Strange Things Happen At The One Two Points 4/9

[lovebashed]

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Pete finds himself outside of town, walking down the dirt road in the burning sunlight. The stench of his own sweat wafts around him like a cloud; he feels dirty and repugnant, his linen shirt sticking to his skin and making him itch all over.

What he did to Joe he can't even bring himself to think about.

He passes a road sign the shape of an arrow, pointing towards the town, and kicks stones with the toes of his shoes. The smell of smoke hits his nose before he notices a campfire and three travelers sitting in a semi-circle around it.

"Is there enough room for one more weary traveler?" Pete calls from afar. His eyes sting from the smoke, but his chest is heavy from guilt and remorse.

A middle-aged man with a spiky beard nods, lifts a bottle to his cracked lips and takes a hefty swig, the liquid making splashing noises against the glass.

Pete sits down on the horizontal tree trunk, sighing as he wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs.

"Tell me, brother," another man says, looking at Pete with red, watery eyes. "What's a man like you doing wandering around out here?"

"What kind of man do you take me for, brother?" Pete asks dryly, fingers moving over his knees, scratching and scraping.

"Well, you ain't one of us: too clean, too soft." The men's laughter is like the crackle of burning wood. Pete grits his teeth, clenching his hands into tight fists, staring into the fire.

"I've seen him before," an old man rasps, his left eye blank and blind, right one clear and blue. "Heard him preachin' in the town."

"You a man of God, stranger?" Chuckles asks, offering Pete a swig from his bottle. It's sun-warm and burns in his throat, but it also calms his nerves and lets his sadness surface.

"I think," Pete murmurs, hunching up his shoulders, swallowing hard, "I think I've lost my God."

--

It's like a small patch of the night sky is permanently captured on Frank's forearm, red and black stars scattered all around his skin. Jepha had warned him about the pain before he started working on his arm, but Frank had welcomed the sting. It had been easy to focus on, it hadn't left much room for his mind to wander.

After watching Jepha showcasing his skills for a while, Brian had gone to seek out Bert, wanting to talk to him about their itinerary. But everyone already seemed to know their decision, the tension rising as the day progressed.

Walking amongst the trucks and trailers, Frank notices three shapes in Ray's trailer, two of which are standing still, the third one pacing nervously. Stepping closer, he can hear heated voices and make out a few chopped sentences: Babylon -- fucking crazy -- Hey, Ray, live a little!

Gerard and Mikey's trailer is empty, but he finds Mikey sitting in his wheel chair by the river, accompanied by Lindsey, Quinn, Jimmy and Sara. They’ve managed to get a fire going and they're roasting sausages, their faces open and happy. The orange gleam of the fire blends together with the colors of the sunset and the smoke is a thick cloud over their heads.

"Hey, Frank!" Sara calls, waving with her whole arm. "You hungry? I saved some beans and veggies for you!"

Frank smiles, his stomach growling at the mention of food. "I'm famished."

"Come sit with us," Lindsey says, reaching out for his wrist, pulling Frank down to her lap. Frank lets out a surprised yelp, then wiggles and twists his body to get more comfortable, leaning the back of his head on her chest as she wraps her arms around his waist.

Gerard and Tegan join the group just as Lindsey's finished telling Frank how she got that rooster tattoo on her left upper arm and Frank's wolfed down all the food from his plate. Frank has to do a double take. Gerard’s hair has lost so much length and color that at first glance Frank didn't even identify him as Gerard. Tegan's hair is the same color: ghostly white, almost translucent.

"Wow, look at you!" Sara exclaims, getting up from the rock she'd been perching on and hugging her sister. "Where'd you get the dye from?"

"Dan the produce man," Gerard grins bashfully, quickly letting go of Tegan's hand when he notices Frank.

"He's such a gofer," Tegan says as Sara runs her fingers through her locks.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sara pouts. "What if I wanted to dye mine?"

"Psh. We can't have two blondes in our show, sis. I mean, think about it. We're way hotter like this. Black and White. Chocolate and Vanilla. Coal and Moonstone."

Frank gets up from Lindsey's lap and moves to sit on top of a large tree stump, and Gerard takes the empty space between him and Mikey.

"What?" Gerard says after a while with that lopsided smile of his, and Frank realizes he'd been staring.

"Your fucking hair," Frank blurts out, hands itching in his lap to touch. Gerard turns his head to look at Frank, smiling, dimples and all, and it's the first time his face is completely uncovered, no clumps of hair over his eyes and cheeks. It's not even just that his hair is different, but the way he carries himself, shoulders a little wider, back a little straighter. "What the hell?"

Gerard's smile falters, and he pulls his lip between his teeth, worrying it like he’s afraid that Frank doesn’t like his new look. "I didn't think it was that bad."

"What? No," Frank says quickly, letting out a breathless laugh. "It's not that, I didn't mean. It's just different, okay?" He glances up at Mikey and sees him doing that weird, tiny smile of his, just the corners of his mouth quirking up. "Good different."

