Why don't you just drop dead? (part one) - Bandom (Panic!), Brendon/Spencer.

[cho_malfoy]

Master post

Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

Pete Wentz was a fucking god.

Brendon liked to think he was some kind of authority on rock shows, at least in the LA scene. He'd been to all the concerts a shitty fake ID could get him into and a shitty fast-food job could pay for; the bruises on his chest from the barriers were proof of that. But he'd missed Fall Out Boy for weeks thanks to his bosses scheduling him nights and cutting his hours, and he'd given up on seeing them until Shane had waved tickets in his face and offered to switch nights.

It's not like anyone on that stage was half-assing it. He knew the singer was Patrick, and he was good, really good. He didn't know the names of the lead guitarist or the drummer, but the few glances he threw in their direction startled him a little. Like, he kept forgetting there were other people on the stage, and if they'd been in any of the bands he'd seen before, he'd be their slave for life, basically.

But Pete. Jesus. He threw himself and his bass around like he had something to prove. Not to any record guys or even the crowd. And probably not to the rest of Fall Out Boy, if the exasperatedly fond looks Patrick threw him were any indication. Pete's eyes stayed closed almost the entire time, which was good because Brendon? His face hurt from grinning the ridiculous way he did.

The show ended, and Brendon tripped over himself to make it to the stage door.

Practically no one else was around: Fall Out Boy was known in the scene, but they hadn't made it yet, whatever that meant. There were people leaning in the alley, drinking and smoking and talking with the guys as they stowed their gear in a trailer, but judging by their shirts, they worked in the club. Brendon was the only one around who even looked close to a fan.

He waited until Pete had his bass stowed away to go up to him. The speech he had prepared for exactly this kind of moment ran through his head: Hi, I'm Brendon Urie, I play music, I have demos, do you need a keyboardist.

What came out of his mouth was this: "You're awesome."

Pete grinned. It was a little dorky, which was even cooler. God to mortal in five seconds.

-

After the next show Fall Out Boy played, Brendon managed to get his name out.

"Pete." As if Brendon didn't know. "You got anywhere to be? We're just heading to the bar for a drink."

So that's how Brendon ended up in a booth opposite Pete, clutching a beer like he'd drunk one before. The rest of the band was off at another table: Joe and Andy, the two band members he'd only just gotten names for, had nudged each other and made cracks about stalkers that Brendon pretended not to hear, and Patrick had dragged them off with a not-unfriendly smile in Brendon's direction. Maybe it had even been a little sorry.

"I think you're our first fan," Pete said. He was stretched across the side of his booth; he took up a lot of room for a guy his size. "Unless you really are a stalker."

Brendon shook his head. "No, I just...I go to a lot of shows. Concerts. You know."

Pete nodded like Brendon wasn't spewing crap out of his mouth.

"I do stuff, you know." Could he say 'you know' one more time?

Pete tapped his fingers on the table. "Like..."

Oh, right. "Music. I play piano and guitar and drums and stuff."

"Nice. You're in a band?"

"No, I just got here. My parents kicked me out."

Brendon clapped a hand over his mouth. He was in a bar with a half-drunk beer, and he couldn't have said underage louder if he'd danced on the table with his birth certificate glued to his chest.

But Pete didn't seem ready to toss him on his ear. Instead, he leaned in and looked serious. "You got a place to stay?"

"Oh yeah. I've got a job. And a roommate." If by roommate, he meant three guys from work who shared a studio, but what could he say, it was expensive living out here. "I'm working on everything else."

Pete grinned. "Then I'll help."

-

And then he did.

He let Brendon sit backstage at all their shows and help them carry out their gear. (Patrick tried to tell Pete that they couldn't pay a roadie, but Pete cheerfully told him Brendon was doing it for free, thankfully.) He took him around all the bands he knew. Patrick learned his name and said hello whenever he showed up. Andy called him "Pete's pet" and ruffled his hair, even though he couldn't be more than five years older than Brendon. Joe let him riff with his practice guitar and actually acted impressed.

He started spending more time in Fall Out Boy's practice space than his own apartment. Which Brendon figured they lived in, but he only saw their kitchen and their couch and their instruments tucked in a corner, so he didn't know. Either way, couch surfing after shows was easier than going home, so it was his place for half the week. He asked several times if they wanted rent, but Patrick finally grinned and told him it made him feel better about not paying him for the roadie services.

