Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy

Ice Games

by Skullkid 0 reviews

It's the end of the world as we know it. (Slight Pete/Patrick, oneshot, character death)

Category: Fall Out Boy - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Horror - Warnings: [V] - Published: 2009-09-06 - Updated: 2009-09-07 - 1513 words - Complete

"Apocalypse," Pete whispers, the word ghosting over Patrick's cheek, and they both know it's true. "You should get out of here." Patrick hiccups, wipes his cheek. The tears are already frozen to his face. Tattooed arms wrap around his neck, lips press against his ear, mouthing words neither of them ever wanted to admit.

Pete says, "don't kiss me," so Patrick doesn't. He rests his forehead against Pete's, eyes closed, one hand tangled in Pete's hair. He wants to say something, "I'll come back," or "I won't forget you," but can't. He's never been as good with words as he'd like. He settles for goodbye. It hurts more than he thought it would.

The ice-things are at the corner. Pete knows it. "If you close your eyes, they disappear," he whispers. Then, "Run."

He runs.

When he gets to the end of the road, he turns back, and Pete's arms are frozen to the ground; and the ice-things are still coming.


The stairs at the foot of the cathedral are frozen over and stuck with grains of salt. Patrick can just make out the vague outlines of spray-painted words under the foot-thick ice.

He rubs his hands together. His mittens spark, static electricity.

The cathedral looms.

In the distance, someone screams.

Patrick breathes out slowly, checks the soles of his shoes to make sure the grip is still decent, and steps onto the ice; but his feet slip, and he's suddenly falling, in deceivingly slow motion, and he's given up before he hits the ground.

There's a hand on his back. "Need some help, Comrade?"

Patrick takes a step backwards, waits for a moment to catch his breath before turning around, afraid of what he'll see. The hand is warm, so it's either another refugee, or one of the ice-thing's zombies. Patrick's not sure he wants to find out. Half of him just wants to sprint up the stairs as fast as he can, even though he knows if he falls he'll be frozen stiff in seconds. But when he turns, the face behind him isn't only friendly - it's familiar.

"Joe!" Patrick sighs with relief. "It's - you're - you're alright!"

Joe grins, a hint of fatigue in his eyes; he rubs his chin, tiny bits of snow flickering out of his beard. "I am. Not sure I can say the same for anyone else."

Patrick closes his eyes a second. He remembers Joe's roommates - Jon, Frankie, the Butcher - and wonders where they're frozen, what they're doing. A lot of people didn't get any warning.

He doesn't know what to say, "I'm sorry" or "I know" or even "me too," but none of them feel right. He doesn't have to, in the end, because Joe breaks the silence.

"What about Pete?"

Patrick twitches violently. Joe gets the message.

"Oh, Tricky. I'm -"

"So are you going up there?" Patrick interrupts him, not wanting to hear what he couldn't say. Joe shields his eyes and looks up at the cathedral, the sun slicing through the freezing air, making him squint.

"Yeah, I guess. If that's where the guy is."

"Yeah." Patrick swallows. There's a moment of silence between them. "Shall we, then?" Joe nods, holds out his hand, and Patrick doesn't hesitate in taking it. It's help. Together they step onto the glassy step.

This time, neither of them slip.


Ten steps to go, Patrick notices how hard he's shivering. Joe's hair is frozen is place, his lips are turning blue. Their breath freezes in front of them, tiny clouds of ice that fall delicately to the ground. Patrick tries to talk, but his voice numbs in his throat, and all that comes out are tiny wheezing noises.

Joe blinks at him, then looks back down the stairs, and drags in a lungfull of ice air. "Patrick," he whispers hoarsely, "look-!"

Patrick doesn't need to. He already knows what's there. Tall, dark creatures, fingers like icicles, pools of white where eyes once were, their legs at least twice the size of the rest of their bodies. They look like they're walking underwater, but really, they're deathly fast.

"Ice-things," Patrick mouths.

