Chapter Text
Blood. Crimson everywhere, thick and warm; the heat of life dotting the pavement. When they recall the attack in future years, no one will be able to say precisely when it began, but each will recall the ending in vivid technicolor, red blooming behind both eyelids. As far as anyone remembers, it was just past dusk and the four men were walking home together. Andy insists they were making fun of Pete. Joe was, predictably, high, with a mellow blur tinting the edges of his vision. Patrick remembers nothing but the screams.
It takes only a moment. Pete ducks a few feet into the dark alley with a good-natured smile (at Andy's jibe, he claims) to take a whiz, and the echoes of laughter are cut short by a yell. Patrick is the first to react, calling out and whipping towards the sound.
“Pete?!”
A dark figure, a man, by the shape of him, is holding tightly to Pete's body, mouth tearing at flesh. Pete screams and whimpers, shudders in his arms as blood runs in coppery rivulets down his angular frame. Patrick does not think. He leaps.
Andy and Joe (only a weed-moment slow on the uptake) follow suit with a horrified cry. The attacker seems startled, as though he had not realized there were others, and drops Pete's form, turning and vanishing into the shadows.
And suddenly, Pete is dying on the ground. In less than half a minute, everything in their world is shifted as Pete bleeds out on cracked asphalt. But Patrick's world isn't even shifted so much as it is shattered, the pieces aligning around his best friend's twitching form. He throws himself across Pete, dislodging his own hat in the process.
“Pete,” Patrick pants, grabbing his torso and pulling him as close as he can. Patrick bunches the bottom of his shirt and tries to apply pressure to the leaking wound. As tears well behind his glasses, Andy and Joe are fumbling with a phone, begging for someone, please, anyone. He's dying. Yes, there's blood everywhere. We're at Savannah Street and Main. Hurry!
“Pete,” Patrick's voice cracks as he pushes against the blood, willing it back into his friend. “Pete, hold on. The ambulance is coming. Don't leave me.” Pete's pained cries and groaning screams twist around words he can barely speak.
“It feels...like...I'm...on fire!” he shouts between haggard breaths. He convulses in Patrick's arms.
“No!” Patrick is desperate. “Pete, no, don't let go. You can't do this.” The shuddering continues until Pete's form falls still. The ambulance is coming, but it's nowhere near fast enough.
Patrick gasps in deep, panicked breaths. He feels black encroach on his vision but he just can't get enough oxygen. At his side, his black fedora lies in Pete's blood. In his arms, Pete's chest is motionless. He shakes the body, screaming.
“Wake up!” The edges of his voice are rough with hysteria. “Pete, wake up!” No matter how Patrick shakes his shoulders, no movement replies. “I know you can hear me, Pete, WAKE UP!” And now he is sobbing, gasping for breath between ragged noises of anger and fear.
Even though he won't say it, Patrick knows that the man he holds is dead long before the medics arrive. When they do, he is gripping Pete's body like a lifeline, and he screams as they approach, thoughts tingling with edges of madness.
“No, he's MINE,” Patrick yells, at once melodic and guttural as only Patrick's voice can be. Andy tries to approach with an extended hand.
“Come on, Patrick, come here. Let them take him,” and Andy has seen wild possession in Pete's eyes – expects it, even - but it is nothing compared to the burning heat of anguish rolling off Patrick in this moment.
“You stay away from him,” Patrick chokes, “just stay away.” He clings tighter to Pete, body wracked with violent sobs. No one dares come closer, dares to intrude on the sacred space. Patrick knows nothing but the feeling of Pete in his arms, across his lap; cooling blood and cooling skin; hot tears clinging to his eyelashes and blurring his vision, wetting the inside of his glasses. Andy and Joe speak to the paramedics, attempting to explain the unexplainable. In the end, an emotional plea and a not-so-small bribe are enough to send them away. That, and a promise to call again when Patrick is ready to let go.
Shock and grief distort their sense of time. It could have been hours that Patrick lay clinging to their fallen friend. However, it could have been minutes. Either way, Andy and Joe pass the time whispering between them, trying to piece together a name for this tragedy. Suspicious, Andy calls it, and Joe agrees, replies Detroit and you've heard the rumors and what if...? He receives a bowed head and a slow shake in reply. A shrug. Doubt. But uncertainty nonetheless.
