Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > A Little Less Lost Boys, A Little More Light
A Little Less Lost Boys, A Little More Light III -
"Wake Up"
by ingrid
0o0o0o0o
Sleeping on the floor isn't as comfortable as it used to be when he was a kid, Patrick thinks, wincing and twisting a touch of stiffness out from his upper neck and shoulders.
He glances at his watch. Seven-twelve p.m. and he knows that sunset is officially twenty minutes away. The canvas covers have grown hot and heavy over the hours, as beside him, Pete stirs. Patrick lifts the makeshift blankets a little bit, enjoying the cool air that washes over his sweat-damp face and looks at his watch again.
Eighteen minutes until sunset. Jesus ...
Yeah, it's getting close to the witching hour. How the hell they were going to get out of there -- vampire central -- without any weapons or support was anyone's guess, but Patrick decides not to worry about that now.
Because Peter's safe and alive and that's all that matters, at least until the sun is fully set.
"You look like hell." Pete's fully awake now, the death sleep finally letting go. Patrick can just make out the soft lines of his face by the light of his glowing watch, but knows that to Peter's sharp vampire eyes, it's probably as bright as daytime under there.
"Thanks," Patrick sighs. "I love you too."
Pete laughs shortly. "Sorry." Reaching over, he takes off Patrick's hat, which has miraculously clung to his head the entire night. Slowly, Peter cards his fingers through the damp hair, brushing the strays away from Patrick's eyes and cheeks. "Thanks for catching me."
Patrick's eyes close with shaky pleasure. Enjoying Peter's touch, the both of them alone, is something that's all too rare these days. Over the years, their relationship had reached that uneasy balance between 'more than friends' and 'not quite lovers' and everything had been rolling along smoothly enough until ... until ...
Patrick's eyes snap open. His heart is pounding and he shifts a little away from Peter's touch. "We need to plan a way out of here. They're going to know where you are."
"And then they'll be sorry they found me." There's a razor's edge of threat lurking beneath Pete's calm tones. "Don't worry about them."
"Yeah. Right. This coming from the guy who nearly gets toasted because one of them sends you a present." Patrick doesn't mean to sound condescending, but he can't help it. This situation is becoming problematic in ways he'd never dreamed of. "We have to be smarter than they are. Every day, every minute, every second, we can't slip up, not again. Because ..."
"Because you don't want to become a monster like me?"
There's a catch in Peter's voice as he says this, one that makes Patrick's chest hurt. "No ... that's ... that's not ..."
But Peter is already slipping away from him, curling up inside himself as he always did when hurt. Folding himself up within the pain, cutting off the outside world entirely. "It's all right," he whispers. "I know what I am now. I don't blame you for hating me; I hate me too. I just want to clean up this mess, get that bastard and then, you won't have to deal with me anymore."
Patrick is stunned. Propping himself up on his elbow, he reaches over and tucks his hand around Pete's cheek. His skin is cold to the touch. "Don't ever say that. Don't ever believe that I hate you."
"Are you saying I shouldn't believe the truth?"
"I'm saying you shouldn't lie to yourself." Patrick pulls Peter closer, refusing to let him slide away. "Because nothing is further from reality. I couldn't hate you if I tried. You know how I feel about you, how I've always felt, so don't try this bullshit now. This doesn't change my feelings, not for you, not ever."
Doubt colors Peter's tone, but he relaxes a little in Patrick's embrace. "I miss sleeping next to you." Pete's voice is small ... choked. "I miss ... the other stuff."
Patrick flinches, but shakes it off. He misses those things too, even a couple of weeks apart is way too long. "Like this other stuff?" he asks, sliding his hand from Peter's cheek to his shoulder, then to his waist.
They're so close, the world around them so blessedly quiet and Peter feels wonderful, his worn t-shirt soft beneath Patrick's wandering fingers.
Patrick can feel skin where Peter's shirt rides up, the curve of his ribs, the dip and rise of his hip. There's a sound of Peter's breath quickening and God, he could just spend the rest of his life touching him, running his thumb along Peter's lower lip, tracing his nails gently along the slim lines of his neck, feeling the pulse thrumming there.
It's very warm now, even warmer when Peter takes Patrick's hand and turns the palm up, pressing his lips to the trembling flesh. "Please," he asks softly. "I love you ... please ..."
Patrick doesn't need to be asked twice. The kiss is a mere brush of lips, but he lets himself explore a little, especially when Peter responds, his mouth flowering open, his tongue touching Patrick's, tentatively at first, then with greater assurance.