Joe's suddenly rooting around in his bag, desperately searching, and he pulls out a bag of salt; he throws handfuls of the stuff on the ground in front of them, lessening the slip of the stair. "Come on," he rasps, squeezing Patrick's hand. Patrick doesn't need a second telling.

Even with the salt, progress is slow. Patrick's eyelashes are heavy with miniscule droplets of water, too cold to hang in the air. The top is so close, Patrick can see the glow of light from inside the cathedral door, shadows of people crowded inside. On the last step, Joe throws the rest of the bag of salt across the path leading to the concrete doors, and the two shuffle as fast as they dare towards the door.

Patrick looks back and wishes he didn't. The ice-things are on the tenth-to-last step. They were there just minutes before.

Joe shoves the door open with his shoulder, pulls Patrick inside and slams the door behind them. Frost creeps across the floor to their feet.

People are crowded around a spiral stair-case at the other end of the room, and Patrick swears under his breath - they're never going to get to the topmost room through that mess.

"This way," Joe says, pulling him to a smaller door in the side of the wall. Patrick panics, but lets himself be dragged. Joe closes the door quietly, not wanting to alert the other people to their presence, and gestures at a tiny set of crumbling stairs.


The pair climb quickly. These steps aren't slippery, not frozen at all, and ascent is simple. But when they get to the top, they come face to face with a brick wall.

Patrick actually cries out, dry sobs that echo around the walls. Joe whispers "no", over and over again, thumping at the wall in front of the staircase.

Patrick can hear the door at the bottom creaking.

"Joe," he moans, terrified. "Joe, please." Joe grunts, slapping his palms against the wall, and Patrick can't think any more, can't even breathe.

It's getting colder.

"Joe," Patrick says again, "oh God, Joe, I don't want to die-"

Joe slams his shoulder against the wall and it groans open, a door disguised as part of the wall, and Patrick almost pushes Joe to the ground in his efforts to get out. They manage to shut it behind them, and lean against it, puffing.

When he finally looks up, Patrick has a sudden jolt of terror. They've gotten the wrong place. The room is filled with rows and rows of jars, and the jars - they're full of /bees/. But then he sees the figure sitting in the corner of the room, naked except for a pair of ragged shorts. For a moment he thinks the man has multicoloured skin; then he realises the swirls of colour across his body are tattoos.

The man looks up. "Bees," he says, and Joe lets out a shout of laughter, short, but hysterical. The man shakes his head. "No, really. Bees. They can't stand them."

Joe gasps, tears running down his face. "Bees? All this time - they're scared of /bees/?"

The man strides towards them, reaches out to Joe.

"Don't touch me," Joe snaps. "Fucking BEES? You could have saved us all - you could have let your fucking army of bees go, and we'd be safe! This never would have happened!"

Patrick thinks of Pete, at his face when he was falling. He knew he wasn't going to get up. He thinks of his parents, his brother; he thinks of his fifth grade teacher and his boss at the record store and the guy at the corner store who always laughed at him. He knows they're all gone. And this guy could have stopped it.

Joe hits the man in the face.

The man does nothing. He just stands there. Then he says:

"But bees die in the winter."

Joe's hands fly to his mouth. "Oh!"

"Break the fucking jars already," Patrick says thickly. The ice-things are scrabbling on the other side of the door. The tattooed man is covered in goosebumps.


Then the door falls in.


"If you close your eyes, they disappear."

Patrick closes his eyes.


Patrick goes back to where Pete was frozen, when the ice is all melted away. A few people who had been frozen thawed, and just walked away like nothing ever happened. Patrick hopes desperately that the same thing had happened to Pete.

When he gets there, there's nothing left, save for a few shattered fragments of bone.

Patrick can see it in his mind's eye: the ice-thing reaching Pete, already frozen, and reaching out one - just one - of those claw-like fingers, tapping, shattering Pete into pieces. He stifles a sob.

A cloud floats by the sun.

Patrick can hear someone laughing.

AN: crossposted to DeviantArt as usual.
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