Dead on Arrival (The Songs You Like Never Stick at First)

by conflicted_constellation

Summary:

He looks up and there’s glassy blue eyes looking at him. Pale skin made sheer by water and algae knotted into strawberry blonde hair. Water trickles from pink-blue lips and droplets trickle from the tip of a button nose. He’s maybe only a few years younger than Pete.

He’s terrifying.

He’s also beautiful.

Water rushes from the boy’s mouth when he speaks. “You can hear me. Stop pretending you can’t, asshole. Please.”

***

Or rather, the fic where Patrick is a ghost, Andy is a witch, Joe is a familiar, and Pete is learning a lot about supernatural shit in a very limited amount of time. Chaos ensues. And also boys are gonna kiss.

Notes:

WELCOME TO MY NEWEST WEIRD STORY. HUGE thanks to Alex (mummifiedgoose) for helping me workshop this piece. It's kind of insane, but I hope whoever decides to click on it enjoys! You should all also go look at Alex's page-- it is GOOD. One of the most talented writers I know, honestly. Anyways! Leave kudos and comments-- I love reading y'all's thoughts :)

Chapter title from "Atlantic" by Sleep Token.

Chapter 1: Bandage Up the Trenches, Anything to Get Me to Sleep

At first, Pete thinks he’s going fucking crazy.

 

There’s no better answer, really. Crazy is probably the most sane conclusion he could come to, given the circumstances the twenty-something year old has currently found himself in. Because the only other answer is that he’s being haunted or cursed or some shit because of some junk he picked up off the beach three weeks ago, which is… even crazier, honestly. Especially if he decides to believe it .

 

So he won’t. He’ll just go about business as usual. Go to shows for bands no one’s heard of, end up on a couch three blocks away from his current apartment, party, repeat. He’ll find something someday, or someone. But those things will be alive and totally not figments of his imagination. Obviously.

 

But as the days stretch on, Pete can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong, and it can’t all just be in his head. It can’t all just be coincidences– right? Right?

 

It starts with a song.

 

Or, it starts with what could be a song. Pete’s never heard the lyrics anywhere but his own lips, they’ve never left his notebook, but he knows they’re his words. Out of order and changed, but most certainly his. Words that haven’t ever been seen by another living human being’s eyes.

 

He first hears it at night.

 

Sleep deprived and curled up on his bed, scribbling lyrics, Pete rubs his temples and huffs over the writing. It’s good, sure, but what’s a lyricist without a band? He falls back onto the bed and sighs.

 

“Hope this is the last time, ‘cause I’d never say no to you— this conversation’s been dead on arrival.”

 

Pete freezes. The voice isn’t familiar in the slightest, and he can’t tell where it’s coming from. A coldness creeps into his bones, and there’s a faint feeling of droplets on his bare arms, but when he goes to wipe the water away, there’s nothing there. He looks at the ceiling, expecting a leak.

 

Nothing. Nothing at all.

 

Pete doesn’t believe in ghosts, but there’s some weird feeling and he can’t help but curl up, eyes trailing all around his messy bedroom. He waits patiently for the voice to speak again, but there’s nothing. 

 

Not for a few minutes, at least. 

 

“This conversation’s been dead on arrival, between me and this loss of sleep…” There’s a huff of cold air, like the breath of annoyance. “No, no… what about… there’s no way to talk to you, this conversation’s been dead on… a rivalry cut so deep, between me and this loss of sleep?”

 

“Hello?” Pete calls again, grabbing his notebook. He glances all around the room, searching for the telltale red blinking of a camera or something. “Chris, I swear to God if this is some prank it isn’t fucking funny.”

 

A heartbeat passes.

 

Cold air puffs out next to Pete’s ear. “You can hear me?”

 

His head snaps to the left, where he’s certain he heard the voice, but there’s nothing there.

 

More phantom water droplets. He’s completely dry but he can feel it trickling down his face, his arm, his bones .

 

Pete does what any sensible person would do; he sits up and fucking runs, flying through his shabby little apartment to the kitchen and hastily grabbing the medication he’d left on the counter. He’s always had issues taking things on time, but this has been a pretty potent reminder, he decides. Maybe this is a trick, all just a stupid fucking trick his brain is pulling on him, reminding him to do what he needs to. He can deal with rotting in his bed for days and he can deal with the reckless highs. What he will not deal with, however, is hearing voices. 

