For you." He leans his head against Patrick's shoulder. They walk into what must've been a pretty nice school auditorium. Seats missing in places, torn and moldy where they remain. Stage cordoned off with "Hazard" tape. Andy leads them toward the front of the room, up the stairs on the stage right side.
There are computers everywhere. A circle of laptops on the floor, and desktops along the walls. People milling around. Sitting at the computers with headphones on. The hum of a power generator.
"You guys stay here," Andy says. "I'll be right back." He drops his bag on the ground and follows his friend down the hallway.
"C'mon," Patrick says. He puts his bag down next to Andy's and slides down to the floor. "Sit."
"Fine," says Pete. He's pouting. He leans against the wall and slumps down next to Patrick. Rests his head so they're sitting cheek to cheek. His face is warm. Patrick smiles; he can't help it. Joe snickers.
When Andy returns, hair pulled back into a knot and a bright red mark high on his neck, Patrick kicks Joe until he wakes up. Pete laughs. Andy says, "c'mon, we have a really small window of opportunity here, so hurry." No one asks about the girl. No one says a word. They walk, silent as the grave, bags in hand and Andy leading the way. The van's been painted black and marked with graffiti. Andy climbs into the driver seat. Pulls out a bag full of papers and CDs and weapons; he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and passes out the guns.
*
It's all sort of a blur, which is how Patrick honestly prefers it. Pete likes to say it reminds him of Africa, "swerving around holes, avoiding snipers, closing your eyes because that way you can't die," but Patrick just lets it all swirl together like some crazy French existentialist film he'll never, ever, understand.
Edith Piaf singing in the background. The rat-a-tat-tat of the guns.
Pete curls against Patrick in he backseat while Andy drives. Joe yells, "Fuck, right right right!" and the van goes up on two wheels as they turn. The Way place is just past the park. The park where Brian was shot. There's a trashcan fire burning on top of an old slide. Eyes glowing in the dark of a jungle gym.
Patrick holds his breath, a kid in a minivan going past a graveyard. Pete says, "Beatlejuice, Beatlejuice-"
"Pete," Patrick says.
Pete sighs. "Fine," he says. He slips a hand up Patrick's shirt. Patrick holds perfectly still. Doesn't press into the heat of Pete's skin. "You're no fun."
"Uh," Patrick says.
"No, no," Pete says, "I get it. You're sick of me."
Patrick smacks him upside the head--"ow, you shit, that fucking," Pete says--and then runs his fingers through Pete's too-long hair before pulling him in for a kiss. The van rattles. Pete's hair is greasy.
Pete slips his fingers beneath the waistband of Patrick's jeans, and Patrick forces himself to pull away. They're too close. "We need to," Patrick says.
"Fuck," Pete says, "Yeah." He grabs Patrick's hand. Quickly, like he thinks Patrick's going to try to pull away, squeezing just a little too hard. Their palms are both sweaty. Patrick brushes his thumb against Pete's knuckle, and Pete loosens his grip. Interlaces their fingers.
This is Patrick's least favorite part of the trip: close enough that the house is just barely visible above the horizon, too far away to know if the jack o'lantern in the window is smiling (everyone's okay) or frowning (here there be dragons). Far enough away that the light may be a trick; a reflection of a nearby fire, the electric burn of a raider stronghold, an illusion.
"Okay," Andy says, "Everyone grab a weapon and get down. We're going in."
They pick up speed. Rattle by rattle, weird clanking sound by weird clanking sound. Joe climbs back from the front seat to huddle with Pete and Patrick on the floor of the van, and Andy mutters under his breath as he shifts gears. Something screams outside. Patrick flicks off the safety on his gun. Watches as Joe and Pete do the same.
"Just a bird," Andy says.
The van feels like it's going to rip apart; Patrick picks up an empty plastic wrapper with his spare hand. Crinkles it between his fingers so it sounds like an old radio station. Joe's holding the CD case with Gerard's lyrics and map on it in his left hand. "Okay, so, no more smiles. This time it's one eye for clear," he says, "Two for turn the fuck around and don't look back."