Finally, with a few choice words (like the threat of the attacker returning), they convince Patrick to stand, carrying Pete in his arms, and finish the short distance to Joe's apartment. Patrick's hat is left behind.
When they talk about it later, Joe describes Patrick as “delusional”. He falls asleep on Joe's couch, holding to Pete, alternating between crying and growling into Pete's thigh; spitting out you traitor and how could you and why. He still won't let anyone else touch him.
When the sun begins to tint the morning sky, Andy pulls Joe aside.
“This is insane. Pete or no, you don't get to keep dead bodies in your house.”
Joe nods in agreement, and they are discussing methods of remedying the situation. Most of their plans include some variation of hold Patrick and call the police. They are still mumbling to each other in the kitchen when a tired, sleep-heavy groan drifts from the couch. Andy ignores it, assumes it is Patrick adjusting his grip on Pete in his sleep, but Joe's eyes go wide and he turns to the living room.
When the noise comes again, his eyes lock with Andy's. He's not sure of much, but he's positive it's not Patrick. The two men scramble around the corner into the adjacent room, almost tripping over each other. They barely recover in time to stay upright, but Andy nearly falls anyway when they catch sight of their friends on the couch.
Patrick is asleep where they left him, arms wrapped tightly around Pete's legs, face against his knee. His glasses are on, but wildly askew, and his breathing is shallow, most likely a side effect of troubled dreams. Pete is laying, head on a pillow, blood stains covering the back of the couch, but the wound is noticeably absent, and his fingers are clenched in a fist across his chest. When he groans again, Andy runs for Patrick, shaking him awake.
“Patrick,” he whispers urgently. “Patrick, come on, come here.” He tugs lightly on Patrick's arm, trying to extract him from Pete's cold legs. Joe comes up behind him, reaches around to rustle Patrick's shoulder and urges, “Wake up, Patrick. Hey, come on, come with us.”
Confused, disoriented, and still definitely in the throes of some vague kind of sleep, Patrick rises to the pulling on his arms. He yawns loudly, blinking the sleep from his eyes.
“What are you -” But Joe's hand is over his mouth, and before he has the presence of mind to bite down on his fingers, Patrick is dragged into the bedroom, door shut and locked behind them. Anger snaps him out of sleep immediately, as does his sudden lack of Pete.
“What the FUCK do you think you're -” he starts, pushing his glasses back into their rightful place on the bridge of his nose, but Joe cuts across him with a SHH.
Andy's ear is pressed to the bedroom door, listening for anything – rustling, shifting, groaning.
Joe holds Patrick's shoulders, meets his eyes. “You've heard about Detroit,” he says with meaning. Patrick's face registers confusion, followed by understanding and you're a lunatic in rapid succession.
“No, I've heard NONSENSE being spread around by some paranoid druggies. This is INSANE, you know. Let me -”
“NO.” Andy wheels to face Patrick. “No, INSANE is what you have been doing. INSANE is bringing a body home and SLEEPING ON IT. The possibility that something darker than we imagined is going on here? That's not insane. Unlikely, bizarre, hard to accept, sure. But insane? You've been captaining the insane bus tonight, and nothing about Detroit is on board.” He's trying to keep his voice low, but he's as upset about Pete as anyone, and through with Patrick's nonsense on top of it, and the distressed anger is pushing through. “And maybe what's going on in Detroit is damned lies, or maybe it's not, but either way, something is not right here because that body out there? It's. Not. Dead.”
This seems to stun Patrick into silence. Mouth slack, lips parted ever so slightly, he stares wide-eyed between Andy and Joe. Andy stares right back, less with shock than determination, and Joe pulls out his cell phone.
“I'm calling Brendon,” he announces. “Maybe Panic knows something.”
As Joe moves to sit on the bed and make his call, Patrick steps close to Andy and breathes, “What do you mean, 'not dead'?”
“Look, I don't know, but he was making noise, and last time I checked, people typically shut up once they're dead.” There was something panicked in his eyes. “And that gaping hole in his neck? Gone. I swear to you, completely gone.” Patrick looks as though he's trying to decide if Andy is on drugs or lying.
“But all those Detroit rumors are nonsense. You know that. Just some overactive imagination crap Gabe probably came up with after pounding one too many after a show. Tried to bang a groupie who got too teethy, you know? Freaked out, called everyone. That's precisely the kind of shit he'd do.” Patrick is running his fingers, still caked in dried blood, through his hair. On the bed, Joe must have gotten someone on the phone because he is whispering frantically. Patrick stutters, “Th-that shit's impossible.”