 

Pete decides that he’ll draw the line right there, thank you very much. 

 

So he swallows the pills and takes a handful of melatonin gummies in the desperate hope they’ll knock him out. He curls back into his bed roughly ten minutes later, all the lights on in his room.

 

Pete tries to ignore the way he can hear waves crashing, despite his apartment not being anywhere near the lakeshore.

Pete’s on the beach.

 

The same beach he was on a week prior with a few other nameless faces. It’s not too busy, the October cold has a habit of kicking out people who enjoy the water, but it’s far from deserted. Still yet, most people have opted out of swimming, and the few families and groups that are there have bonfires going or are running up and down the shoreline. Chris passes him a beer. A girl Pete doesn’t remember anything about is whispering against his neck. Fire crackles and fights futilely against the cold of lakeside wind.

 

Pete’s on the beach. It’s sunset. A few stars twinkle to life in the lavender of dusk. The air smells like weed and smoke and algae.

 

He wanders away from the group at some point, all of them too drunk to keep tabs on one another. Pete’s feet drag against the rocks and he can’t keep a half-straight line, but he can hardly keep a half-straight anything.

 

He finds a hat. Pete’s on the beach.

 

It’s a plain black cap, sunbleached in places and certainly well worn. It could’ve been left behind for any reason— lost on a fishing trip, pushed off by the wind, lost to the waves.

 

Pete knows that’s not right. He’s not sure how he knows it, but he does. 

 

He picks up the hat.

 

Pete’s on the beach. It’s well past sunset now and the bonfire is dying down. Chris is calling for him. He needs to go home.

 

He looks up and there’s glassy blue eyes looking at him. Pale skin made sheer by water and algae knotted into strawberry blonde hair. Water trickles from pink-blue lips and droplets trickle from the tip of a button nose. He’s maybe only a few years younger than Pete.

 

He’s terrifying.

 

He’s also beautiful.

 

Water rushes from the boy’s mouth when he speaks. “You can hear me. Stop pretending you can’t, asshole. Please.”

 

Pete’s on the beach.

He wakes with a start.

 

The cold sweat on his tanned skin is no stranger, but Pete can’t help but scramble out from beneath his covers anyways. The idea of any level of dampness is entirely unwelcome, the dream still so vivid, staring into the eyes of a waterlogged boy on the Chicago shore of Lake Michigan.

 

His face is somehow both familiar and not. Pete’s sure he’s seen him somewhere before.

 

Pete rubs a shaking hand across his face and releases a shaky sigh, glancing to his nightstand.

 

It’s three in the afternoon. There’s a cup of what was once water but is now probably growing a new ecosystem.

 

And the hat from the lake.

 

Pete picks up the stupid thing, running his fingers over the stitching with furrowed brows. There was no reason for him to bring it home. It was just some crummy, worn out hat on the beach. Probably had lice on it. Part of the brim is a bit torn.

 

But he brought it home anyway. He had to. Pete wasn’t sure why, but he had to bring home that fucking hat, so he did.

 

His breath catches in his throat.

 

He can hear screaming . The cold, sharp wind of the lake slices Pete’s face from his messy bedroom. His lungs feel full and for a second he thinks he’s choking and he can’t even cry out because when he tries no sound escapes, only gurgling. He falls to his knees and onto the messy floor, heaving, praying for the sensation to be over.

 

Murky water spills from his mouth. Not bile, not whatever the fuck he had for dinner last night. Just… water.

 

And then it’s gone. Just as quickly as the sensation was pulled over him, it’s gone. Like a riptide.

 

“Patrick,” he finally says, when he can breathe again, never letting go of the hat. “Your name was Patrick.”

Chapter 2: Does a Story Die with its Creator? Surely it's Forgotten Sooner or Later.

Notes:

Chapter Title from "The Great Impersonator" by Halsey! Her newest album is so fucking good. Anyways-- Pete enlists Andy Hurley to aid in his little haunting problem.

Patrick Martin Stump has been missing for three years.