"Okay," Andy says, "That's definitely a light, not a reflection. We just need to get a little closer so I can make out-"
The van sputters to a stop. There's a crash and then a sound straight from hell, a sound that slices through skin and into bone. Piercing and hollow drums, fast and slow at the same time; a sound that defies sense and even music. Patrick can't think. Can't see. Pete presses against his back, mouth wet against his neck as it moves and moves and moves.
There's a loud clank and silence. Patrick's afraid to open his eyes.
"Shh," Pete says. "It's okay."
*fin.
Author: mazily
Recipient: iamtheenemy
Band: Fall Out Boy
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Summary: Patrick sometimes wishes he'd never seen a horror flick. Never seen all the ways this could get even worse.
Warnings: The end of the world.
The radio signal flickers in and out, staticky raider warnings and predictions of more communications blackouts. Andy drumming against the steering wheel, Patrick catching the beat. Following, countering, playing. Pete sitting in the back, nervous bouncing leg and shotgun at the ready. Joe's sleeping. They take turns. Patrick yawns, pulls the shitty handwritten map from his pocket.
"Turn up ahead," Patrick says. "Left. Just past that old gas station."
Pete leans across the van, vinyl squeaking beneath him. "Movement, nine o', no, fuck, over there," he says. Voice hushed. Breath against Patrick's ear, moist and humid in the desert heat, arm around Patrick's shoulder as he points. "Behind that gas pump? Something moved, I think it's a person. Maybe two. Or really big dogs, I guess."
Patrick pulls his gun from the glove box, a pile of CDs and cassette tapes clattering to the ground. He disengages the safety. Wipes his glasses on the sleeve of his t-shirt. Takes a deep breath and waits. Humming "Purple Rain" as softly as he can, listening as Pete quietly wakes Joe and passes him one of the old rifles they keep in the red cooler.
The world is brown. Crackling and dry and broken; dead earth, dead trees, dead sky. The sun burning red.
Movement in the gas station, a shadow. A sound, something-- everyone in the van holding their breath, hushed and still, guns cocked and ready-- like a scream. A growl, a scream: something's out there. Joe sneezes, and Patrick flinches. Hits Pete's forehead with the back of his head, "fuck," Pete says, "you-"
"Shh," Andy says. "Just. Shut the fuck up. I need to concentrate, you assholes."
"Fucker," Pete says, but he glares at Patrick quietly after that. Patrick inhales, counts to ten. Forces himself not to strangle Pete, not to scream, "you stupid fuck, what the fuck where you doing standing right behind me like that?" while holding him down and squeezing. He concentrates on the gnarled tree, the dusty road. On watching the shadows twist and dance.
They drive. Kicking up the dirt behind them. Andy takes the turn as fast as he can; the tires squeal, the van shakes, but they make it.
"Okay," Andy says. His face white. "Now that's how it's done."
*
They sleep in the van-- "it'll be fine, just like the old days," Pete'd said, back when Pete still tried to make Patrick feel better-- in shifts of two, never three. Never three because one is not enough. One is not enough, and the Raiders are ruthless. Mindless, insane, living nightmares. Night of the Living Dead meets Twelve Monkeys meets 28 Days Later. Patrick sometimes wishes he'd never seen a horror flick. Never seen all the ways this could get even worse.
*
Spencer and Jon are late. Not that watches are particularly reliable, start-stuttering and hours folding back into themselves, repeating in infinite loops. It's raining, so they can't go outside. Pete can't climb the grey oak tree, "can't fucking see anything through this."
"They'll be here," Patrick says. "Or they'll send word. Something. They won't just not show."
No one answers. Only the rain, tapping and hissing on the roof.
The van smells of old socks. Of instruments too long unplayed, unwashed t-shirts, the can of beer Joe spilled three months ago. Patrick's fingers itch for the frets of his guitar, but it's too risky here. Too dangerous. Even the acoustic, barely strummed, makes too much noise. He fingers chords on his thighs, A, Am, C, Dm; new songs existing only in his head.
The radio isn't working. Cell phones all went out with the first blast. Standard protocol says they wait an hour, two if the weather's bad, after a scheduled meet then move on. It's been over an hour, Patrick thinks, not quite two. They wait. Every gust of wind a tightening of their hands on guns, on knives; every rumble of thunder is the sudden certainty that they're going to die.