"Oh," Gerard brightens up, although his face isn't completely devoid of worry. Whatever, Frank thinks, Gerard must know how fucking amazing he looks.

"I'm just curious what brought this on," he prompts. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sara fluffing up Tegan's hair and twirling it around her fingers. Jimmy's poking at the burning firewood with a stick, watching as the wood crackles and releases sparks in the air.

"Um," Gerard says, looking at his hands. He shrugs his shoulders, pink spreading out from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears. "Tegan and I were just talking -- it was kinda her idea."

"She cut your hair?"

"Yeah, that part was totally more awesome than the actual dyeing. I thought I got bleach in my eyes and kinda freaked out a little."

"Not just a little, you freaked out a lot," Tegan yells, laughter erupting all around her.

"It was pretty bad," Gerard admits, looking sorry for himself.

And okay, Frank has this total, inordinate fondness for Gerard, sometimes he just wants to grab him and hug the living shit out of him.

"Oh! Mikey, Tegan said she could give you a haircut, too," Gerard says, turning to face his brother. Frank can almost see the panicked look Mikey's giving Gerard, and Gerard quickly jumps to placate him but with a lot of exasperation. "Okay, okay, jeez. It was just a suggestion! It's just hair, you don't have to get all sensitive about it."

Frank sniggers. "Hey, can I touch it?" He really just wants to take the back of Gerard's head in his hand and drive his hand up along his skull, to feel that short hair against the skin of his palm.

Gerard gives him a weird look but nods, hesitating just a moment before lowering his head.

It's coarser than it looks, almost like dry hay, and it prickles against Frank's palm. As he runs his hand in wide, sloppy circles on Gerard's head, Gerard starts to relax, the huge smile spreading on his face matching the one that's threatening to take over Frank, which is the only reason he's not feeling totally dumb right now. He scratches Gerard's head like he'd do to a dog and Gerard kind of pushes into his palm, his eyes falling shut.

"Holy shit!" Bob's voice breaches the soft cocoon Frank’s wrapped up in. Frank snatches his hand back, hating himself for feeling fucking guilty all of a sudden. "What the shit happened to you?"

"Um?" Gerard says, flailing his hand before pushing it into his hair.

"I think he looks totally awesome," Frank says with ferocity, challenging Bob to disagree with him.

Bob gives him an annoyed scowl. "I didn't say he doesn't, dipshit." He turns back to Gerard and gives him a small smile and both thumbs up, then goes to sit between the twins, says something to Tegan that gets her grinning as she drapes her arm around his shoulders and smacks a kiss on the scruff on his cheek.

Frank sighs and stares at the fire, not sure what just happened.

"Hey, your arm." Gerard's voice interrupts Frank's thoughts. He takes Frank's hand into his, tracing the outline of one of the bigger stars with gentle fingers. It's not dark enough yet to see stars in the sky, which makes the tattoos on his arm feel more special. Gerard's face is really soft but kind of pale, the angel's kiss below his eye glaringly pink. "You're just going on about my hair, but this is way bigger stuff."

"I honestly didn't even remember it," Frank says with a laugh, looking at his arm.

"Stars symbolize achievement and authority, and most of all hope," Gerard murmurs, giving Frank's arm minute study. "Does your arm hurt?"

"Nah," Frank lies, but hisses when Gerard swipes his finger over a trail of stars.

"Liar. Why didn't you heal your arm?" Gerard asks quietly, careful not to let others hear their conversation.

"That'd be like cheating."

"You're practically wasting your gift not doing anything."

"Gerard."

"Frank," Gerard whispers, lacing his fingers with Frank's, palm against palm. "Just do it."

"Do what?" Frank’s eyes widen, a bad feeling creeping into his chest.

"Take some of my energy," Gerard smiles, like what he's offering is no big deal.

"And hurt you in the process? No way." Frank pulls his hand back, tucking it safe under his ribs. He eyes the people around them, getting a few curious looks. But no one’s really paying attention to them, the festive mood’s already caught up with everyone.

"You wouldn't take too much, just enough to get rid of the sting."

"Shut up, Gerard. Just shut up."

"You're so stubborn. God."

"You're stubborn," Frank says petulantly, matching Gerard's glare with his own. Gerard's crazy if he thinks he's gonna hurt his friends -- to hurt Gerard -- in order to feel better himself. Sure, he did that when he was still a kid, cured his stomach ache or bronchitis while walking through a crowd of people, or while being bored at Sunday mass, without really even realizing it, but he's not a kid anymore, he has to take responsibility for his actions just like everybody else, has to be able to tell right from wrong. And this is wrong, so blatantly wrong that he can't understand how Gerard thinks it's okay to even suggest it.

Gerard heaves a sigh and says, "I didn't think it was that big a deal. It's not like I think you'd hurt me, I know you'd never do that."

Frank mulls it over for a while, searching for the right words. "It's just the principle of it, y'know? I know you wouldn’t do that either if you could."

Gerard draws his brows together, studying Frank. Then his face brightens a little and he nods, putting on a crooked smile. "Yeah, when you put it that way, yeah, okay."