 

He was nineteen, and though a body was never found, he’s been presumed dead by drowning in Lake Michigan. Witnesses from the evening of his disappearance were interviewed, reporting an altercation between Stump and a few other guys his age on the shoreline on a late summer evening in July.

 

He was last seen in blue jeans, a graphic t-shirt, and a black baseball-style cap.

 

The suspects were apprehended a few days after the boy’s disappearance, and they probably would’ve gotten away with it, had they not been goddamn idiots. None of their stories lined up— one of the guys claimed they were in fucking Missouri— and in sheer desperation they took a plea deal for a life sentence to avoid the death penalty.

 

Once the truth was finally hit out of them, it was reported that they’d been arguing with Stump, whom they described as “some know-it-all kid with anger issues,” and one thing led to another before the fight ended up getting physical. One of them pushed him into the water, unaware of the rip currents that were being warned about on the news, and Stump was yanked beneath the waves. The three guys present evidently thought he was just trying to scare them, but when they realized he wasn’t resurfacing, they ran.

 

Stump’s body has never been found.

 

Pete finds all this information on a Chicago true crime forum two nights after his dream, and the poster of Patrick Stump is the boy from his dream— he’s sure of it.

 

He searches more. Dives deeper.

 

An obituary article claims Patrick loved music.

 

“Composing from beyond the grave?” Pete asks to no one in particular– maybe Patrick, if he’s really feeding into this delusion. “That’s freaky. I dig it.” He’s sitting criss-cross on his couch in the dark of his living room, the glow from his laptop being the only thing illuminating the space.

 

Weirder shit has happened since the dream, so Pete has decided he is being haunted by some dork.

 

For example, the sink hasn’t stopped leaking despite maintenance telling Pete it was fine. The lights flicker sometimes when he plays certain music. And also, y’know, the voice. 

 

He hears his own lyrics echoing through the apartment sometimes, but it’s never his voice. It’s… it’s a nice voice, the same one from his dream. The boy. Patrick. But when Pete asks questions, or looks over his shoulder, suddenly nothing’s there again.

 

It’s really, really annoying. If he’s gonna be haunted, he thinks the ghost should at least admit to it.

 

“Alright,” Pete says, grabbing the hat from the table and cramming it in his bag haphazardly. There’s a chill that trickles down his spine when he does that. “Sorry, but we’re going to visit a friend of mine, and I don’t know how else to make sure you tag along.”

 

He isn’t even sure that works, but Pete knows he still feels the presence as he gets in the taxi, and it’s most certainly still there when he knocks on the apartment door of one Andy Hurley.

 

And knocks again.

 

And again.

 

Finally the door flies open and the long haired man is standing there, shirtless, and seemingly exasperated.

 

“I’m not interrupting something, am I?” Pete asks.

 

Andy glares. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to beat my door down.”

 

Pete holds his hands up in defense as he steps through the doorway into the home. Despite his glare, he knows Andy doesn’t mean much malice. “Sorry! Sorry. I just uh… needed to talk to someone, alright?” He goes to sit on the couch and watches Andy close the door, and Pete can’t help but realize something has got to be wrong, because Andy looks like he’s barely slept, and his hands are somehow covered in… ink?

 

“What’s with the…” Pete motions to his hands and Andy huffs.

 

“I was making uh… lost cat posters,” Andy mumbles, rubbing at his temples.

 

“Since when did you have a cat?” Pete asks.

 

Andy doesn’t answer, except with a question of his own. “What’s up with you, why’d you come over here?”

 

Pete takes a deep breath. “Sit down. I’m about to sound crazy.”

 

“You usually do,” Andy deadpans, but he sits on the opposing end of the couch anyway and Pete nods– it’s a fair critique. He then also notices the sheer amount of paper, pictures, and markers, all sprawled out on the coffee table. Andy really must be dead set on finding this cat, but Pete also has no recollection of the guy ever having a pet. He’s a little hurt about that, but decides there’s bigger things to worry about at the current time, and the phantom water droplets on his shoulder seem to think so too.

 

“I think I’m being haunted… by a ghost.”

 

Andy doesn’t even raise a brow. “Okay? And what has led you to this conclusion?”