Their biggest problem used to be the tabloids. Pete's dick on the internet. Girls. Perez Hilton and all the gossip and the lies. Patrick misses that.
He misses making music for a living. Making music whenever he wanted (all the time). Playing and writing and recording. Gigs in basements, in small clubs, in arenas; him and Pete, in a room, Pete's words and Patrick's melodies and everything coming together in GarageBand. The studios. Patrick misses a lot of things. He even misses LA. He hated LA.
The rain stops in a staccato burst. The ground outside is still sizzling.
"Let's just wait a little longer," Pete says.
Andy frowns. "We really should-"
"A couple more minutes," Patrick says, "half an hour. It was raining pretty hard out there, maybe they had to pull over, wait it out."
"Joe?" Andy asks.
Joe nods, yes, but he doesn't look sure. He looks out the window, at the charred bushes lining the off ramp, at the sky. He grabs a bottle of water from the floor. Twists the cap on and off, eeny-meeny-miny-moe, and finally takes a drink. Swallows. "But if they're not here in thirty minutes or less, the pizza's free."
*
The guys from Panic!--and Patrick doesn't mean to think of them that way, not when Ryan and Jon are adamant that, no, really, they're still the Young Veins, even now when they're just four guys living in an abandoned old house in the middle of the desert--only travel when they have to. And then only in twos. Last time, it was Spencer and Brendon. This time it's Spencer and Jon.
"Thank god," Pete whispers. Patrick squeezes his hand. Ignores the sweaty palm.
Spencer pulls up to the van in their Mercedes, stopping when his window lines up with Patrick's. He doesn't turn off the engine. Doesn't open his door. He rolls down the window, and says, "Sorry, the rain. Ryan's stupid tires don't have great traction, and the radios aren't working again so we couldn't. I'm sort of surprised you're still here. We were sure you'd be long gone by now."
"Well, you know," Patrick says, "the rain. We figured."
"Thanks," Jon says, leaning across Spencer to stick his head out the window and pass a padded envelope across the gap between cars. Patrick can't read the writing scrawled across the front; he's been getting headaches, a sure sign that it's time for a new prescription, and it's probably Brendon's chicken-scratch anyway. "Really. It would've sucked to drive all the way out here just to turn around and reschedule."
Pete pushes his way onto Patrick's seat, legs across Patrick's lap, knees bumping against Patrick's chest. Grabbing the package from Patrick's hand, "gimme gimme gimme," and tearing into it. There are three CDs, black sharpie text scribbled across them. Andy reaches over, takes them from Pete and slips them into his bag. He pulls out a few of their CDs, along with some Cobra and the newest MCR, and wraps them in an old Walmart bag. Passes them to Patrick, who hands them to Jon.
"Sweet," Jon says. He settles back into his own seat, plastic bag rustling almost too loud, almost like a song.
Spencer smiles. His hair is getting long again, and he brushes it away from his eyes. "Thanks, guys, seriously."
"Thank Gerard," Patrick says, "this is all his plan. Uh, or we could, you know, we're heading out to Jersey, so if you wanted-"
"-Fuck," Jon says-
"-to send a message, we could definitely deliver it for you. Since you don't-"
"-leave the luxurious desert, like, ever?" Spencer asks. He's laughing, and there are new lines ringing his mouth, Patrick thinks. His eyes crinkle more. He's a man now, they all are, and Patrick half-wishes he could travel back in time and protect them from all this ("so, what," the Pete in his head asks, "you'd rather he were, what, dead? A raider? In one of the camps?").
Patrick smiles. "You said it, not me," he says. "So, any messages you want passed on?"
"Just the CDs," Jon says. And, softer, fondly; Patrick can barely hear him, "Stop fucking with them, Smith."
"You know you love it, Walker," Spencer says. Jon smacks him upside the head, and everyone in both cars laughs. Patrick's about to ask if anyone wants something to drink--they've got some old Fantas and bottled water in the blue cooler, and there might even be some Hostess snack cakes left lying around that they could snack on--when a wolf howls somewhere too close for comfort.
Andy calls out the code to clear out, "five, five, zero," and shifts into first. Spencer peels out in front of them, takes a quick U-turn, and speeds away. Andy pulls out and drives in the opposite direction.