"And you're good about staying out of our shit," he said, which made Andy frown, but he didn't say anything. Brendon didn't know why he'd go poking around. It was their place, not his.

A few weeks after he started hanging out with them, they went back to the practice stage after the show. Joe said something about exercise, and Andy ducked after him. Brendon, running high on energy he hadn't gotten to use, bounced around the place. Pete snorted and grabbed his dog's leash.

"I'm going for a walk," he said. "Try not to trash everything while I'm gone."

Patrick frowned. "Just going for a walk?"

Pete grinned. He pulled off Patrick's hat and ruffled his hair, which made Patrick scowl even harder. "Where else would I go?"

Patrick looked over at Brendon.

"Relax," Pete said. Brendon let him hook his arm around his neck. "I wouldn't do anything with the kid here."

"You can do whatever you want," Brendon said, with a squeak.

"Maybe we should..." Patrick looked pointedly at Brendon.

"No."

The joking tone was gone from Pete's voice, the looseness to his limbs. He pulled away from Brendon and whispered in Patrick's ear quietly. Patrick whispered back.

Brendon wandered away. He wasn't a member of the band, and he'd only been around for a little while. Maybe he wanted to be more, but it took time. He could be patient. Even if it killed him.

Pete laughed and raised his voice to volume again. "Promise, Trick. Now will you stop worrying?"

"Probably not." But as Brendon turned, he was grinning.

Pete waved to Brendon. "I might be up for laying down some bass tracks when I get back. Feel like helping?"

"Really?" Brendon didn't squeak. But his voice did get a little higher.

"Go," Patrick said, pulling out a book and waving his hand in Pete's direction. "Before he passes out."

Pete snorted and left.

"Everything okay?" Brendon asked Patrick as he settled behind a desk.

"Fine." Patrick bent over his book, scratching over the pages with a pen.

"What's that?"

"What's it look like? My journal."

"Oh," Brendon said. He leaned over the table. Patrick started each entry with "Case number", which was...well, weird, but Patrick was disturbingly normal most of the time. Especially hanging out in a band. This was actually kind of comforting, knowing he was just as screwed in the head as everyone else.

"Journal." Patrick shoved at him. "Which means private."

Brendon blinked. "Right! Sorry."

He was just about to pick up Patrick's main guitar - he'd just invested in a new one, but it was still down tuned from the show, and Brendon felt lazy - when the front door opened again.

"Forgot something?" Patrick said.

"Never." It wasn't Pete's voice. Brendon looked up.

"Oh. Gabe." Patrick put down his pen and closed his journal. "You just missed him."

Gabe was...well, fucking tall was the first thing that came to mind. He wore a faded t-shirt that said Midtown across the chest, and he grinned when he noticed Brendon reading it.

"Darn," he said. "And who's this?"

"Gabe," Patrick said warningly, standing from behind his desk.

Brendon jumped to his feet and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Brendon! I've been doing roadie stuff for the guys. You know."

"I do." Gabe laughed and shook his hand. "No wonder Pete's been avoiding me."

"Yeah. He knows what you do with jailbait."

Brendon frowned at Patrick. "I'm legal."

"Even better." It was Gabe's turn to sling his arm around Brendon's shoulders. "Gabe Saporta. I'm the lead singer of Midtown."

That explained the shirt. "Oh! I haven't been to many shows lately, but my friend Shane told me about the basement show you guys did a little while ago. He said it was great. I had no idea you were friends with Pete! That's so cool!"

"Hey, B?" Patrick said. "I think I left an amp in the van. Could you get it?"

"Sure!" He smiled up at Gabe and ran out.

The amp in the van was huge, and not something they usually took out of the van unless they were recording or playing a show. But Pete had said he was thinking of laying down something, so whatever. He stuck it next to the drums, dropping it with a thunk, and was very glad he'd been doing this for a while. But he needed water.

As he rummaged through the fridge, Patrick and Gabe's voices reached his ears.

"-pulling him in when he can't handle it."

"You're not his mom, Patrick. Let him decide what he can handle."