 

Pete rings his hands together and starts telling Andy everything. Everything everything. The weird dream, the obituary he found online, the singing. He even pulls out the hat to show him, and a weight seems to lift in his chest when he does, but Andy’s back to crouching over the living room table, sharpie and paper in hand, adding to a fucking mountain of missing pet posters on the floor.

 

“Can you listen to me?” Pete snaps. “I’m being dead serious here, man. I’m being followed by a fucking ghost or something.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Andy says, taping a grainy picture of a dark, fluffy cat onto the newest paper. “I’m listening. Weird hat, ghost is singing to you when you sleep or whatever. Got it. Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?”

 

“I wanted you to help me,” Pete replies, standing up. He feels angry– knows it’s stupid but Andy could at least be pretending to care. “Give me fucking exorcism or seance or something. I- I didn’t know who else to go to, I didn’t know who would believe me.”

 

“I believe you,” Andy says with the most unconvincing tone Pete has ever heard.

 

The overhead light stars flickering. Pete feels like his lungs are filling with water. Again.

 

“Then listen,” Pete says frantically. “Stop worrying about some fucking cat for, like, five minutes–”

 

Andy finally looks up at that. “Okay, that’s enough. Pete, go home . You’re not being haunted, I’d… know if you were. And if this is something you’re really worried about, go to a psychic or some shit. But right now I’m kind of in the middle of something really important, and I don’t have time for whatever problem you–”

 

Pete isn’t sure what comes over him, but it hits him like a wave.

 

One second, Andy’s talking.

 

The next, Pete blacks out.

Notes:

ehehehe >:3 hope y'all like possession.

Chapter 3: Your Front Page Boy? Well, He's Finally Here!

Notes:

HOPE Y'ALL LIKE POSSESSION. also title from IDKHOW's "SPKOTHDVL."

Patrick needs this Andy guy to fucking listen.

 

It’s bad enough that this current dumbass can only hear him if he’s singing, but this Andy dude isn’t even giving them the time of day. Patrick isn’t sure why Pete decided this was the place to go, but he doesn’t really have a choice but to trust his judgement. He’s went three years– three fucking years– without someone being able to hear him, and he’s sick of it.

 

“Would you fucking listen?!” he shouts. He’s doing all he can, all he knows how to do; he’s flickering the lights and according to Pete, he makes the air kinda cold and wet. He’s trying to do all that– not that it’s easy to control it– but he’s trying.

 

But Andy’s looking at him now. Looking right at him.

 

Patrick freezes. He’s pretty sure if his heart was still working, it would skip. No one’s looked at him in a really, really long time.

 

“Okay, Pete,” he says, and caps the marker without ever breaking eye contact. “I believe you. Completely.”

 

“I’m not Pete!” Patrick cries out. “My name is Patrick! Pete isn’t crazy, I don’t know why he went to you– I don’t know who you are– but please just fucking listen to him because you two are the first people who’ve heard me since this whole shitshow started!”

 

Andy nods slowly, and he stands up like he’s afraid Patrick’s a feral cat or something. What is this guy’s deal with cat’s anyways? “Okay, Patrick. I hear you loud and clear right now, alright? And Pete… Pete came to me because he’s got a pretty good intuition about shit sometimes, which is probably why he could hear you. He doesn’t know it really but I’m uh… a witch, I guess.”

 

Patrick wants to argue, but he’s literally a ghost. Witches being a real thing aren’t too far out of the realm of possibility, he guesses. So instead he crosses his arms and huffs like a child, stomping his feet.

 

He’s surprised when he realizes he can actually feel the ground thump under him.

 

Wait.

 

Patrick looks down right as Andy says “Don’t panic.”

 

His arms have tattoos. He’s not wearing his chucks.

 

Patrick stumbles, realizing very quickly he doesn’t entirely know how to walk right now. He’s just been floating or gliding or whatever for years, he… why is he walking? Why does he feel warm? 

 

He falls backwards, head bashing against the wall and pain– real, vivid, pain– blossoms out of the very base of his skull. His skull? Pete’s skull. Pete.

 

Pete. He’s possessing Pete.

 

“Patrick, you’re fine,” Andy says, and he’s crouching in front of him– in front of Pete– him and Pete? Is Pete even fucking concious? Oh God, did he kill him or something? Did Patrick shove his soul out to make room for his own? Fuck. 