"That was close," he says.
"Too close," Joe says. "Next time, less of the Old Bands' Home Social Hour, okay, Patrick? I know you miss-"
"Fine," Patrick says. He gets it. "Next time, it's a clean drop-and-run."
*
They head north.
Patrick's navigating, Pete's driving, Andy's sleeping, and Joe's telling knock-knock jokes. Bad ones. "I will stop this van," Pete says, "and drop you on the side of the road if you do not stop that, and fucking yesterday." Joe shuts up, which is good. Now Patrick doesn't have to kill him.
"Thanks," Patrick says.
Their headlights barely cut through the darkness, and Patrick hopes that Pete can see the road better than he can. It feels like they've been swallowed alive. Like the world is a Black Sabbath song, twisted and remixed by Marilyn Manson and then sung by Barry White. A heavy dance beat and a throng of dancers closing in. Patrick can't breathe. Everything's too heavy.
"Which way?" Pete asks. "There's a fork, just ahead. Left or right, dude?"
It's dark, and Patrick's eyes won't focus. He squints at the map. "Left," he says. He crosses his fingers. Says a quick prayer to David Bowie and looks back up at the road.
"A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar," Joe says. Patrick throws an empty can at his head.
Pete drives: north or something like it.
They pull up to the former AK Chicago at sunrise. The streets are empty. Black car husks lining the roads, skeletal high-rises, small eyes peering out from behind blackout curtains (being pulled back, fast enough to make the curtains flutter). Pink and orange light filters through the ash and dust, and Patrick sneezes.
"Home sweet Chi-town," Joe says. "Damn."
Andy stretches, pressing his palms against the roof of the van. His neck cracks. He yawns, says, "Fuck, it looks worse than I'd remembered" through the yawn. His voice sounds like taffy. Patrick's hungry. He hopes there's still some of that whole wheat "just add water!" pancake mix hidden under that tile in the bathroom.
"Those bitches better have breakfast on the table," Pete says. "Eggs , yum, with cheesy animal product goodness."
Andy gives him the finger, and Joe laughs. Patrick sneezes again and hopes he isn't getting sick. "C'mon," he says, "flash the code so we can get in there already."
Pete does. The door slides open like a sci-fi movie, and they drive inside. After the door's closed behind them, click thunk click, Chris and Greta come through the connecting door, guns in hand. Patrick smiles at Greta and says, "FBR7984IOH80PMS."
Chris nods. "FBR8687LVCXX."
Greta smiles, and she sets the safety on her Glock. "C'mon in," she says, "our casa es su casa, and, oh, Patrick, Darren's making those pancakes you like." The members of the band formerly known as the Hush Sound--their term, not Patrick's--all wound up at AK after the end. Stumbling, without meaning to, they took up arms together and protect home base. Patrick hates that it took this to get them all in a room, making music only when they're not fighting for their lives.
Patrick takes his time gathering his belongings; he refolds his last Bowie t-shirt, puts it under the Prince one. Switches them around. Pete rolls his eyes and grabs his shit. Manages to slap both Andy and Joe upside the head simultaneously and says, "c'mon, kids, let's go eat."
*
"If it isn't the phlegm monster," Pete says. Patrick gives him the finger and throws a tissue at his head with his other hand. "Eww, fucking gross," Pete says. "Singer cooties."
Patrick's pretty sure he's lying in Greta's bed. Lying in a mountain of dirty kleenex. Everything hurts. This must be what dying feels like. Like he's been carrying Andy's drum-kit uphill for days, and now his muscles, his blood, his bones, everything's leaking out his nose.
"You're not going to die," Pete says.
"Did I say that out loud?" Can Pete actually read his mind now?
Pete smirks, but his eyes look worried. Patrick tries not to read too much into that. "Yeah, a little, man. The talking thing, not the mind reading. Though wouldn't that be fucking sweet, dude?"
"Um, sure?" Patrick really, really doesn't think that'd be cool at all. There are some things that Pete never needs to know about Patrick. Ever. The huge crush he had on Pete when he was fifteen, for example, or the jerk-off fantasy he still occasionally uses.