"He doesn't try to decide. That's the problem."

"Dude, chill. Hasn't he been in a better mood lately? Hasn't the band been doing better?"

Patrick fell silent. "Yeah. I guess."

"Then let him figure it out." Brendon heard the scuffle of sneakers on concrete. "I'll go catch up with him. You mind giving that Brendon kid my number?"

"No way."

"Worth a try. Catch you later."

Brendon smiled a little. Was Gabe trying to hook Pete up with someone in the industry? That'd be awesome, holy crap. And it'd explain why they were keeping Brendon out of it. Shit like this was hard to keep from getting leaked sometimes.

He bounced in place until he heard Patrick's pen scratching again, and then he ran back to the guitar.

-

Two things happened the night Brendon played with Fall Out Boy the first time.

The first was, well, he played with Fall Out Boy. On keyboard, even. He didn't have one of his own, so he borrowed Patrick's and mashed away on the keys. Joe outright laughed in his face when he saw how excited Brendon was, but Brendon didn't care. He cared that he got so excited he screwed up in a couple places, but no one seemed to notice, so that was good.

The second was a fight.

It wasn't anything Brendon hadn't seen at other shows: drunk asshole rushes the stage, no security to pull him off, the band kicks his ass and throws him out. But he'd never seen someone twice his size head straight for him, arms raised. He ducked before he could take a fist to the jaw.

But it didn't stop there. Brendon lost track of most of it, mostly because someone kicked the stand over and he took the keyboard to the ribs, but he knew a bunch of people jumped the barrier. It was obvious from the way feet tried to stomp him, feet that didn't belong to the band. Brendon covered his head and waited for it to stop.

When it did, he got a tap on the shoulder. Brendon blinked.

"Hey, you okay?" It was Dirty. Brendon hadn't hung out with him much, but he was usually around during shows. Brendon had never been more glad to see him.

"Yeah, totally." Except, when he took Dirty's hand and tried to get to his feet, his ankle give out. "Fuck."

"Don't worry," Dirty said. "There's an ambulance on the way."

He set Brendon on the drum riser and took the shoe off the foot with the hurt ankle. Brendon hissed, but considering how things swelled, it was better.

A groan caught his attention, and he looked around. There were a good dozen people on the stage, holding their heads and moaning. Most of the people had cleared from the floor except for bar staff cleaning broken glass and - oh crap, that was totally blood.

"Whoa." Dirty caught Brendon before he swooned too much. "You got some head trauma, dude?"

Brendon shook his head. He wasn't dizzy. But. Blood.

"What happened?" someone was asking nearby. "Weren't we..."

Another guy was blotting a bloody nose. "On the floor. But I don't know. I just remember that Pete shithead kicking me in the head."

"Pete beat them up?" Brendon asked Dirty quietly.

"And the other guys," Dirty said. "Uh. That's why they left. Don't want to get picked up by the cops, you know?"

Brendon put his head in his hands. Fuck. He had no health insurance, and now he was going to jail?

"But you're good. The event guys'll tell them what happened."

As sirens went off and red and blue lights flashed in the back door, there was a sinking feeling in Brendon's stomach. Not so much because he thought he was getting arrested. But because the guys had left him to do it.

-

Luckily, Dirty was right; the cops let him go to the hospital and didn't bother him. And a couple days before he was off his crutches, Pete threw a party. The timing was good: there hadn't been shows in a couple weeks, and everyone was getting antsy. Brendon most of all, if the way Patrick yelling at him to stay off his foot was any indication.

Patrick stuck Brendon in a corner with his foot up, and the crowd milled around him. He clutched a red cup and introduced himself to whoever Pete dragged over. Which was everyone.

Almost everyone.

They were talking to a girl with pink stripes in her hair and striped tights when Brendon spotted a guy walking into the party. He had style, in a real showy way: gray suits, fur, and top hats weren't exactly the scene standard, but Brendon liked it. Especially when two more guys in similar outfits came in behind him.

"What band are they in?" she asked Pete.

Pete took a long drink from his own red cup. When he lowered it, "Does it matter, Ashlee?"

Ashlee rolled onto the tips of her toes. "No. But I'm curious."

"Just stay away from them. The Dandies are bad news."