"Okay?"

Gerard nods again and replies, "Okay."

More people are gathering around the fire now. Ryland starts singing some stupid campfire song, which others quickly join, and soon there's an out of tune camp choir and people dancing and twirling like the soft flames of the fire, enjoying the evening. Bob's still sitting with Tegan and Sara on the rock, Lindsey behind him with her arm draped around his chest, chin hooked over the slope of his shoulder. Frank takes Gerard's hand back in his, resting the bundle of them on his thigh, pointedly not looking at Gerard even though he can feel Gerard's eyes on him, studying him for a long, long time.

--

It's the first time since he was a little kid that Pete's spent the whole night outdoors. There are cricks all around his body, his clothes dusty and sticking to his skin where he's sweated the most in the heat of the white-hot morning sun. His mouth tastes like starch and grains of sand are crunching between his teeth. The cherry on top is that mother of all hangovers even though he doesn't think he drank all that much last night. He wonders if his subconscious is trying to tell him something with the sudden dreams about the carnival, he's been away from that lifestyle for so long that he can't recall any of it when he attempts to remember. It's like he's living somebody else's life while he sleeps, and being a monster when he’s awake.

The truth of the matter is, he can't go back to Ashlee now, can't look her in the eyes while Joe's in the same room just staring at him, his eyes the only lively part of his body anymore. Can't walk, can't talk, can hardly even swallow down his food.

And it's his fault.

"Hey, brother! What's the rush?" Chuckles yells after him as he stumbles away from the dead campfire. He breathes hard in order not to vomit, swallowing down the bile that threatens to rise up his gullet. He gets on the road and staggers along it until the hobos are just a small dot behind him.

Spotting a wilted tree on the roadside, he walks behind it, yanks his zipper down and takes a long, satisfying piss, watching as his urine creates a miniature pond next to a large, protruding root.

A truck drives past him with people sitting at the back, yelling and whistling at Pete. The little boy living inside him wants to wiggle his dick at the hecklers, but they might recognize him and then he really would be up the creek.

Around noon he finds himself standing in the middle of a sturdy bridge, leaning on the railing and staring into the river that runs underneath it.

Thinking that he saw something floating on the water, Pete lifts himself up on the railing and peeks down, trying to distinguish shapes from the dark shadows of the bridge. His sweaty hand slips on the wooden railing and he almost loses his balance, his head swimming. But then he sees it again, a dark shape moving just on the edge of the biggest shadow. He reaches farther until the shape starts to shift and becomes clearer, gaining depth and color as it transforms into a brooding, dirty-kneed little boy.

The little boy looks up at Pete with wild, brown eyes, and what he sees startles him so much that he falls over the railing into the cold river.

He splutters in the water, the skin of his palms broken, everything in his body aching. He tries to push up onto his knees, but all he can manage is a slow, shaky roll over onto his back, the water's running so low that it barely reaches his ears.

"Whoa," he says, the sky spinning fast above him.

He sticks his palms into his eye sockets and presses down, trying to stop the spinning.

Someone's poking him in the chest, and when he detaches his hands from his eyes the boy -- he recognizes him now, there's no denying it -- is looming over him, staring.

"Hi, Pete," Pete breathes. It's like looking into an odd mirror.

Young Pete sticks his finger up his nose as a reply. When Pete tries to sit up again, the boy turns around and runs away, shoes sloshing in the water.

"Hey, kid! Hey, wait up," Pete groans, not ready to give up this vision just yet. He grimaces at the sting in his hands as he rolls onto his side and gets his feet under himself, finally managing to clamber up from the water.

He finds the kid sitting on a tree stump at the riverbank, whittling chips and flakes from a random stick with his pocketknife.

"Um. Pete?" Pete asks. Where the hell did you come from? The kid drops the stick and snaps his head up, eyes skittering over Pete, studying him suspiciously.

"Yeah?"

"You don't -- do you know who I am?" Talking to a younger version of himself, Pete feels like the world's biggest narcissist.

The kid looks down at his pocketknife and starts playing with it again, and Pete can't help but wonder, with morbid fascination, if the kid hurts himself with the knife, will he feel the sting of it, too?

"Are you lost?"

The boy gives a shrug of his shoulders, still focusing on the knife. Pete knows this scene, knows what happened and what came next.

"There was an accident, right?" The boy looks up, suddenly very interested in the conversation. "You were sitting out on the back of the truck, enjoying the wind in your hair when the truck swerved. And you fell off."

Young Pete gives a brief nod. "I didn't do nothing."

"No," Pete agrees. They did. They should have checked on him, should have come looking when they realized he was missing. "You were a good boy."

Pete watches as the boy turns the knife over in his tiny hands and presses his thumb against it, testing the sharpness of the blade. The knife's the only concrete proof of his old life, the life before Ashlee and Joe. It's still in the top drawer of his night table. As a kid he kept it hidden away from Joe because he didn't want Joe to take it away from him, then he began his tuition and stopped thinking about the carnival altogether; the knife escaped his memory along with everything else.