"Dude," Pete says, "Still talking. And, wow, uh-"
"Oh my god, shut up."
"You talking to yourself or to me?" Pete thinks he's hilarious. He's not. Patrick throws another tissue, a used one this time, and it hits Pete in the mouth. Pete spits and stomps, a little tornado of rage, and it's almost like watching him on stage again. Patrick laughs until he can't breathe, literally, and he's coughing and wheezing and, fuck, he hates being sick.
"Fuck, I hate being sick," he says.
Pete climbs up into the bed with him, pulls Patrick to his chest and combs his fingers through Patrick's hair. Patrick feels sweaty and gross, his hair sticking to his forehead. Pete's chest is cool, the coldest thing in the world, and he's petting Patrick like he's Hemingway.
"Mmm," Patrick said, "I miss Hemmy. He was nice."
"Yeah," Pete says. He kisses Patrick's forehead. "Yeah, he was."
Patrick turns, tries to look Pete in the eyes because this is important. He has important things to say. Everything's sort of spinning. Blurry. He's not sure where his glasses are, and he checks to make sure they're not on his face. They're not. "Pete," he says. "This is important, okay?"
Pete nods. Pulls Patrick back against his chest. Says, "Talk, Trick."
Patrick's mouth is dry. "Okay," he says. "This is important. Listen. Hemmy was the best dog, and I loved him. And he's dead, now, which is just wrong. But so's pretty much everything, isn't it? I mean, everything. So what I'm saying is, okay, I think this might be the plague. And if I die-"
"Shut the fuck up right now," Pete says. "You are not fucking dying and that's that. You are sick, you have a cold, maybe the flu, and you will stay in bed and get lots of liquids and I'll dress up in a nurse's costume and you will get better. Got it?"
"Mmmm," Patrick says. Wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I can't sleep. Tell me a story?"
Pete turns them so he can curl himself around Patrick. Lifting his head so he can whisper into his ear. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Once upon a time, there was a bulldog named Hemingway and he had a boy named Pete, and they lived in a nice house in a city of angels where the demons and monsters roamed free."
Patrick falls asleep between one word and the next. He doesn't dream.
*
Morning: Pete says, "wake up, you big stud you." Patrick is alone in the bed.
*
Morning: Patrick is alone in bed, and he wipes the sleep from his eyes. Pete is sitting in the chair across the room. Smiling. Legs bouncing. Excited.
"Hey," Patrick says, wrapping himself in a blanket. "You moved. What's-"
"Everyone's in the kitchen. I think they're planning to kidnap you, actually, which is totally not going to happen. If I have to tie you up and put you in the van myself."
"Uh, okay?" Patrick's still half-asleep. Too used to safety and a warm bed already.
"Okay," Pete says. He rubs his hands over his eyes. Looks straight at Patrick-- Patrick pulls at his blanket, makes sure he's completely covered-- and doesn't look away. "You know I'm serious, right? They want you to stay. Not that I blame them, of course." He laughs. Dry and brittle. "I won't stop you though. I'll want to, I'll probably try-I'm sort of a dick like that; maybe you've noticed?-but I won't. Not if you really want to."
Patrick blinks. "Wait, what? I. I don't. Okay, okay, speak English now."
"They want you to stay. Here. In Chicago. Where there are instruments in a sound-proofed room and people to play with and you wouldn't have to waste your life driving around in a crappy van with me. I'd miss you like fucking crazy and I'll probably act like a dick about it, but I'll get over it. I will. " Pete looks almost angry, almost fallen in on himself. Like he really wants Patrick to stay. To go. To believe him. To believe in him.
"You'll get over it," Patrick says. He walks over to the closet, grabs a hoodie and puts it on. It's a little tight. A little bright pink. Probably Greta's. He zips it up and pulls the hood up over his head. He's not sure where his hats are.
"Yeah." Pete pulls his knees into his body. Leans in over himself. "I will. You don't have to worry about me, Wendy Bird, I'm all grown up now."
"You're all." Patrick wants to punch him. Pull him up by his hair and kick him until he bleeds. "You fucking shit. You do not get to say that to me, you fucker, you do not get to treat me like that. Of course I'm not." He hits Pete upside the head and pulls him up into a hug. "Just, fuck you, man."