"Can't keep me away if they're coming over," she said with a grin. But she laughed when Pete frowned and said, "Fine, I'll circulate. But if you haven't kicked them out in a few minutes, I will say hi."

She bounced away.

"You too," Pete said. "Go find Patrick. Tell him Beckett's here."

"Who?" Brendon shifted up on his chair and grabbed his crutches.

But it was too late. The three Dandies, as Pete called them, stopped in front of Pete.

"Wentz," the one in the lead said. "Who's your friend?"

"No one," Pete said.

Brendon flinched. "Actually, I'm Brendon. And I can take a hint."

He tried to balance the crutches on the floor, but the dressed-up guy right in front of Brendon wouldn't move enough to let him leave.

"No, stay." The man held out a gloved hand. "I like to meet all Pete's friends. William Beckett."

Brendon shook his hand and gave him a closer look. He didn't seem like bad news. He was a little pale, sure, but a lot of bands didn't get sunlight. Brendon would probably burn to ash in sunlight himself, between his night shifts and the gigs.

"What's going on over here?" It was Gabe, worming his way through the crowd to stand next to Pete. "We got a problem?"

"Not at all." William looked at Pete. "Do we?"

Pete stared at him blankly for a minute. It wasn't until Gabe shook his shoulder that Pete smiled.

"No," Pete said. "You guys want a drink?"

"Always."

Gabe frowned at Pete, but he took Pete's lead and followed him to the makeshift bar.

"I hope to run into you again soon," William told Brendon, gaze steady. Goosebumps broke out on his skin.

When William started back through the crowd, and both of the guys at his shoulder followed, Brendon grabbed his crutches again.

It was tricky making his way through; he was pretty practiced at balancing, but he didn't quite have his old stamina back. When found Patrick hiding in a quiet corner by himself, scribbling in his journal, Brendon sagged next to him.

Patrick said, "What did I tell you-"

"Pete told me to tell you Beckett's here," Brendon said. "Gabe's with him, but I thought you might want to know."

Patrick jumped to his feet right away and climbed on top a couple shelves. When he could see over the crowd, he said, "You might want to get out of here."

"Why?" Brendon asked. "What's going on?"

Patrick looked at him seriously. Then he sighed and said, "There might be another fight. And you don't need to get trampled again."

"But-"

"Seriously, go home. I'll call you if we're not doing the show tomorrow, okay?"

Brendon got back up. He blinked hard and said, "Great. Sure. Whatever. See you then."

Patrick gave him a sad look, but he went to the bulk of the party. Brendon forced his way out.

-

Brendon didn't get a call, so he went to the show.

Everyone was there, looking like they always did. Dirty was schlepping already, since Brendon still wasn't quite ready to join in. But Andy grinned when he saw him.

"Glad you made it," he said. "Thought last time might've scared you off."

Brendon smiled despite himself. "Takes a lot more than that."

Pete and Patrick were in a corner talking. Brendon shot them a look, but he didn't go over, and they didn't seem to notice him.

The show was a lot better than the last one, but then, anything would be. Brendon got to sit down this time, and before long, he got into the music. The only thing that broke his stride was the hint of a bowler in the back of the room. He blinked, and it was gone.

Brendon looked around the stage. Everyone was doing their normal thing, and most of them had their eyes closed. Only Pete was looking out at the crowd, a bit dazed, but he grinned at Brendon when he caught him and went back to thrashing around.

After the show, while the others were loading up the van, Pete slung an arm around his shoulder. "We're all going for a drink. Think you can walk to the bar?"

Their usual bar was something like three blocks away. Not too terrible, and judging by the look on Pete's face, he wanted to talk. Brendon nodded.

"Awesome." Pete steered him out in the street. It felt oddly like sneaking out.

They called this part of the city Midtown, and...huh, maybe it was because of Gabe's band. Like Gabe, it was creepy in the middle of the night: it was slightly more old-fashioned than the rest of the city, but with red and green neon that gave it the look of a sinister Christmas. It also made the shadows darker, and as the lights blinked, everything shifted.

"You're twitchy," Pete said.

"I'm fine," Brendon said. Or squeaked.

"What'd you see at the show?"

Brendon stopped in place. "Huh?"