He remembers now though, in bits and pieces.

"Hey, careful with that," he says, but too late. Little Pete’s already pricked his thumbpad open with the tip of the knife. The next thing he knows he's back on the bridge, feet and hands aching as he tries to stay balanced on the railing, crotch pressing painfully into the top rail.

"Steady now," a nervous voice startles him. "Don't make any sudden movements."

Pete looks around. There's a car parked by the bridge and a middle-aged man in a derby and black suit standing a couple of feet from Pete, holding his hands up in front of himself in a placating manner, like he's trying to calm a rabid dog.

"What the --"

"Look, man, just don't fucking jump, alright?" Derby says, growing more nervous by the second. "My wife's gone to town to get help."

"Help?" Pete asks with a distant voice, his head swimming.

"Yeah, man, just hang on."

Help turns out to be a police car and an ambulance. He watches as two men in white pants and jackets hurry out of one car, take a long look at him and then glance at each other. They give each other a nod and then jog along the bridge, grab Pete around the arms and hoist him down from the railing, then start dragging him back towards the vehicles. Derby is now holding his wife under his arm as she exaggerates the incident to the officials, squeezing her shoulder and nodding along to her story.

"Let me go," Pete says, trying to struggle away from the men's grip. Their hold of him just tightens. "I wasn't going to fucking jump, you morons. I'm a fucking minister, for God's sake."

The men exchange glances and throw him into the back of the ambulance. "Do all the ministers in your parish have such foul mouths?" one of them says, taking the seat next to him, still holding his arm in a tight grip. He grabs the medicine case under the seat and starts rummaging around it with his free hand.

"Look, if you take me back to town I can even prove it."

"You'll be with people just like you soon enough," White coat says as he injects something into Pete's neck to stop him from struggling. The world goes fuzzy around the edges in a matter of seconds, his head too heavy for his neck to support, then his eyes start to droop. When he wakes up, he's lying in a heap in the corner of a white, padded room, wearing even whiter easy pants and a thin, long sleeved shirt.

"Fuck," Pete groans, his limbs too heavy and uncoordinated to function properly. He tries to sit up but he can't even lift his arm. "Fucking fuck fuck fuck," he mumbles as drool dribbles down the side of his mouth on the padded floor, his tongue too thick to help him swallow it all down. He presses his face up against the floor and scrubs his scruffy cheek against it, sweating like a pig, breathing hard.

--

There's a man walking down the steep slope with determination.

Brian, who’s driving in the front, slows down his truck and pokes his head out of the window, leaning his jaw on his forearm. Frank glances at Dan who had wanted to ride with him in the back of the truck and gets a big, hefty shrug in response. The campfire celebration last night ended in an argument when Brian and Bert joined the crew and let everyone in on their decision. They’d be driving into Babylon first thing in the morning since it was a faster, more direct route, Brian had explained. There would be more towns to entertain once they got past the ghost town. The other route could only offer more dust and cactuses. Frank had felt a spurge of excitement then, a humming inside his chest that told him things were finally moving forwards again, and the long drive into Babylon still hasn't managed to dull his excitement.

"Where are you headed, my friend?" Brian quips as the stranger stops by his truck. The truck goes put put put put put as it idles.

"Away," the man replies, letting the bindle he'd been carrying on his back fall to the ground on top of his toes. He swipes the sweat from his face on the back of his sleeve and heaves a sigh. "Far away."

"Is this the road to Babylon?"

"Yessir, it's just behind that hill. We've been waiting for you a long time," the man says, giving Brian a big, tired smile. His teeth gleam yellow in the sunlight.

"So you live there? But you're going away?"

"You should stay for the night show, man," Dan suggests. Even here smiling comes easy to him, like he has no care in the world.

"Oh, I'm afraid I can't. I really must be going, but the town's full of people who'd love to see your show."

"What's the rush? It's just one more day," Brian says. "We can give you a ride back into town."

"No!" The man shouts, something flashing in his eyes that Frank recognizes as fear. He quickly composes himself and smiles again, slinking back to normal. "It's just, if I don't go now I'm 'fraid I'll never get to leave. There'll always be something that’ll keep me from leaving, you know?"

Dan nods, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and slumps back next to Frank, crossing his arms under his head and a leg over the other, starting to hum to himself.

"Of course," Brian appeases him, and Frank watches as his head disappears back inside the truck. "Good luck."

"Same to you," the man says, hoists the bindle back over his shoulder and waves them goodbye before continuing his journey away from the town.

After driving through the town they set camp just outside of it, on the root of the hill that hides the town from view. From the trucks the town had seemed empty, no people outside the houses and no one in the windows either, watching the caravan. No sounds were heard, and even the wind had slacked off. The carnies had dubbed Babylon as a spook town a long time ago, Gerard told him by the fire last night, and Frank thinks it fits the description down pat.

Brian doesn't seem too worried about people not showing up for the show tonight, in fact, he seems to be counting on the carnivals having a big crowd.