"Fuck you too," Pete says. Pressing his mouth against Patrick's neck like a whisper. "I have no clue what that means."
"It means that you can't get rid of me that easily, dickwad, and you're just going to have to deal with it." He slips his hand under Pete's hoodie, placing the palm against his neck--"oh my god, you ass, your hand's ice!," Pete says, squirming and twisting away--and kissing his cheek as loudly and as melodramatically as he can. "Oh, and you're an idiot."
"Well, duh," Pete says. "Hurry up and get dressed, I'll save you some of Chris's magical mystery egg things."
Patrick flips Pete off. "Yum," he says. "Can't wait."
*
They leave as soon as it's light enough to drive without the headlights on. Greta slips her CD into Patrick's hand; Patrick tries to offer one of theirs in exchange, but she says, "Nah, we've got that intel already. I expect a fresh copy of whatever My Chem's put together the second you get out of there, though."
"Aye aye," Patrick says. He mock salutes before pulling Greta into a hug. He pretends not to hear her telling them to stay safe. "If we're not back in six months," he tells her.
"Shut up," she says.
He climbs into the van, and pulls the door shut behind him. Pete clings to him like a monkey. Arms around his neck, cheeks pressed together. Side by side in the backseat. "I'm glad you're not staying," he says.
Patrick sighs. Leans into Pete's side. "Yeah," he says, "me too."
The garage door clatters open, and Andy turns the ignition.
Joe laughs. "Yippee kay-yi-yay, motherfuckers," he says.
"No sleep til Brooklyn," Andy adds.
"Cause tonight I'm gonna take that ride across the river to the Jersey side," says Pete.
Patrick remembers being 16 and driving from gig to gig in a van smaller than this, breaking down and living on whatever they could scam from bars and venues. "Chicago is so two years ago," he says. He remembers thinking, 16 and half-terrified all the time, that this band was the best thing to ever happen to him. Pete is warm against his side, comforting in ways he shouldn't be. "This band is the best thing to ever happen to me," he whispers into Pete's hair.
"Yeah," Pete says. He rubs his thumb across Patrick's lower lip and snuggles in closer. "Hell yeah."
They drive. Patrick falls asleep to the rhythmic in-out of Pete's breath against his neck.
*
New Jersey is a warzone. Literally.
"We should stop in Philly, do some recon," Andy says. Signs reading, "Philadelphia 30 miles / Camden 45 miles" litter the roadside. Charred, broken, spray painted with messages obscene and not ("Fuck you", "My Child needs Food!", "We're all screwed"). Shell casings and abandoned vehicles. The occasional corpse, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Patrick hates this part of the country. The dead zones. The warzones. The ends of the Earth.
His skin goes hot, then cold. He shivers. Pete leans back into him, fingers at the nape of Patrick's neck. Just barely touching. Just barely. "Thinking about Chicago?"
"Huh?" Patrick leans into Pete's touch.
"You look sad, thought you might be regretting your decision." Pete shrugs. Faking non-chalance as hard as he can. "It's okay, you know. I know you love me best."
"I'm fine," Patrick says. "It wasn't. This is where I belong." He pulls Pete into a headlock and noogies him. "I'm fine, you're fine, everyone's fine, and now we have to figure out how the fuck we're going to cross into Jersey because god forbid My Chem live anywhere else."
"Stupid fucks," Joe says. He pauses, tilts his head to the side. "Us, actually, not them. Why the fuck don't we just wait to meet with them when they're back on the road, save ourselves the scenic trip through hell on earth? Please tell me there's a reason other than, 'oh, I hope Mikey's okay.' Because I like those guys, don't get me wrong, but I'd like them a whole hell of a lot more in, say, Cleveland."
"It's more than just 'I hope Mikey's okay,'" Andy says, "And you know it."
"I just really hate New Jersey," Joe says.
"Who doesn't?" Pete laughs. Snorts. "Hell, even before."
Patrick tries to hold it in, but he can't. Soon everyone's laughing hysterically, clutching their sides and moaning. Saying, "ow, fuck, that hurts," and, "I hate you all, oh my god." Hitting and throwing empty plastic bottles and even more laughter. It feels good. Better than that. It feels like home.