At that moment, a groan, someone in pain, is heard through the door. Patrick's green eyes go wide, and he makes a grab for the doorknob. Andy throws his arm across the door, halting Patrick's movement.
“You can't go out there!” he hisses. “We have no idea what we're dealing with!”
“And leaving him alone on the couch is going to fix that? Move, Andy.”
“Guys,” calls Joe softly. The two men turn from each other. “Brendon's on his way over. Says there's a lot of rumors going around that he's not so sure are actually rumors.”
Patrick regains his startled look for a moment before attempting to get the door open again. “Andy, you fucker, you let me out. Even if you want to hide in here forever, someone has to let Brendon in. Doesn't sound like he's awake anyway, and it's Pete. He needs me.”
Andy sighs, moves from the door. “You hope it's Pete.”
Patrick spends the half hour wait cross-legged on the ground next to Pete's head. He laces his fingers through Pete's fist; endures the tight squeezing and watches the movement behind Pete's eyelids. When there's a particularly loud groan, he brushes the dark hair, stuck in clumps with blood, off Pete's forehead and hums something that might have been “What A Catch”. It has become clear that nothing they can do will wake Pete. Andy and Joe aren't sure they want to.
When Brendon arrives, he asks for the story, looks at Pete, talks quickly. He doesn't know much, says he isn't sure when or where it started, has only heard that it's as bad as it sounds. Andy and Joe discuss everything, asking questions and giving each other pointed looks. Patrick doesn't speak and never moves, just hums and touches Pete.
Finally, Brendon walks over to Patrick and sits down, back against the couch. “Patrick?” he starts, touching his knee, “Patrick, you've got to listen to me.”
Patrick looks at him. The humming stops.
“Patrick,” a heavy sigh, “I don't think... I mean, from what I've heard...” He grips Patrick's knee hard. “No one I've talked to has met one who remembers.”
“Remembers what?”
Brendon is solemn when he breathes, “anything.” There is a tangible silence in the room, punctuated only by Pete's increasing grunts and moaning. “I mean, I can't be sure because there's just not much to go on, but... Pete's gone. And if what I've heard is right, you won't be safe when he wakes up. None of you will. They have instincts, Patrick, and they're not friendly ones. Mikey's friend lost his brother, said it was like a rabid wolf. Didn't speak or anything, just kept trying to go for anyone and everyone around him.”
Patrick's face drains of all color. He squeezes Pete's hand. “No. I mean, that's not... What did they do?”
“Patrick, please, let me take him, and forget this. Pete is dead. He is, and you have to believe that. He won't wake up until sundown, but you won't like it when he does. Wouldn't you rather remember him... you know... the way he was?”
Andy and Joe are standing behind Brendon now, watching the conversation with nervous eyes. Or maybe they're watching Pete. Patrick shakes his head.
“I just- I don't believe that. He can't, it's- It's Pete and, I'm the one who.. there's just no- I mean it's Pete.” And he knows he keeps saying that, it's Pete, but those two words have defined his life from pretty much the moment they met. Through everything, it's always been Pete, and as far as Patrick is concerned, it always will be. “You can't take him and... you just can't unless you take me with him.” There's a finality in his voice. Patrick is usually the most soft-spoken of the bunch, but he knows how to end conversations. And once Patrick is done, everyone is done. The only person who ever pushed that boundary was, well, Pete, and Pete was rather indisposed at the moment.
Brendon stands with a sigh, pats Patrick's shoulder sadly, and turns to the other two. They walk to the kitchen, where Brendon whispers, “I don't know, maybe he'll just have to see it. Maybe he'll never accept it if he doesn't.”
“We can take precautions. We'll be ready to finish it. Tie him down. Make sure he can't hurt anyone,” Andy is all business now, “Give Patrick enough time to let it sink in, then end it. I mean, the poor guy is going to be a psychological mess anyway, but maybe he can accept it had to happen...?”
They make plans. Discuss options. Escape plans. Once they've agreed, and they turn to the living room once more, it's almost three o'clock and Joe offers hopefully, “Maybe you'll be wrong.”
“Yeah,” Brendon sighs, “maybe.”