"You shouldn't worry either," he says, thumping Frank on the back, not nervous but not smiling either, looking pretty grim. "They always show up."

"But how do they even know we're here? No one saw us in town."

Brian cracks a short, tight smile. "Oh, they saw us alright, even if we didn't see them, there's no doubt about it."

Frank makes a face, digging the toe of his shoe in the ground.

"Iero," Bob shouts, waving a shovel around. "When you're done gossiping with Schechter I want you to get digging. The guys are missing their crapper." He has a shit-eating grin as he throws the shovel to Frank's feet. Bob's been on Frank's case ever since last night, ordering him around, giving him the shittiest jobs imaginable. If it had been up to Bob, they'd still be back at the river, watching Frank single-handedly building them a bridge to cross over.

"Have fun," Brian chuckles, shaking his head. He leaves Frank standing and disappears into the jungle of trailers, probably going to find himself a group of people to order around.

Wiping his hands on the back of his dungarees, Frank nudges the shovel with his shoe, then slides his foot under the handle and uses his leg to lift it up from the ground. He grabs the shovel and swings it over his shoulder, cringing at the task awaiting him. At least he already knows how it's done, and he’s sure he'd do his mama proud.

When he's finished putting up the tarp there's already a crowd lurking on the other side. Frank gives them the all clear sign and rolls his eyes when they push at each other, trying to be the first one in. He's tempted to say he already christened the place, but doesn't want to ruin anyone's surprise.

It's still early when the guys finish setting up the tents, popcorn and lottery stands, posters and rides. The two carnivals work fascinatingly well together, like they've done this a thousand times before. They both patch up each other's lacks so well that Frank has to ask Gerard if the two carnivals used to belong together.

"Ha, that's a good guess, but nah, not really. There was a time when we toured a lot together, though, in some parts of the continent, so I guess that explains it?"

"Yeah, must be. Damn, I was so sure about it, too."

"We go back a long way for sure."

"What happened?" Frank pries. "I mean meeting up with them was just a coincidence this time around, right? No one planned it."

"What made us go our separate ways?" Gerard asks with a thoughtful look. They're sitting outside the brothers' trailer, sharing another one of Gerard's smokes. Frank thinks he needs to stack up on cigarettes, he can't just keep stealing Gee's smokes forever. He has no more excuses either. The wad of bills from the revival gig is still burning hot in his back pocket.

He nods, giving Gerard back his smoke. Their fingers brush, and Frank has to squeeze his hand into a ball to stop his skin from tingling so.

"I guess we just grew apart, started wanting different things. Brian's always been more serious-minded, more businesslike about his carnival. Bert on the other hand -- well, Bert thinks it as more like a lifestyle, something he lives and breathes. He owns a carnival because that's the only thing he knows, and if it was taken away from him, I don't think he could function anymore. He'd be like a captain without a ship. He wouldn't know what to do."

"I think I like Bert's way better," Frank says, feeling intensely affectionate towards that stinky, scruffy, greasy little man.

"Ah, but see, his way is also more destructive. Some people it fits so well, but too much of Bert and I grow weary. Our energies just clash."

"I thought you liked him, you seemed really friendly the other day."

Gerard gives a short laugh, smoke bursting from his mouth and hitting his knees. "In a way I'll always love him, even if I could never spend my life with him.”

“Wait. What? Were you a couple?” Frank blinks, completely taken aback and curious to hear Gee’s answer, but Gerard just smiles mysteriously at him.

In the late afternoon Brian drags everyone into town. The sun is just starting to hang low in the sky, always just in Frank's eyes, the weather's been uncomfortably sunny and hot for as long as he can remember, and the heat just gets worse the more south they go.

Brian gathers everyone around him and suggests that they find the town saloon and relax for a while. It’s not something Frank could have expected from him, but he realizes that Brian’s probably just trying to calm everyone’s nerves before the show. Everyone Frank's talked to has been on edge today.

Like the rest of the town, the saloon is completely empty. Even the bartender is missing, and a thick layer of dust blankets the counter and the tabletops. There's a piano in the corner, on top of it a half-empty tip jar. The chandelier hanging crookedly from the ceiling is lit, though, and it rumples Frank's arms into gooseflesh. He scowls up at the chandelier, thinking about what Brian said about the townsfolk. He hasn't seen anyone since meeting the lone man by the hill, but he's still got this unsettling feeling of eyes on his back, watching and waiting.

Sara skids to the piano, gently sliding her fingers along the frame and the notes. She hooks her ankle around the stool and pulls it back towards her, dusts it off and sits down with graceful moves. She plays a few notes and smiles, satisfied that the piano is in tune, and then begins to play for real.

"Live music!" Bert hollers, takes a few out-of-rhythm steps and grabs Brian, twirling him around once before Brian regains his balance and pushes Bert away.

"Freak," Brian says, shaking his head, but he looks like he's trying to hold back a grin. He gets behind the bar and starts pouring drinks, then fishes a long, red straw from a jar on the counter and plops it into Mikey's tall glass. He can't reach it from his chair but Brian lifts the glass from the counter and helps Mikey drink from it. With a thankful smile to Brian, Gerard grabs a two cents plain for himself and saunters towards the piano, leaning up against it and gulping down his water.