Andy pulls off the highway at the next exit. Sudden silence, interrupted only by Joe's occasional hiccup. Pete's leg (tap, tap, tap). Patrick moves his hand to Pete's knee, pressing his finger against the skin through a hole in Pete's jeans. Pete stills. Exhales loudly. His entire body relaxes, practically melting into Patrick's side.
"So, Philadelphia," Patrick says. "Do we know anyone there?"
"I've got a friend," Andy says. He checks his rearview mirror, adjusts it, checks again. "Not a musician, but she's trustworthy. Smart. She's got a whole network set up."
"Yeah, okay. Sounds good." Joe nods. Reaches under his seat for some bottles of water. Tosses one to Pete. Another to Patrick. Twists off the cap of the third, takes a drink, and passes it to Andy. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Any objections?"
"Nope," Patrick says. Pete shakes his head.
"Okay then, to Philadelphia we go." Andy makes a sharp left turn. Pete falls face-first into Patrick's lap. Patrick can feel himself turning bright red, and Joe just laughs until he's clutching his stomach and wheezing. Pete doesn't move away. Patrick doesn't push him.
*
Andy's friend lives in an abandoned old school. She is also very, very, "like, Playboy-centerfold levels of very fucking hot," Joe says. "Where do you find these people?" Andy shrugs. Steps out of the van and kisses his friend hello.
*
And hello.
*
And hello some more.
Patrick's tempted to cover his eyes. Out of some misplaced sense of propriety. Or maybe embarrassment. He doesn't, though, because he remembers Andy's lectures about societal mores and sexuality and shame, but mostly because it's pretty hot. And it's not as if Joe and Pete are looking away.
In fact: "Pete, you're drooling," Patrick says.
Pete lifts a hand, fingers going to the corners of his mouth. "Fucker," he says, "was not."
"Figuratively, then. You're the one who's good with words."
"Joe," Pete says, "you're drooling." Joe flips him off and continues to look out the window. Pete grins. Flicks a finger against Patrick's cheek. Again. And again, until Patrick turns his face and bites, snapping the tip of Pete's index finger between his teeth. "Worth a try," Pete says. Wiping his finger on Patrick's nose as he licks the spot behind Patrick's ear.
"Fuck off," Patrick says. Shivering. Pushing Pete away.
Only Pete presses closer. "Patrick," he says, and then there's a beat, the tempo changes, and Pete's mouth is moving over Patrick's. Big teeth and a tongue that never stops moving--Patrick thinks he's still talking-and Patrick kisses back and climbs into Pete's lap. There's the beat of his heart, blood and air, and the clank of their teeth. A melody Patrick's trying to piece together.
A drumroll countering the rhythm, the scratch of a needle across an LP. Andy's banging his fist on the passenger window. Once, twice, and he yells, "c'mon, you lazy fuckers, let's go."
They scramble for their things, stuffing hoodies and t-shirts and CDs into overflowing duffle bags. Zipping them shut through sheer force of will. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Patrick says as the lid of a trucker cap pops up through the gap. "Get back in you fucker." Pete reaches over and grabs the hat. Sticks it on his head.
"There," he says, "done. C'mon, let's go."
"You look like an asshole," Patrick says, but he climbs out of the van behind Pete. They follow Andy through doors marked "Girls' Entrance" and down a candle-lined hallway. One after another, like ducklings in a row. "Quack," Patrick mutters.
"What?" Pete stops. Waits for Patrick to catch up to him and slips his arm around Patrick's waist. "Did you say something, dude?"
"Nah," Patrick says. "Just thinking out loud." Pete opens his mouth, probably to say something stupid. Patrick kisses him, short and close-mouthed, to keep him quiet. "Shut up, okay. Just don't."
"Okay," Pete says. "For you." He leans his head against Patrick's shoulder. They walk into what must've been a pretty nice school auditorium. Seats missing in places, torn and moldy where they remain. Stage cordoned off with "Hazard" tape. Andy leads them toward the front of the room, up the stairs on the stage right side.
There are computers everywhere. A circle of laptops on the floor, and desktops along the walls. People milling around. Sitting at the computers with headphones on. The hum of a power generator.