 

“I know you’re scared but you gotta calm down, buddy,” Andy says calmly. “Is this your first time possessing someone?”

 

“I’m possessing someone,” Patrick repeats. “I- I didn’t– I didn’t mean, didn’t know– I–”

 

“It’s fine,” Andy says. “I think Pete’s like a vessel or clairvoyant or some shit. It’s why he heard you and why you can possess him. But listen, you have to calm down. Anything you do he will feel. You could seriously hurt him if you don’t take a second, okay?”

 

Patrick doesn’t know what to do. What to think.

 

He just nods his head– Pete’s head. “Okay.”

 

“Okay,” Andy says. He watches the man’s eyes flicker around the room before landing on the hat discarded on the coffee table. “That’s your hat, right? You’re attached to it?”

 

“Not really,” Patrick replies, shifting a little and trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his head. “I just like to follow it because it was mine, and my mom got it for me. But I’m… I mean, I could leave it, if I wanted to.”

 

“Is there anything you want?” Andy asks, sitting down carefully beside him. Patrick pulls Pete’s knees to his chest and lays his chin on them. It’s weirdly comforting, having a solid body. He doesn’t know too much about Pete, but he hopes the guy doesn’t mind. “Like… proper burial? To go see some weirdly specific show? Any unfinished business?”

 

“Other than being alive, no,” Patrick replies. It’s weird hearing his voice come out of Pete’s mouth. “That’s the only thing. I didn’t get to, y’know, do anything. I was nineteen. I am nineteen, I guess. I’m stuck at nineteen and that sucks. It’s not even a fun age to be, man. You get a license at sixteen, adulthood at eighteen, drinking at twenty-one. I got stuck with one of the stupidest years ever.”

 

“So you just want a second chance?” Andy asks.

 

Patrick shrugs. “I guess so. I like Pete’s lyrics, if that’s anything.”

 

“Maybe,” Andy breathes, and though Patrick doesn’t know him very well, he feels like he’s watching a plan unfold behind rectangular glasses. “Alright. We’re gonna try to get you out of him for now, though.”

 

“What if I want to talk again?” Patrick asks. “Pete only seems to hear me if I’m singing his shit.”

 

“We’ll figure it out,” Andy says with a grin. “Witch, remember?”

 

Patrick nods. “Right.”

 

Right. Because witches can exist and that’s fine.

 

Patrick just keeps nodding and Andy says something most certainly not in English, and before Patrick knows it he’s floating again, just next to Pete, who promptly slumps back against the wall.

 

Patrick really hopes he didn’t give the guy a concussion.

 

He watches silently as Andy pulls Pete over to the couch and throws a blanket over him. All Patrick can bring himself to do is watch– not like he can do much else. He’s humming, because he noticed roughly thirteen days ago that it helps Pete sleep better.

 

Despite the situation, Patrick likes Pete. Mostly.

 

The dude’s definitely a fucking idiot sometimes, but who isn’t? He’s also a great writer, and maybe in another life, Patrick could’ve composed for him. Wouldn’t that be something? Pete’s also not necessarily been rude about the whole haunting thing. It’s probably normal for him to be a bit freaked out. Patrick has an odd fear now, though, that he’s fucked it all up. Pete’s gonna want him to be exorcised or some shit, and Patrick assumes he won’t have much of a choice in the matter.

 

“We’ll figure this out,” Andy says, and Patrick can only assume he’s talking to him. “I know you’re still here, sorry that I can’t see or hear you, but we might be able to change that later, okay? And uh… sorry for being a dick earlier. We can talk more when Pete wakes up, though. I think.”

 

“Okay,” Patrick says, “But what if you guys can’t hear me?” Andy doesn’t respond– obviously. He’s back to being wind again, as much as that sucks. But at least Pete’s probably okay.

 

Patrick watches Andy leave the apartment with the cat posters in hand and he looks back to Pete– sleeping, brows furrowed a little.

 

Patrick hasn’t minded watching him.

Notes:

I'm officially on winter break so I hope I can update regularly! Again, huge thanks to Alex/mummifiedgoose for EVERYTHING, and be sure to check out their works! I also might update some of my other fics and series while I have free time this month, so stay tuned!