"I can see you when I'm playing, dude. You were doing your thing, and you stopped."

"I saw one of The Dandies, but that was it."

Pete smiled. "Yeah, Beckett said last night he might stop by."

"I thought..." Brendon frowned. "He was cool?"

"He's from Chicago," Pete said, like that answered the question. Maybe it did. He stopped in place. "I shouldn't have said what I said last night. You're not no one."

"I know," Brendon said. But he grinned. It was good that Pete knew it.

They turned into the alley that'd take them to the bar. Steam vented from one of the buildings, and as it cleared, Brendon noticed someone at the other end. But the bar's blue front lights kept him from seeing who it was.

Pete seemed to have the same problem because he shielded his eyes. But he raised his free hand after a second and waved.

Brendon heard footsteps behind Pete, so he turned, and he saw why Pete waved: it was two of The Dandies, slinking up with their hats tilted over their eyes.

"Hey," Pete said to whoever was behind Brendon. "Glad you guys made it."

"No problem." Brendon didn't recognize the voice right away, but he recognized William as he came up beside Pete and smiled. He had...fangs? Really?

"Pete," Brendon said, shaking his arm.

But as Pete grinned at Brendon, William sank his teeth into Pete's neck. Brendon shouted wordlessly as a trail of blood gushed down his front, but rough hands grabbed Brendon, and something sharp pierced his neck.

Much later, when Brendon tried to remember what exactly had happened, all he could remember was drinking something sweet, and what felt like the best orgasm of his life, hot and overwhelming and long, like it lasted a full day. For all he knew, it did.

-

"Brendon? Can you hear me?" A hand shook his arm. "Don't freak out."

Brendon yawned and stretched. His neck felt stiff, like he'd tensed up while he'd slept. "Why would I freak out?"

"Just don't, okay?"

Brendon opened his eyes. Pete stood over him, looking pale and nervous. He looked down at Brendon's legs, and Brendon looked the rest of the way down.

He was lying in a fucking coffin.

He kicked up and banged his legs on the closed part; judging by the hand on the part that sat up, Pete had raised it. God, he could've waken up in a closed fucking coffin. He kicked again because the plush interior kept it from hurting, but it wouldn't open.

"What did I say?"

Brendon took a breath. His chest hurt a little, like it wasn't used to his lungs moving. "Not to freak out."

"Okay." Pete looked around. "Just keep that in mind while I talk to you, okay?"

Brendon nodded.

"I tried the door." He pointed toward something, but the room was dark, and the walls were black, so Brendon could only make out hints of lines. "It wouldn't open. But I'll get us out of here, okay? I promise."

There was a coffin just behind Pete, also half open. The pillow inside was dented like someone's head had been there.

"Did you wake up there?"

Pete nodded. Brendon put a hand to his forehead. They'd been at the show, and then they'd been walking, and then...coffins?

"This is a stunt," he said, laughing a little. "Right? A prank?"

Pete shook his head slowly. "We're going to get out of here. And then we'll talk about this, okay?"

"No," Brendon said, shaking his head. "Something's not right. Something..."

He caught sight of Pete's mouth. Of the fangs sticking out just the littlest bit.

Brendon pushed backward and tripped out of the coffin. He landed lightly on his feet.

"What the fuck," he said. "What the actual fuck?"

"Brendon-"

He took three steps backward. And then he looked down at his ankle. It didn't hurt at all.

The door handle rattled, and the door popped open.

"Have a nice nap?"

Brendon didn't know the voice. He looked up at Pete, who was backed against the far wall, illuminated by a light from beyond the door. He was holding his hand over his face and wincing.

An arm reached forward and dragged Pete out. Brendon raised a hand, but the door was closed before he could call out, much less actually do anything. He ran for the door and rattled the knob, but like Pete had said earlier, it wouldn't budge.

"Let me out!" Brendon yelled, slamming his hand against the door. He barely made any noise; the door was too thick to make much of an impression. He beat the door until his hand was numb, and then he backed away. He felt dizzy.

His pocket buzzed, and he jumped about ten feet in the air before he remembered. Cell phone. That they apparently didn't take from him. He nearly dropped it in his hurry to take it out, but he flipped it open before it stopped going off.