In the empty space between the counter and the tables, Lindsey and Jimmy start a hilarious, uncoordinated dance. Jepha grabs a bottle of whiskey from Brian and three glasses, motioning for Dan and Bob to follow him to the table in the corner. They sit down, clink their glasses together and start drinking. Bob's nursing his drink well while he watches Gerard with soft, serene eyes. Gerard is nodding along to the music, eyeing the dancing couple. He snickers into his glass when Lindsey swats Jimmy over the head for stepping on her foot.

And Christ, Frank would be lying to himself if he pretended he didn't want to ask Gerard to dance. Even when he hasn't ever danced before and probably owns two left feet anyway, so he'd just be stepping on Gerard's toes all the time, the feeling's still there. He toys with the thought of asking Gerard, and what everyone would think, likes the idea even more when he imagines Bob's reaction, and then feels like a shithead almost immediately afterward. Bob’s this good-hearted, strong, straightforward guy, total big brother material, so even though Bob seems to have a bone to pick with Frank, Frank can’t help but look up to him.

“Bryar takes his good time warming up to new people,” Brian once said, almost apologetically, but then added with a laugh that, “when he finally befriends you, just you wait, you'll never get rid of him then.”

Maybe all that guy needs is to get laid, Frank thinks, but then again, who doesn't? Most nights he just feels too tired and sore to even jerk off, and when he does he tries to make a quick work of it, there's just no fucking privacy anywhere. It doesn't help that most nights his dreams leave him shaking and sweating on the ground, too frightened to do anything but curl up into a tight ball and wait for the sun to creep over the horizon.

Bert's wolf-whistle shakes Frank from his thoughts. Lindsey's doing her back-bend on top of a round table, her dress sweeping up along her thighs.

Frank hoists himself up on the table closest to the piano and feels a stupid smile breaching his bad mood when Gerard glances at him on the sly and lifts his drink to his lips, grinning into the glass.

The afternoon has shifted into an early evening almost unnoticed, with everyone drinking and dancing and goofing off. It's only when a gust of wind rattles the window behind Frank's back that he glances outside, the dimness taking him by surprise.

"Alright, people," Brian says, banging his shot glass on the counter to get everyone’s attention. "Empty your glasses, we should start heading back."

"One last dance?" Lindsey suggests. Hopping off the table, she sashays behind the bar and grabs Brian's hand, tugging at it and smiling attractively. "Come on," she says with a pronounced pout, "you didn't get to dance yet."

Brian looks like he's going through some internal struggle, the businessman against the real Brian just looming under the surface. She kisses her fingertip and presses the kiss on Brian's scruffy cheek, marking his skin with a small stain of her red lipstick. He smudges the spot with the heel of his palm, glaring at her, but gives in anyway, letting himself get pulled to the cleared space on the floor.

"Sara, would you be so kind?" Brian smiles at her and she nods, says, "No problem, I missed playing the piano. It's been far too long," starting to play something soft and slow.

Brian's surprisingly graceful, Frank thinks in awe, watching them move together, his cheek pressed against Lindsey’s jaw. It isn't awkward even though she's a little taller than him; he knows how to lead her anyway. Jimmy's grin splits his face in half. He pops peanuts into his mouth and watches them swaying to the music.

Soon the floor's full of dancing couples. Gabe's there with Vicky, his finger twirled around her glued-on beard, Bert's trying to coax Quinn into dancing with him, not fazed the slightest by all the swats he's getting at his pot-belly and hips as Quinn tries to shake him off. Taking a glance at Bob -- he's still watching Gerard, eyes at half-mast probably more from the whiskey than exhaustion, arm draped over the back of the chair, thumb rubbing at the varnished wood -- Frank wonders if he'll just wallow in his self-pity for all eternity.

But then it looks like Bob's going to make his move. He stands up on shaky legs and wobbles across the saloon, through the sea of undulating couples, towards the corner where Gerard's still leaning against the side of the piano.

This is what watching a car crash in slow motion must feel like, Frank thinks, not being able to tear his eyes away.

But then Gerard glances up, eyes widening as he notices Bob. He makes a small noise at the back of his throat and quickly pushes away from the piano, rushing to Frank and blurting out in a single breath, "Ya wanna dance?"

Right on cue Tegan hops off the counter she's been lounging on all evening and stops Bob's journey by wrapping her arms around his neck, making him sway with her. For a second Bob looks utterly bewildered. He frowns at Tegan, then at Frank and Gerard, but at the same time he's already arranged his hands on Tegan, on the small of her back and between her shoulder blades, sagging into her. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and then they sway together to the music.

"Well?" Gerard prompts quietly, nudging at Frank's thigh with his knuckles. He's worrying his lip as he ducks his head, but there's no hair hanging in front of his face to hide behind anymore. "It's your last chance to dance tonight, the song's almost over."

