Dead and Loving it

Peter lies next to the unconscious boy, waiting for him to wake. As he looks at Patrick’s sleeping form, he feels nothing but happiness that he found him. All those lonely years spent wandering this empty house, pining away for company, are nothing but bitter memories now. Now, the one he has been searching for lies before him, albeit unconscious, but still most definitely there.

Like he’s going to stay, the cruel little voice in his head sneers, making its grand and highly unappreciated reappearance. Don’t forget; he said he wasn’t going to hang around.

No, he’ll stay, Peter thinks desperately, not wanting to wake Patrick. I’ll tell him everything, and he’ll stay.

What? He’s your mate? the voice snorts. Peter didn’t even know a thought was capable of snorting. You’re meant to be together, hmm? the voice goes on. Just like in a romance novel, is that right?

Peter stares at his hands. In the waning light streaming in through the window, he can see the shadows of bruises on his right hand from when he hit Patrick. His heart sinks. He hurt Patrick.

You did, the voice in his head agrees. Punched him right in the face. What sorry excuse for a mate are you?

Looking down at Patrick’s peaceful face, he thinks that maybe the boy will be better off back at home. Maybe Peter deserves to be alone for however long he might live. Maybe he deserves to rot along with this house, deserves to sleep alone every night in his bed that is far too large for one person. A bed that is meant to be shared.

You’re not supposed to hurt the ones you love. You’re meant to care for them, not raise your hands to them, the voice agrees once again.

He sits there lost in his thoughts, trying desperately to think of a basis for keeping Patrick. But for every one reason he comes up with, there are hundreds more reasons to take him back.

*****************

Patrick dreams of a life of music and pure happiness spent with Peter by his side.

He opens his eyes to darkness so opaque that it’s almost like he’s still asleep. Sitting up, he starts feeling around for the edge of the bed, only to brush against something warm and soft, something with stubble on it, something that grunts when his fingers touch it a second time.

“W-What? Patrick? You’re awake,” Peter gasps, groggy.

“Yeah.” Patrick pauses, swallows, tries to think of something vaguely normal to say to this man in this hot, dark room. “Yeah, I am. What time is it?”

Peter lets out a yawn before answering, “Like, just after midnight.”

Patrick hears more than sees Peter reaching for the bed side table before he is blinded momentarily by the lamp’s golden glow. Blinking rapidly at the sudden light, he freezes as Peter wraps his arms around him, holding him like he’s his last anchor to the world.

*****************

Peter hugs Patrick, memorizing his smell, the softness of his body, the gentle fluttering of his heart in his chest, and how beautiful his pale skin looks against Peter’s own darker skin. He’s carving it into his memory for when Patrick leaves. When he makes him leave. Peter’s heart breaks all over again every time he thinks about it.

Reluctantly, he lets Patrick go and stands to leave. But as he turns, he feels Patrick reach up and grabs his wrist with warm, hesitant fingers. Turning back, he raises his eye brows in a question.

“Stay. Please,” Patrick says with more than a hint of desperation.

“Why?” Peter asks listlessly. “I’m a monster, remember? I’m a creature of the darkness. I don’t belong in the light with you.” I don’t belong with you.

“You know, my mom used to tell me that if I was alone in the dark, a monster would eat me. It terrified me at the time.” Patrick lets out a short laugh. “I guess she was right to say it.”

“She was. That’s what all mothers used to tell their children so they wouldn’t go out into the dark. But now, they tell them that monsters aren’t real. It’s supposed to help with self-esteem, keep them from harboring silly fantasies, that kind of shit. Too bad there are plenty of monsters hiding right in front of their faces,” Peter mutters, darkly.

“Really? Are there lots of…you, your kind out there?” Patrick inquires, intrigued.

“No,” Peter says quietly. “We’re dying out. Being hunted. There’re all kinds of monsters that are supposed to be make believe, but most are really out there. They’re just hiding. Times have changed. Mothers don’t scare their children sensible anymore.” He looks at Patrick’s pale hand still wrapped around his dark wrist and feels his heart beating more rapidly.

“Your people are being hunted?” Patrick looks dumbstruck, his eyes wide and glittering in the lamplight. Peter can’t tell if it’s fear or sympathy that he’s seeing in those sapphire orbs.

“Yeah. Most of them live as wolves, and for that they’re losing their homes, prey, and their lives.”

“But…why don’t they just change into humans? They could hide.” Nervous, Patrick shrinks back a little, and Peter realizes that his hand is clenching and unclenching itself in anger at what the world has done to his people. He puts a stop to it; he doesn’t want to scare Patrick now.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Peter sighs. “Once one of us is a wolf for a long time, he forgets how to be human. It took me years to learn how to walk, talk and act human. I was born a wolf, but when I learned that I could be human, I left my family and happily spent all that time learning how to be a man. It’s sad; we used to be able to switch back and forth with all the effort it takes you to stand up, but now some of us don’t even know they can change.”

“Can you, like, turn other people?” Patrick asks. He knows he’s being nosy, probably too nosy, but he can’t help it; he wants to know everything.

“Yeah-well, sort of. We can change one person each. Only one,” Peter replies, relaxing slightly under Patrick’s interested glaze. “We save it for our mates.”

“Do you have a mate?” Patrick is so totally not holding his breath while he waits for the answer.

“Yes.”

“Who?” Patrick demands. That overwhelming feeling of jealousy coursing through him is so totally nonexistent. It’s just a figment of his imagination. He’s had a long day.

Peter stays silent for a long time before replying, “You, Patrick. It’s you.”

Another pause, and Patrick can hear his blood pounding in his ears. He opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it again. Because, really, what do you say to that?

He tries again. “Wha--” he starts to say, but Peter cuts him off.

“That’s why I’m taking you home when the sun comes up,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on Patrick’s hand, which is still clenched tight around his. “I…I don’t deserve to have you after…everything. Everything I’ve done. Everything I’ve done to you.”

Patrick’s reply is cut off in his throat when Peter raises his hand to his mouth, brushes his lips across the younger boy’s ruddy knuckles, and drops quietly to the ground. Patrick hyperventilates silently to himself, telling himself that he is not swooning, goddamnit, and Pete leans back against the bed, still clutching Patrick’s hand and trying to hold back the tears that are finally fighting their way out of his eyes.