"-lo? Brendon, can you...Pete...you-"

"Patrick?" Brendon said. "I'm trapped, and I don't know where, and they have Pete, and we woke up in coffins, and..."

"Bre-"

The phone beeped, and Brendon took it away from his ear. He was getting practically no reception in...well, wherever he was. Judging by the lack of bars, he was lucky to have gotten as much as he did.

He tried a text to Patrick's phone anyway: im trapped and they have pete help

His phone said it went through, but all he could do was wait.

-

Brendon didn't know how long it was before the door opened again and Pete fell in, bruised and bloody.

"Your turn soon," the man at the door said to Brendon, sounding vaguely bored. But Brendon didn't look at him as he dropped to the floor by Pete.

"Don't touch me," Pete growled, his back away from Brendon.

"Pete," Brendon said with relief. "I think I told Patrick that we're in trouble."

"He should know by now. We've been gone a couple days."

"What?" He put a hand on Pete's arm without thinking about it.

Pete hissed and bared his fangs. "I said, don't touch me."

Brendon jumped backward with a little gasp of surprise. This time, he noticed he actually did jump, about five feet in the air. He bounced off the wall and landed on the ground.

"What the hell?" he said.

Then he remembered. Not what happened, not exactly, but the sight of William and The Dandies in the alley, and the sight of white teeth sinking into Pete's neck.

Brendon's stomach growled.

He stuck his hand in his mouth, and sure enough, his canines were pointy. He tried to say "What the fuck?", but it came out sounding more like "Waff aff faff?"

Pete got to his feet. The bruises on his face were fading already; Brendon could see him better now than earlier. He could see the red on his mouth, and the size of his pupils.

"What happened?" Brendon asked.

Pete kicked one of the coffins. It fell over with a crack.

"I won't let them touch you," he said. Brendon had never heard him sound so pissed. "I'll get you out of here."

Brendon nodded. "Yeah. Of course you will."

-

Judging by the way Pete and Brendon both passed out on the floor at the same time, another day went by.

Brendon woke up with his stomach burning. He groaned and grabbed it, but the pressure was worse. If anything could be worse, that is.

"Brendon? What's wrong?"

He kept his eyes squeezed shut. He didn't want to see the room again. "God."

A hand touched his shoulder, and it stung. He jerked away, crying out wordlessly.

The door opened, and Brendon heard crashes and thumps. But whatever happened, hands grabbed his arms, and he was hauled to a standing position. He yelled and tried to yank free, but he was too weak to get his feet beneath him, much less pull away.

"Brendon! Don't fucking do it, no matter what! I'll get you!"

"Sure you will," a voice at Brendon's ear shouted back at Pete.

He managed to open his eyes as they climbed stairs. But Brendon's head was lolled back, so all he could see was the ceiling, with decaying paint and white molding.

They turned into a room with mirrors all around, cracked and distorted. He couldn't see his reflection in it, but then, he couldn't see the chair in the middle of the room in the mirrors, either. Pretty much all he caught was dim lighting flickering off the fractures.

Just as suddenly as they'd appeared, the hands let go of Brendon. He caught himself he fell over completely, but he swayed and toppled to one knee.

"Brendon," a voice said. "Lovely to see you again."

He looked up. William Beckett sat in front of him, holding a cup of tea primly and sipping from it. He put the cup on the saucer and handed it to a man to his right.

"Welcome to The Dandies," he said. "I hope you'll be more friendly than Pete?"

Brendon's mouth was dry. He tried to talk, tried to work up the saliva to get his tongue working, but nothing happened. He slumped instead.

Beckett didn't seem surprised. He jerked two fingers without looking away from Brendon.

Someone screamed, loud and high. Brendon covered his ears with his hands until two of The Dandies pulled his hands away from his ears.

"Drink or die," Beckett said, sounding a little bored. He ran his gloved hand on the fur on his shoulder.

A man dropped onto the ground in front of Brendon, his neck bleeding. Judging by his clothes, he'd been jogging recently, but Brendon didn't care about that. He smelled good. Like beer and steak, or Pop Tarts, or something equally as good. Brendon didn't realize he was smelling the air like some kind of weird combination of a snake and a dog until he was hovering right over him.