Frank wants to say yes, wants to hop off the table and grab Gerard around the waist and spin them around and around until his head swirls, but. He takes another glance at Bob, then studies the calluses on his hands, feeling the sting of them and the newest sunburn on the back of his neck. "I can't," he concludes, his nails digging into his palms.

"Oh," Gerard whispers, pressing his head down. His ears are disturbingly red in contrast to the white of his new hair. "Okay."

Grabbing Gee's hand as he turns to leave, Frank pulls him back, squeezing his fingers. "I can't. Not until you talk to him and give him some fucking closure," he nods in Bob's direction. This is so out of his comfort zone, he just wants to get back to the carnival and disappear into the crowd.

Gerard sighs and nods, looking ashamed of himself. His eyes are shining though when he gives Frank a small, crooked smile, shining like clear white glass.

On the walk back Frank lingers behind everyone, watching their strange half-walk, half-dance as they wobble and twirl down the road. Gerard's with Bob who's depending on Gerard’s shoulder to keep from stumbling down.

Frank looks on as Gerard leads Bob into his trailer, says something to Jepha who'd been pushing Mikey in his chair before closing the door behind them. Jepha pushes Mikey back to his own trailer and parks him outside where Dan's already setting up the tattoo stand.

What's going on inside Gerard's trailer is too nerve-wracking to think about. Frank tries to busy himself with helping people out, but there's really nothing to do anymore, everyone's already finished with their arrangements and now just sit around waiting for an audience.

"I'm going for a walk," Frank says to Brian. Brian's been pacing aimlessly ever since they got back, checking his watch every now and then, and looking at him is making Frank even more nervous.

"What? When we're just about to open?"

"There's nothing for me to do," Frank explains. Even Jimmy had driven him away when he'd suggested doing some crowd patrol, too busy to give Frank more than a glance and a shove out of the tentway.

"Did you ask around for stuff to do?"

"Yeah, it's like everyone's on edge, they just want to get through the night as fast as they can."

"They want the night to be over as soon as possible," Brian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They weren't too happy when I made them stop here. Okay, just. Don't go wandering off too far away, and keep both your eyes open."

"Yes, mom," Frank says, smirking as Brian gives him a shove to the direction of the hills.

Exiting the carnival, the townies are finally starting to surge inside, Brian and Bert greeting them under the worn CARNIVÀLE sign with big, faked smiles. Frank gives them a wave, trying not to feel uneasy at the hollow, dull faces of the townies; none of them are smiling. It's like they're dead inside.

The terrain is rough and dry here, hard to walk without stumbling on the small, loose rocks.

Getting closer to the hill he finds a cave opening and crawls inside, transfixed by a flickering light in the distance. It's cramped and clammy here, dirt forcing its way into the calluses on his palms and sweat gliding down his neck, disappearing into his shirt.

He comes closer to the light and recognizes it as the kind miners wear on their helmets. He stops and squints at the figure moving towards him, heart thumping so loudly in his ears that it feels like the sound bounces off the walls.

The figure comes to a halt just a few feet from Frank, his black cassock trailing behind him.

"What the fuck?"

In his haste to get as far away from the minister as possible, Frank bumps his head on the ceiling and for a while sees nothing but stars.

The minister opens his mouth, jaw going slack, and a thousand skittering little spiders start surging out, raining down on the cave floor and advancing towards Frank. Frank trashes around and swats at them, scared out of his wits.

Then he starts to scream.

He doesn't know how long he's been lying there, curled up on himself, shaking like a frightened dog, but then he realizes, as fast as his terror came, that he's alone again. The minister is gone along with the spiders. Recognizing the whimpers echoing off the walls as his own, he snaps his mouth shut, glad that no one was around to witness his latest freak out.

He rummages in his pocket and finds a matchbox that he thinks must belong to Gerard. Shaking a match out he scrapes it against the cave wall, lighting it up. He holds the lit match up in front of him, trying to see where he came from. But instead he notices writing on the nearest wall, the letters partly hidden under a thick white spider web and partly faded out. The match dies out and he lights another one after talking himself into brushing away all the spider webs from the wall.

There, on the wall, written in bold, white letters reads AVATAR.

Back in the carnival Frank dunks his head into a water bucket, reveling in the sounds of the people and music fading out. It feels like his head is lined with cotton, and yet there's a drilling pain there, just above his eyebrows.

Going to find Brian's truck, he thinks about the cave and what happened there. All of it feels like a sign, like he's on the right track. He can't wait to talk to Ozzy now, and maybe even ask him about the writing on the wall.

Sara's just coming out of her trailer, wearing a white linen dress, her hair up in a loose ponytail. She gives Frank a warm smile and waves at him. Frank watches as a couple of guys stop her, wanting to shake her hand, their faces anything but hollow now. He's reminded of Gerard's words on a cool night a lifetime ago. Maybe the townies just needed someone to shake them awake, maybe this town isn't such a bad place after all.

