Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > A Little Less Lost Boys, A Little More Light

Far From the Light

by ingrid 17 reviews

Time to play.

Category: Fall Out Boy - Rating: R - Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Horror, Romance - Warnings: [V] - Published: 2006-06-12 - Updated: 2006-06-12 - 2003 words

Far From the Light
A Little Less Lost Boys VII
by ingrid


Andrew calls the band meeting outside, in the afternoon. It's a weird hour of day for all of them; Patrick can't remember the last time he'd been awake this 'early' in the day and he's forced to shield his eyes against the sunlight though a pair of black-tinted sunglasses. His head aches and he wishes he were in bed, but Andrew said it was important, so he follows along, his body sluggish with protest.

Nighttime has been their time since ... well ... always, it seems. They work at night, play at night, hunt at night -- as nocturnal as cockroaches Pete used to joke, until the joke wasn't funny anymore because Pete is truly a creature of the night now, possibly for the rest of his life.

Which makes it even stranger that Andrew called the meeting now, knowing Pete can't join them. It makes Patrick uneasy, but he trusts Andrew and Joe, literally with his life, so he doesn't ask why.

It'll all become clear soon enough.

"We need to pull in some money," Andrew says, cutting straight to the chase, squinting through his glasses at the city laid out beneath Lover's Point, a natural bluff jutting out from the urban landscape, where young couples like to escape to for a quick fuck in their cars, or at least they used to, before the vampire thugs made things like that a vague memory from saner days. "I got us a gig in Mortown."

"That's great ..." Patrick begins, then pauses. "Mortown is pretty far. I'm not sure we can make it there and back in one night."

Andrew peers at him intently and Patrick suddenly understands why this meeting is in the day. "I know. But we can't give up gigging. What we do isn't cheap and it's not like we're going to become bankers any time soon."

"We can't gig without Pete," Patrick reminds him. "That's out of the question."

Joe shuffles, digging his toe into the dirt, but says nothing. Patrick looks from him to Andrew who is grim-faced. "We will not play without Pete," he proclaims staunchly. "That's not negotiable."

"I didn't say we need to dump Pete," Andrew replies slowly. "But we can't limit ourselves to playing within a five mile radius either. We need to figure out a safe method of transport and I'm not sure Pete's going to be too happy about that. We barely got him to agree to the vault -- stuffing himself in a sealed car trunk isn't going to be much more appealing."

"He'll deal," Patrick protests. "I'll ... I'll talk to him."

Andrew shrugs as Joe looks up from the dirt, his jaw tight. "Do you think the audience will be safe? he blurts out suddenly. "I mean, he's got everything under control still ... right?"

Patrick feels the blood draining from his face. "Yes, he does," he replies, his throat tight. "I can't believe you're even asking me that. What happened to trusting each other?"

"It's not a irrational question," Andrew says, as Joe ducks his head away from Patrick's glare. "We love Pete too, but he's not the same anymore. He's one of them and we can't expose innocent people to such a potential danger. Pete might have the best intentions in the world and still not be able to control himself. We can't be sure."

"I'm sure. Is that good enough for you?" Patrick growls, furious. He's angry at them for not trusting Pete, but in the back of his mind, he's angrier because he knows they might be right. "Look, I'll be responsible for Pete. You handle the transportation. All right?"

"Fine." Andrew rubs his hands on his jeans and nods out toward the city, shimmering the sunlight. "Looks so harmless in the daytime, doesn't it?"

Patrick can't remember when he's hated the sight of anything more, but he keeps that thought to himself. "I guess."

"/Start the van, get me out of this one horse town, waste this night/," Andrew sings, with a wry smile. He punches Patrick lightly in the arm. "Cool down, man. Everything's all right and if it isn't ..."

"We'll go out with a bang?"

"Like a bottle rocket out a stray cat's ass," Andrew replies, looking pleased with his own colorful metaphor. "And they'll be paying us for it."


Pete is good-humored about the sealed trunk Andrew creates for him in the back of the car, much to Patrick's happy surprise. Maybe it's more resignation than anything else, but he seems to be thrilled to be playing music somewhere ... anywhere ... so he takes the dark carpeted, black-caulked "coffin" in stride.

"It's only for the return trip," Patrick offers sheepishly.

"Where's my speaker system, bitch?" Pete yells at Andrew, with a wink to Patrick. "I want some kickass bass in there before I go anywhere!"

"How about I just kick your ass?" Andrew replies, with a mock kick toward him and for a moment, everything is all right again in Patrick's world.

The night of the gig comes up quickly enough. The ride there is a boring trudge, enlightened with play fights and the usual wrong turnoff two exits before they're supposed to get off.

Pete's head is on Patrick's shoulder for most of the ride, his hand squeezing Patrick's knee. He's chewing a wad of peppermint gum, to mask the heavy scent of the bloodblend which is strong, as he's added double the ingredients tonight -- just to be sure.

He's afraid too, Patrick thinks, smoothing his hand over Pete's carefully mussed hair. "What do you want to open with?"

Pete shrugs. "Andrew's choice."