"You guys stay here," Andy says. "I'll be right back." He drops his bag on the ground and follows his friend down the hallway.
"C'mon," Patrick says. He puts his bag down next to Andy's and slides down to the floor. "Sit."
"Fine," says Pete. He's pouting. He leans against the wall and slumps down next to Patrick. Rests his head so they're sitting cheek to cheek. His face is warm. Patrick smiles; he can't help it. Joe snickers.
When Andy returns, hair pulled back into a knot and a bright red mark high on his neck, Patrick kicks Joe until he wakes up. Pete laughs. Andy says, "c'mon, we have a really small window of opportunity here, so hurry." No one asks about the girl. No one says a word. They walk, silent as the grave, bags in hand and Andy leading the way. The van's been painted black and marked with graffiti. Andy climbs into the driver seat. Pulls out a bag full of papers and CDs and weapons; he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and passes out the guns.
*
It's all sort of a blur, which is how Patrick honestly prefers it. Pete likes to say it reminds him of Africa, "swerving around holes, avoiding snipers, closing your eyes because that way you can't die," but Patrick just lets it all swirl together like some crazy French existentialist film he'll never, ever, understand.
Edith Piaf singing in the background. The rat-a-tat-tat of the guns.
Pete curls against Patrick in he backseat while Andy drives. Joe yells, "Fuck, right right right!" and the van goes up on two wheels as they turn. The Way place is just past the park. The park where Brian was shot. There's a trashcan fire burning on top of an old slide. Eyes glowing in the dark of a jungle gym.
Patrick holds his breath, a kid in a minivan going past a graveyard. Pete says, "Beatlejuice, Beatlejuice-"
"Pete," Patrick says.
Pete sighs. "Fine," he says. He slips a hand up Patrick's shirt. Patrick holds perfectly still. Doesn't press into the heat of Pete's skin. "You're no fun."
"Uh," Patrick says.
"No, no," Pete says, "I get it. You're sick of me."
Patrick smacks him upside the head--"ow, you shit, that fucking," Pete says--and then runs his fingers through Pete's too-long hair before pulling him in for a kiss. The van rattles. Pete's hair is greasy.
Pete slips his fingers beneath the waistband of Patrick's jeans, and Patrick forces himself to pull away. They're too close. "We need to," Patrick says.
"Fuck," Pete says, "Yeah." He grabs Patrick's hand. Quickly, like he thinks Patrick's going to try to pull away, squeezing just a little too hard. Their palms are both sweaty. Patrick brushes his thumb against Pete's knuckle, and Pete loosens his grip. Interlaces their fingers.
This is Patrick's least favorite part of the trip: close enough that the house is just barely visible above the horizon, too far away to know if the jack o'lantern in the window is smiling (everyone's okay) or frowning (here there be dragons). Far enough away that the light may be a trick; a reflection of a nearby fire, the electric burn of a raider stronghold, an illusion.
"Okay," Andy says, "Everyone grab a weapon and get down. We're going in."
They pick up speed. Rattle by rattle, weird clanking sound by weird clanking sound. Joe climbs back from the front seat to huddle with Pete and Patrick on the floor of the van, and Andy mutters under his breath as he shifts gears. Something screams outside. Patrick flicks off the safety on his gun. Watches as Joe and Pete do the same.
"Just a bird," Andy says.
The van feels like it's going to rip apart; Patrick picks up an empty plastic wrapper with his spare hand. Crinkles it between his fingers so it sounds like an old radio station. Joe's holding the CD case with Gerard's lyrics and map on it in his left hand. "Okay, so, no more smiles. This time it's one eye for clear," he says, "Two for turn the fuck around and don't look back."
"Okay," Andy says, "That's definitely a light, not a reflection. We just need to get a little closer so I can make out-"
The van sputters to a stop. There's a crash and then a sound straight from hell, a sound that slices through skin and into bone. Piercing and hollow drums, fast and slow at the same time; a sound that defies sense and even music. Patrick can't think. Can't see. Pete presses against his back, mouth wet against his neck as it moves and moves and moves.
There's a loud clank and silence. Patrick's afraid to open his eyes.
"Shh," Pete says. "It's okay."
*fin.