Patrick can't help the little noise he makes in the back of his throat, especially when the kiss turns fierce, Peter clinging to him like a lifeline, licking into his mouth and Patrick can sense a slight copper tang of blood, but Peter tastes mostly like himself and this is more heartening than anything else.
/He's still here with me/, Patrick thinks with joyful desperation. /I haven't lost him yet/.
Peter's arms tighten around him, pulling Patrick closer and fuck, how terrific that feels, Patrick's body aching in the best way, his cock hardening and it was almost enough to send him over the edge, feeling Peter's response, as hot as his own. It's hard to resist pulling Peter atop him, and Patrick tucks his leg between Pete's trembling ones, pressing up and enjoying the moan that inspires.
Cupping his hands around Pete's ass, Patrick urges him on, arching up to meet his erratic thrusts down. He knows they only have a few minutes, maybe less until the world around them turns to darkness and God, if they could just have this, this one moment ...
Abruptly, Peter tears his mouth away. "We have to stop," he says raggedly. "Right now."
Disappointment crashes all around Patrick and he shakes his head. "No, just ... just ..."
But Peter has already rolled off, clambering to his feet. His voice is shaking. "No more. We have to get out of here. Now."
He yanks Patrick up without formality and its then Patrick hears it. A scratching at the door.
They're here.
"Fuck," Patrick breathes, enraged. Those bastards not only were killer scum, they also had the worst timing in the universe. He pats around his jacket for a weapon. He thinks he might have a taser somewhere, but ...
"Forget it," Pete orders, as if reading his mind. "Just stand back."
He yanks the door open and Patrick is forced to shield his eyes against a flood of streetlight filling the room. He stumbles back a little, listening to the snarls and shrieks as Peter tears their "visitors" to pieces, one by one. Must be a band of fledglings, Patrick thinks, reaching for his cell phone, heartened when he sees the battery still has some juice left in it.
More snarling, more ripping ... then silence. All of them are dead and Peter's leaning against the doorway, panting harshly from the effort.
Patrick doesn't bother looking down, stepping over the remains without blinking. He dials Andrew's number with a sharp press of his thumb, gratified when he hears the pickup. "Are you there?"
Andrew immediately yells into the other end. "Holy shit! Where the fuck were you? Did you find Pete?"
"Basement on Main and Tenth Street and, yes. Just get here," Patrick says tiredly, leaning back against the cool bricks. "And don't stop until you do."
He snaps the phone shut without bothering to listen to Andrew's reply. Around them, the night is taking on a deadly pall, shadows flitting in every dark corner and Patrick knows that they aren't out of the woods, not yet.
"I say we start walking," Peter offers, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans. Blood that isn't his. "If we're backed up in here, it might get rough."
"Yeah," Patrick sighs. He's tired, so damned tired and doesn't protest when Peter pushes him up against the wall and kisses him again, deeply, smiling against Patrick's mouth, making him groan with disappointment when he pulls away. "Damn it, Pete." Complaining, but not really. "Can we finish this at home? Now?"
"Nope." Peter's still smiling. He's happy again, more or less, and that's a start. "Gotta a lot of hunting to do tonight." He stretches his arms out and lets out a whoop, as together, they amble down the foggy street. "I feel like taking out some punks, I think."
In the distance, Patrick hears the squeal of tires, some car zig-zagging wildly through the narrow streets and he knows Andrew's bad driving when he hears it. There's more movement behind them, but that doesn't matter because he's awake now and ready for the fight, with Peter next to him and later ... maybe later ...
They could finally get a bit of time alone.
0o0o0o
The teacup is gingerly placed in front of him and William picks it up with a bright smile.
He never drinks from it, oh no, he just enjoys the ritual -- the swirl of the bag, the warmth of the porcelain against his cold skin, the slightly sweet, slightly bitter smell of freshly brewed tea.
Once he's bored with that, he simply pours it on the floor, or, if it's really hot, he throws it in an opponent's eyes, enjoying their screams of pain.
That amuses him. Sometimes.
Amusements are rare now, after all these centuries of what some might call 'living'. Not that William is adverse to making his own fun, especially now that a certain "experiment" is turning out exactly as he might have wished. He couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried, really and tonight might just be a night to celebrate.
Celebrate with blood.
With great care, he pulls on his fur wrap, then adjusts his snow-white bowler hat. He tugs on a single glove, knowing he'll have to purchase another pair, since the last partner to this one was given as a gift to his favorite new fledgling, his dear Peter.