He also didn't realize The Dandies were talking until he stopped. It was like they were egging him on: variations on "Do it!" seemed to be the most common thing. But it felt like they were digging into Brendon's head with the words; he put his hands to his temples, like he could block it out.

And then, abruptly, it stopped. Just as abruptly, something loud crashed in another room.

"Get them," William said quietly. "You two, lock him away."

Brendon still didn't have the strength to fight as he was dragged into a side room and thrown in a closet. And he couldn't stop it before they threw the jogger in the closet with him. But Brendon could turn his head away and do his best to pretend it wasn't happening.

"Don't hurt me," the jogger said, pushing against the locked door.

Liquid dripped onto Brendon's hand. He didn't look at it.

-

Brendon passed out without killing the jogger. But he woke up with his hands digging into the man's shoulders and his mouth sucking his neck hard enough to bruise.

Brendon felt the exact moment the jogger's heart stopped.

-

The first rush of blood reminded Brendon of the first time he'd tried Coke. Not the drug - the hardest he got was pot - but he hadn't had soda with caffeine in his house as a kid. He'd been at a pizza party when he'd had it, around thirteen or fourteen, and he'd been wide-eyed for an entire day and so bouncy that he'd passed out almost right after the high passed.

But just because it was a rush didn't really mean it made Brendon any stronger. If anything, it made what was already there stronger. The exhaustion. The pain.

The hunger.

He pounded on the door around the corpse for hours before someone opened the door. The jogger's body fell, but Brendon managed to keep upright. Maybe the blood had helped after all.

"Ready to come out?" The group outside the door obscured Beckett for a moment, but Brendon spotted him, head tilted and bowler perfectly in place.

Brendon nodded.

They dragged the body away, and Brendon watched them with a sort of fascination. He'd never even seen anyone dead before. His parents hadn't even let him watch R-rated movies while he'd lived at home. He hadn't even seen a vampire movie until Shane had made him watch Underworld. He'd hidden behind a pillow half the time.

"Still hungry?" Beckett asked. He was easier to see, since the crowd had thinned.

Brendon blinked. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why me?"

Beckett waved a hand. "We're always expanding. Are you hungry?"

Brendon couldn't answer, and Beckett seemed to know. "Carden?"

One of the other Dandies stepped forward. It was the one who'd stood in front of Brendon at the party.

"Take him hunting," Beckett said. "And make sure he doesn't run."

He stepped away as Carden stepped forward with a couple of grinning vampires flanking him. They pulled Brendon out of the closet.

"After you," Carden said, sweeping his hands toward the open door. The words were polite, but they had an edge, and Brendon remembered how beaten Pete had looked.

Brendon took a deep breath. He could smell outside not too far away. It would've been cool if...

If.

He walked out.

-

The Dandies were...well, kind of boring.

Brendon didn't really want excitement like the first few days, of course. Even though it seemed more like a movie when he tried to remember it. But they forced him onto some random pedestrian the first night, threw him in the coffin room - which was decidedly lacking in Pete - after they were done, and left him to sit. And they did it again the next night.

The third night, Carden opened the door and held up a suit. "Feel like changing?"

Brendon was wearing his favorite t-shirt and jeans. He touched the shirt: it was Fall Out Boy merch, black with their name in artfully faded letters. He hoped Pete wasn't dead.

"No," Brendon said.

Carden grinned. "Beckett wants to see you."

He led him back to the mirror room, and this time, Brendon could see that they were in some kind of basement area. He didn't know what the house or building or whatever looked like from the outside; the exit they'd been taking was covered with bushes and trees, and if the vampires didn't lead him everywhere, he would've been incredibly lost. He didn't even recognize the streets they took him to, even though he was pretty sure it was Midtown. Just a part he hadn't seen.

Beckett sat in a chair in the middle of the mirror room. He was reading an old book this time, which he set delicately on a side table as Brendon came in.

"Enjoying your stay?" he asked.

"Where's Pete?" Brendon asked.

William didn't change expressions. "Gone. Don't you like our suits?"

Actually, even after everything, Brendon kind of did. They'd been really nice before he'd been turned, but now, when he focused, he could see the texture and quality of the fabric almost like he was holding it under a microscope. But not quite, since it didn't look really weird or creepy, like microscopic stuff normally did.