Which is a joke, because it's always Andrew's choice as the set list is his sacred baby, except for those times they fuck it up on purpose last minute and Joe laughs at Andrew's smug expression. "How about "Chicago ..."?"

"That's the closer," Andrew grumbles, which only encourages the rest of them to throw out song titles at random, just to irritate him. The highway turns into streets and the lights of the club flash at them in crimson blares of neon and they are laughing at the fans who pound on the car hood as they roll up to the back entrance.

Pete turns in Patrick's embrace to kiss him before clambering out, smiling and ducking the affectionate pulls on his shirt from the girls surrounding him. They make it inside without incident and Patrick is grateful for Andrew's efficiency in getting them set-up properly, even from a hundred miles away, knowing instinctively which roadies are the real deal and which ones think a phaser is a gun from /Star Trek/.

All he has to do is pick up his instrument and play and suddenly there's nothing except the music and the people grooving to it. His voice is in good shape, he doesn't have to strain at all tonight and he's thrilled that as a band, they're still as tight as ever. The drumming is sharp staccato and it's better than drugs, almost better than sex, this intimate sharing of song with a few hundred kindred souls.

The night goes quickly and Patrick's in the middle of the second set, when out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pete waver on his feet. Just a little, so he keeps going, but it soon becomes apparent something isn't right. Pete starts by missing notes, then entire chords as he reaches up to clutch at his head as if he's in pain ... or something worse.

The audience doesn't catch on, not right away, but when a young girl climbs up on the stage and clings to Pete, Patrick's voice fades away in horror as Pete's fangs start to bare at the tips, his eyes glazed. He's staring at the girl's creamy white neck, as she cranes up to embrace him in exuberance.

Deadly temptation radiates from Pete's entire body and Patrick is just about to stop the show when one of Andrew's drumsticks comes flying out from behind the kit, cracking Pete in the back, hard enough to shake him from whatever has taken hold.

It's not much, but it's enough and startled, Pete stares at the girl in horror, swaying on his feet, as if he's about to pass out.

Quickly, Patrick throws down his guitar and peels the girl off of him, before grabbing the mike. "Thanks, everyone! Goodnight!" he cries into it, abandoning the stage, yanking Pete behind him.

Andrew and Joe follow, as do the jeers of the disappointed crowd, stunned at their sudden departure. The club manager follows them to the door, cursing and screaming, but Patrick shoves past him, half-pulling, half-carrying Pete out the door. They make it into the car and roar off, with Andrew at the wheel.

They ride in silence for a long time. Pete's head is buried in his hands and he's rocking back and forth, in misery or shock, it's impossible to tell.

Maybe it's both.

Andrew stares at the road, Joe stares at the dashboard and Patrick's throat is so tight, he has to struggle to breath past the lump lodged in it. His words from earlier in the week come back to haunt him: I'll be responsible for him and /whatever happened to trust/.

What happened to trusting one another?

But this isn't about trust, this is about something they can't control, something that's changed them all forever and Patrick thinks he might be crying as the sky slowly turns light around the horizon's edge. "Stop," he orders Andrew thickly, nodding toward the dawn. "We have to ..."

"Yeah," is the dull reply and Andrew pulls over without another word.

Pete is bonelessly bundled into the trunk. They take off, speeding past the bluff overlooking home, where the night before, the thugs had a single evening to reign free from being hunted. Tomorrow night they'll go back to work and maybe things will be somewhat normal again, but Patrick knows they've turned a bad corner, sharp cracks are forming between them and he's not sure how he's going to hold it together.

The silence is heavy, but welcome, as Andrew parks the car. He climbs out stiffly, followed by Joe. "Coming inside?" he asks Patrick, who shakes his head.

He's not leaving Pete alone in the car. It's too dangerous. "I'll sleep here," he says, stretching out over the back seat, his head resting uncomfortably against the door handle. "Catch you on the dark side."

Andrew frowns, but nods at him, walking toward the hideout. Patrick watches him, inhaling shakily, before touching his hand to the back seat, behind which Pete lies in the dreamless death sleep.

Hopefully dreamless and Patrick knows he's not that lucky, as he closes his eyes, the nightmare of what just happened unfolding in his mind, in an unending loop. It could have been worse, he tries to convince himself, except that for them ... for this family of theirs ...

It really couldn't have been.


Behind the club, the girl who climbed the stage to hug Pete lies on the sidewalk, her broken neck sticking out at an odd angle from her body.

The Priest stands over her, his head cocked to one side, his face shadowed by his ever-present wide-brimmed hat. The girl had just demanded the money he'd offered her to climb up on the stage and while he wasn't opposed to paying his debts, things would be safer this way.

She'd been meant to be a sacrifice, either way.

/He didn't take the bait/, the Priest thinks, impressed. Most would be starving by now, but he'd held back. Of course, he'd had help, and perhaps if caught alone and off guard, it might not be that easy for him to resist.

Not that easy at all.

Making the sign of an inverted cross over the corpse, the Preist slowly walks away .... thinking.

tbc ...

Sorry this part took so long, got caught up in other stuff. Thanks for reading, comments, as always are appreciated.
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