Talking Patrick into tying Pete down is a long, complicated process. He screams, and yells, and argues, but finally, Patrick carefully secures the knots himself, rubbing his hands softly along Pete's body where the rope presses down. Over the afternoon, Pete's body spasms and he groans more, clearly in pain but never waking, until sometime near sunset he becomes deathly still and quiet.
Thank God for Brendon, Andy thinks, as he slowly chews the sandwich forced into his hands. Brendon hands one out to Joe and Patrick, too; insists they eat, ensures they drink water. To “keep up morale” he says. To be ready to fight, he doesn't say. Patrick has three bites.
Pete is secured to one of the armchairs, head drooped sideways, arms, legs, and chest bound. Once it becomes dark outside, Joe makes Patrick move away. Everyone looks away politely when Patrick runs his fingers slowly over Pete's cheek, brushing them softly against his lips, and whispers something only he is meant to hear. His last goodbye, Joe notes with reverence. He almost wants to say goodbye, too, but feels like somehow Patrick is the only one who deserves to.
The four men settle in to wait. Patrick is perched on a chair facing Pete, a few yards away, one leg up with his head resting on his knee and his arms wrapped around. Next to him, Brendon stands, one hand on Patrick's shoulder. Really, if he's honest with himself, it's Patrick he's worried about more than Pete. Behind the chair, Andy stands, clutching a splintered broom handle in his oversized pocket. They had not discussed this part with Patrick, per se; figured it would just happen when it needed to happen. Joe sat behind Pete, teetering on top of a bar stool from the kitchen, another piece of broom handle pressed subtly between his legs. Andy was first string, Joe was backup; Brendon would hold Patrick - maybe in embrace while he cried, maybe down while he fought - but one way or the other, they agreed he would need to be held.
At first they are all fidgety, rocking from one foot to the other or scratching a nose or elbow, but as the minutes tick by and the darkness outside thickens, Pete's body becomes stiller and so does everyone else. Nearly an hour after sunset, Pete's head twitches. The group gasps collectively – a small intake of breath that sounds like a crack of thunder after prolonged silence. Pete lifts his head, shoulders struggling slightly at his bindings, and shakes, causing hair to fall into his face. Conscious very suddenly, his eyes snap open.
Black. They are completely black, empty, and there is something about this that knocks the breath out of Patrick, makes it real. Pete is struggling hard now, whipping his head around as he looks across the room, and pulling hard at the rope Patrick so lovingly put in place. Joe is standing now, Patrick lowers his leg to the floor, braces alongside his thighs with palms down, leans forward slightly.
“Pete?” It's soft, almost a note. There is no tremor, but Patrick's voice reeks of fear, and Pete's eyes snap to his. For a second, there is nothing but the sound of Patrick's heartbeat in his ears, blood pounding, and the black (so wrong) eyes of his best friend. There are no pupils, no iris, but Patrick knows they're looking right at each other. He knows like he's always known Pete. But the second is over, and Pete's mouth opens in a snarl, nose scrunching, eyebrows knitted together. There is venom in the sound, animalistic and loud. And then there are the teeth: curved, pointed incisors, just barely longer than normal, next to glinting canines, true fangs. Patrick shudders, but doesn't relent.
“Pete,” he says, louder this time, rises from the chair and steps forward. “Pete, hey, it's me.”
But the man (vampire, Patrick makes himself think) in the chair shows no sign of recognition, only struggles harder against his bonds, snarling, hissing, and growling in rage. Brendon grabs Patrick's arm, trying to keep him from stepping closer.
“Patrick, no.”
But Patrick pushes his hand away with a look back. “Stop. Let me try. He knows me, he has to.” And Patrick is close, too close, now, only a foot away. He drops to his knees, holding himself at eye level with the man who, twenty four hours ago, was his best friend. “Pete, come on. It's Patrick.”
Joe and Andy are looking wildly between each other and Brendon, trying to figure out when they're supposed to jump. They hadn't really planned on this proximity problem. Brendon is concentrating all his focus on Patrick kneeling inches away from death.
“Pete, please,” Patrick pleads. He lifts a hand, momentarily considering resting it on Pete's leg, but thinks better and lowers it again. Pete continues to snarl and thrash, but his coal-black eyes are focused only on Patrick now. Connection, thinks Patrick. Closest meal, thinks Joe. And maybe the moment could last all night, Patrick pleading and the vampire unresponsive, trying to break free, but Patrick is a singer, not a boy scout, and the knots are beginning to slip.