He hops up on the back of the truck, using the tailpipe for leverage. The stars are out again but thin clouds blanket them here and there; they're still amazingly bright behind all the white.

After a while, people start to leave. The music goes out and only the stale smell of popcorn grease lingers in the air. Bob's been taking care of the Ferris wheel like usual, but when Frank glances at his left he notices him and Tegan kissing outside of her trailer, surprisingly intimate. Her arms are around his neck and she's standing on her toes, Bob gripping her waist and holding her close.

She pulls back, a tender smile playing on her lips as she takes his hand and brings it to her cheek, turning her head to press a kiss to his palm. He runs that palm down the column of her neck and spans her chest, just above her breasts.

Frank feels like he shouldn't be seeing this, and he must be blushing, his face is burning hot. He averts his eyes, looking down to his lap. After a while he hears the trailer door opening, and when he glances over, Tegan's just disappearing inside, dragging Bob along by his hand, the door closing behind them with a gentle click.

"Huh," Frank says to himself as the lights in the trailer go out.

--

Pete thinks he'd start counting the days by scraping lines on the wall if he had any grasp at the progress of time here. He knows he can’t have been in the hospital for very long, even though, huddled in the corner of his tiny, padded room, it feels like forever since he arrived. It must be morning, since the sun is shining through the window just below the ceiling, white and so bright his eyes water. He'd brush the not-tears away if he wasn't still wrapped in the goddamn straightjacket. His 'doctor' had explained earlier how he would get out of it as soon as he stopped being hysterical, looking down his nose at him like he was raging mad.

Hysterical.

It's bullshit, Pete thinks, lying on his back with his legs bent, knees sticking up. With the amount of pills and injections pumped into my body, I'd be glad if I could sit up without my head spinning.

The same nurse that made him swallow the last dose of pills, checking under his tongue and all the creases of his mouth, walks in, her white stockings and dress a little fuzzy in his vision.

"And how are we doing today, Mister?" She sounds perky and patronizing at the same time. But something about her just makes him think of Ashlee. He hopes she's looking for him.

"I was doing okay until I got shanghai’d off the street and brought here. Against my will," he tells her, voice raspy and pitiful. "I don't have time for this, I have places to be. My church needs me."

"Oh, hush," she says, scolding him. "Are you still going on about that minister nonsense? Doctor Hurley will have a field day with you."

"Well at least someone will."

She takes a small bottle from her pocket. The pills inside rattle like maracas. "Be a good boy now and open up," she says, kneeling down. She grasps his jaw and forces his mouth open, stuffs two pills inside and waits for him to swallow them down. "There. That'll tide you over till the doctor comes." She smiles sweetly, letting go of his jaw.

It doesn't take long for the doctor to wander inside after the nurse has left the room. He's reading the patient chart, long, curly hair hanging in front of his face, the hem of his white jacket flitting as he walks.

"Mister X," he reads from the chart, glancing at Pete over his glasses. "My name is Doctor Hurley, I'm here to make an evaluation of your condition."

Pete snorts and rolls onto his side. "That's what you're calling me? Mister X? Can't say I completely hate it."

"You feel like telling me your real name?"

"I already did. Well, not to you, I guess. But in the back of the car my name had no significance. I don't fucking belong here."

"You were acting hysterical," Hurley reads from the chart. "I talked to the nice couple that found you on the bridge, they seemed convinced that you were going to end your life in the river."

"So what, that gives you people the right to kidnap me? Put me in fucking psychiatric care?" Maybe if his words didn't come out all jumbled and slurred Hurley would actually listen to him. His tongue feels so thick and overgrown that he can't stop drooling, either. It's been days since he last showered and shaved his face. His own stench -- alcohol mixed with old sweat -- wafts to his nose and makes him want to gag.

"You are here for you own benefit. We want to help you. Think of the time you will spend here as revitalizing, you'll walk out a changed man."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," Pete says grimly. But will the change be for better or for worse?

Hurley kneels down next to Pete, sliding the chart under his arm and crossing his fingers on top of his knees.

"It says in your chart that you're a Methodist minister." It sounds like a statement rather than a question, which gives Pete a sick sense of hope.

"Yes. Yes, I am. A lot of people are counting on me. They will be so worried when I don't turn up at the service," Pete lisps, swallowing around his thick tongue.

Hurley nods fervently, his eyes shining with excitement.

"It's been a while since we last had a clergyman in the house. I think -- if you want to, we could arrange a little service of our own for all the people here. Many of our patients would really like that."

Pete grits his teeth, clenching his hands into fists inside his straitjacket. His hope is wearing thin. "I think I'll pass."

Hurley seems utterly disappointed, but he gives Pete a brief nod, standing up.

"I'll arrange someone to get you out of that jacket, you're free to walk around the hospital, the guards by the doors are for your safety."

"You don't think I'll attack someone?" Pete asks, struggling to keep his eyes focused on Hurley's face.

"Nah, I think you're pretty harmless. Besides, with the amount of pills in your system right now, I'd be surprised if you managed to stand up without support," he adds before exiting through the open doorway.

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