But he touched his shirt again. It seemed important. "Pete. Where is he?"

To his surprise, Beckett grinned. There was a fierce sort of joy to it. "I can show you, if you'd like."

Brendon nodded quickly.

"Who wants Pete Wentz?" William asked to the vampires milling around. A couple of raised their hands, and William pointed at one. Then he ran for the door Brendon had been using to leave the house.

Brendon followed as fast as he could.

He made sure to take a look around this time. They were coming out of a huge mansion, with pillars and marble, but it was falling apart; a domed part at the front had a gaping hole, and vines snaked up the sides. It wasn't at all familiar, but Brendon caught flashes of city lights from some kind of distance, and he realized they were in the hills above Midtown. That was something.

They descended into the city.

At the alley around the bar Pete liked, William held up a hand, and they stopped. "Pete's all yours," he told the vampire. "But don't kill him. And if he gets the upper hand, run."

Beckett drew back so he wasn't in immediate view, and as the others ran past, Carden pulled Brendon back against the wall. But Brendon knew this area. Maybe, if he got an opportunity-

"Don't think about it," Beckett said easily. "I don't need you badly enough that I won't stake you if you try to run."

Brendon blinked. "Wait, stakes? Really?"

Beckett held up a glove-covered finger to his lips, and Brendon shut up. He leaned around to get a better look.

The vampire was strolling down the street like he didn't have a care in the world. He tipped his hat to a woman, who started walking faster to get past him. He turned and fell into step behind her, and-

-something tackled him, punching like there was no tomorrow.

Three men ran forward. One carried a sword; another, a crossbow. They had to pull the fourth man off the Dandy he wailed on, and the one with the sword stabbed him.

The punching man turned toward Brendon and William, and Brendon froze.

Pete.

"I had him!" Pete yelled. Brendon could hear him like he was standing by his shoulder.

The man with the crossbow lifted his hat, and Brendon wondered why he didn't recognize all of them right away. He should've known Patrick anywhere. "You're being reckless, asshole."

"It's called being a good hunter." He shoved Patrick, and not kindly.

Patrick grabbed him by his...bullet proof vest? What? It had only been a handful of days since he'd been turned, how had he-

"Don't make me regret bringing you," Patrick said. "You said you had it under control."

"I do!" He shook Patrick off and stomped away at normal speed. Andy and Joe followed, and after a second, Patrick did as well.

Beckett turned to Brendon. "They raided the mansion and rescued Pete. But it isn't their first raid. They like to...make their presence known."

"Last?" Brendon said. "When?"

"Oh, two months ago now?" Beckett looked up at the sky as if it would give him answers. "Was it two months, Carden?"

"Something like that," Carden said.

"And the one before that was five months. They like to come around two or three times a year."

"But..." The way Pete and Gabe had been sneaking around. The fighting. Patrick's journal. "But the party."

Beckett's eyes practically glowed. "You think I can't make people more...agreeable?"

"You did something to Pete?" Brendon frowned. "But not me?"

"Pete insisted on keeping you in the dark," Carden said with a quiet laugh. "Even when Bill was working his mojo."

"I'm not against following requests," Beckett said.

Brendon's throat closed up a little. They were fucking vampire hunters, and Pete trusted him that little? If he'd known, he could've talked to Patrick, he might not have ever walked in the alley, he...

Beckett put a hand on his arm. Brendon felt goosebumps break out.

"I have plans, Brendon. Plans that need numbers."

He looked pointedly at the corpse in the middle of the street, and Brendon caught on. Join up, or die like the vampire that had been so sure he could take Pete on.

Brendon should be scared. But whether it was because he was some kind of predator now, or because he was still watching the street Pete had stormed off on, without a thought for Brendon or what he was going through, he wasn't. He didn't even care much.

Dying would be easier. Better, probably.

"You're going to tell me everything?" Brendon asked.

Beckett nodded. "I'm only the leader because I get things done. Not because I don't think the people around me have value."

Brendon bit his lip. Finally, he said, "What should I call you?"

"Bill," Beckett said. Beside him, Carden's face tightened.

Brendon nodded. "Tell me more, Bill."

part two | master post