The one who was going to be his -- all his -- sooner, rather than later.
"Wake Up"
by ingrid
0o0o0o0o
Sleeping on the floor isn't as comfortable as it used to be when he was a kid, Patrick thinks, wincing and twisting a touch of stiffness out from his upper neck and shoulders.
He glances at his watch. Seven-twelve p.m. and he knows that sunset is officially twenty minutes away. The canvas covers have grown hot and heavy over the hours, as beside him, Pete stirs. Patrick lifts the makeshift blankets a little bit, enjoying the cool air that washes over his sweat-damp face and looks at his watch again.
Eighteen minutes until sunset. Jesus ...
Yeah, it's getting close to the witching hour. How the hell they were going to get out of there -- vampire central -- without any weapons or support was anyone's guess, but Patrick decides not to worry about that now.
Because Peter's safe and alive and that's all that matters, at least until the sun is fully set.
"You look like hell." Pete's fully awake now, the death sleep finally letting go. Patrick can just make out the soft lines of his face by the light of his glowing watch, but knows that to Peter's sharp vampire eyes, it's probably as bright as daytime under there.
"Thanks," Patrick sighs. "I love you too."
Pete laughs shortly. "Sorry." Reaching over, he takes off Patrick's hat, which has miraculously clung to his head the entire night. Slowly, Peter cards his fingers through the damp hair, brushing the strays away from Patrick's eyes and cheeks. "Thanks for catching me."
Patrick's eyes close with shaky pleasure. Enjoying Peter's touch, the both of them alone, is something that's all too rare these days. Over the years, their relationship had reached that uneasy balance between 'more than friends' and 'not quite lovers' and everything had been rolling along smoothly enough until ... until ...
Patrick's eyes snap open. His heart is pounding and he shifts a little away from Peter's touch. "We need to plan a way out of here. They're going to know where you are."
"And then they'll be sorry they found me." There's a razor's edge of threat lurking beneath Pete's calm tones. "Don't worry about them."
"Yeah. Right. This coming from the guy who nearly gets toasted because one of them sends you a present." Patrick doesn't mean to sound condescending, but he can't help it. This situation is becoming problematic in ways he'd never dreamed of. "We have to be smarter than they are. Every day, every minute, every second, we can't slip up, not again. Because ..."
"Because you don't want to become a monster like me?"
There's a catch in Peter's voice as he says this, one that makes Patrick's chest hurt. "No ... that's ... that's not ..."
But Peter is already slipping away from him, curling up inside himself as he always did when hurt. Folding himself up within the pain, cutting off the outside world entirely. "It's all right," he whispers. "I know what I am now. I don't blame you for hating me; I hate me too. I just want to clean up this mess, get that bastard and then, you won't have to deal with me anymore."
Patrick is stunned. Propping himself up on his elbow, he reaches over and tucks his hand around Pete's cheek. His skin is cold to the touch. "Don't ever say that. Don't ever believe that I hate you."
"Are you saying I shouldn't believe the truth?"
"I'm saying you shouldn't lie to yourself." Patrick pulls Peter closer, refusing to let him slide away. "Because nothing is further from reality. I couldn't hate you if I tried. You know how I feel about you, how I've always felt, so don't try this bullshit now. This doesn't change my feelings, not for you, not ever."
Doubt colors Peter's tone, but he relaxes a little in Patrick's embrace. "I miss sleeping next to you." Pete's voice is small ... choked. "I miss ... the other stuff."
Patrick flinches, but shakes it off. He misses those things too, even a couple of weeks apart is way too long. "Like this other stuff?" he asks, sliding his hand from Peter's cheek to his shoulder, then to his waist.
They're so close, the world around them so blessedly quiet and Peter feels wonderful, his worn t-shirt soft beneath Patrick's wandering fingers.
Patrick can feel skin where Peter's shirt rides up, the curve of his ribs, the dip and rise of his hip. There's a sound of Peter's breath quickening and God, he could just spend the rest of his life touching him, running his thumb along Peter's lower lip, tracing his nails gently along the slim lines of his neck, feeling the pulse thrumming there.
It's very warm now, even warmer when Peter takes Patrick's hand and turns the palm up, pressing his lips to the trembling flesh. "Please," he asks softly. "I love you ... please ..."
Patrick doesn't need to be asked twice. The kiss is a mere brush of lips, but he lets himself explore a little, especially when Peter responds, his mouth flowering open, his tongue touching Patrick's, tentatively at first, then with greater assurance.
Patrick can't help the little noise he makes in the back of his throat, especially when the kiss turns fierce, Peter clinging to him like a lifeline, licking into his mouth and Patrick can sense a slight copper tang of blood, but Peter tastes mostly like himself and this is more heartening than anything else.
/He's still here with me/, Patrick thinks with joyful desperation. /I haven't lost him yet/.
Peter's arms tighten around him, pulling Patrick closer and fuck, how terrific that feels, Patrick's body aching in the best way, his cock hardening and it was almost enough to send him over the edge, feeling Peter's response, as hot as his own. It's hard to resist pulling Peter atop him, and Patrick tucks his leg between Pete's trembling ones, pressing up and enjoying the moan that inspires.
Cupping his hands around Pete's ass, Patrick urges him on, arching up to meet his erratic thrusts down. He knows they only have a few minutes, maybe less until the world around them turns to darkness and God, if they could just have this, this one moment ...
Abruptly, Peter tears his mouth away. "We have to stop," he says raggedly. "Right now."
Disappointment crashes all around Patrick and he shakes his head. "No, just ... just ..."
But Peter has already rolled off, clambering to his feet. His voice is shaking. "No more. We have to get out of here. Now."
He yanks Patrick up without formality and its then Patrick hears it. A scratching at the door.
They're here.
"Fuck," Patrick breathes, enraged. Those bastards not only were killer scum, they also had the worst timing in the universe. He pats around his jacket for a weapon. He thinks he might have a taser somewhere, but ...
"Forget it," Pete orders, as if reading his mind. "Just stand back."
He yanks the door open and Patrick is forced to shield his eyes against a flood of streetlight filling the room. He stumbles back a little, listening to the snarls and shrieks as Peter tears their "visitors" to pieces, one by one. Must be a band of fledglings, Patrick thinks, reaching for his cell phone, heartened when he sees the battery still has some juice left in it.
More snarling, more ripping ... then silence. All of them are dead and Peter's leaning against the doorway, panting harshly from the effort.
Patrick doesn't bother looking down, stepping over the remains without blinking. He dials Andrew's number with a sharp press of his thumb, gratified when he hears the pickup. "Are you there?"
Andrew immediately yells into the other end. "Holy shit! Where the fuck were you? Did you find Pete?"
"Basement on Main and Tenth Street and, yes. Just get here," Patrick says tiredly, leaning back against the cool bricks. "And don't stop until you do."
He snaps the phone shut without bothering to listen to Andrew's reply. Around them, the night is taking on a deadly pall, shadows flitting in every dark corner and Patrick knows that they aren't out of the woods, not yet.
"I say we start walking," Peter offers, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans. Blood that isn't his. "If we're backed up in here, it might get rough."
"Yeah," Patrick sighs. He's tired, so damned tired and doesn't protest when Peter pushes him up against the wall and kisses him again, deeply, smiling against Patrick's mouth, making him groan with disappointment when he pulls away. "Damn it, Pete." Complaining, but not really. "Can we finish this at home? Now?"
"Nope." Peter's still smiling. He's happy again, more or less, and that's a start. "Gotta a lot of hunting to do tonight." He stretches his arms out and lets out a whoop, as together, they amble down the foggy street. "I feel like taking out some punks, I think."
In the distance, Patrick hears the squeal of tires, some car zig-zagging wildly through the narrow streets and he knows Andrew's bad driving when he hears it. There's more movement behind them, but that doesn't matter because he's awake now and ready for the fight, with Peter next to him and later ... maybe later ...
They could finally get a bit of time alone.
0o0o0o
The teacup is gingerly placed in front of him and William picks it up with a bright smile.
He never drinks from it, oh no, he just enjoys the ritual -- the swirl of the bag, the warmth of the porcelain against his cold skin, the slightly sweet, slightly bitter smell of freshly brewed tea.
Once he's bored with that, he simply pours it on the floor, or, if it's really hot, he throws it in an opponent's eyes, enjoying their screams of pain.
That amuses him. Sometimes.
Amusements are rare now, after all these centuries of what some might call 'living'. Not that William is adverse to making his own fun, especially now that a certain "experiment" is turning out exactly as he might have wished. He couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried, really and tonight might just be a night to celebrate.
Celebrate with blood.
With great care, he pulls on his fur wrap, then adjusts his snow-white bowler hat. He tugs on a single glove, knowing he'll have to purchase another pair, since the last partner to this one was given as a gift to his favorite new fledgling, his dear Peter.
The one who was going to be his -- all his -- sooner, rather than later.
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