Dead and Loving it

It’s been nearly a week since Peter took Patrick home, since he just laid him on his parents’ doorstep like an unwanted baby and left. Sitting alone in his room, the only thing that Patrick knows is that his heart, for the very first time in its 17 years of existence, was breaking in two. He wants to snort at the huge cliché his life has turned into, but he can’t find the will to do it.

He loves his family, he does, but that doesn’t keep him from hoping and praying that one day Peter will come to his senses and find him, take him back. Okay, maybe Patrick’s just a tad insane, because, really, who falls for someone who kidnaps you and holds you captive for days, someone who can turn into a wolf as easily as he can breathe? Yes, Patrick is insane, but he wouldn’t turn sane for the world. Because that feeling in his heart when Peter was with him might just be the only thing he’s got to live for.

But Peter didn’t want him. He made that pretty damn clear when he brought Patrick back to his parents. Back to his parents who lived terribly far away from that ramshackle house with its huge maze of a backyard. Peter said he loved him, but still he took him back. Patrick couldn’t, and still can’t understand why, despite Peter’s so called reasons.

Standing at his window that night, he squints futilely at the forest that envelopes his neat suburban backyard, trying desperately to catch sight of a large black wolf. Or of anything, really; of any sign Peter still cares about him, still wants him. And just like the last six nights, Patrick sees nothing. Not even a glimpse.

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

Six months later, almost to the day, his life is damn near what it was before Peter messed with it. He’s adjusted to the monotony of institutionalized education; trekking his way to the tedium of school in the morning and slogging straight home afterwards, five days a week. On the weekends he’s usually to be found at the park or at the music store. Oh, his life and all its glory.

One night, he’s on his way home a little later than usual, having completely lost track of time at the music store on the other side of town. A battered little building, it’s pretty run down, but never fails to have the obscure albums that Patrick craves but can’t find anywhere else. As he walks down the deserted street, he could swear that someone is following him, but each time he turns around, the only things that greet his eyes are the lengthening blue shadows of the empty street. Nevertheless, he speeds up.

Nerves getting the better of him, he suddenly makes a sharp left turn down what turns out to be a dead ended alley. He swears quietly at himself but stupidly continues forward to the dirty brick wall, too terrified to turn and face the shuffling footsteps he can now clearly hear walking towards him.

As the footsteps get closer, Patrick mentally kicks his ass for not bringing his phone. He desperately wants to run, but he’s frozen to the spot, staring at the wall in front of him like a deer in headlights. Heart almost beating out of his chest, he hears the movements stop just behind him. All of a sudden, he’s drenched in the strong scent of alcohol, making his eyes water and his head spin.

The next thing Patrick knows, whoever’s behind him shoves him into the wall with one hard push. He’s so shocked by the suddenness of it all that he doesn’t even have time to put his arms up to prevent his body hitting the wall full force. Luckily for him, his head takes most of the impact, hitting the dusty brick with a sickening thud. Bursts of pain pulse and explode like fireworks on his tightly closed eyelids.

Groaning, he raises a tentative hand to his throbbing forehead, but a strong hand shoots out from behind him and wraps around his wrist, halting his movements. Patrick opens his eyes and looks down to see the starkly familiar contrast of a dark hand closed tightly around his own pale arm.

“Peter?” he whispers, voice hoarse and barely audible.

Behind him, Peter chuckles harshly, sending a burst of hot, alcohol-scented breath onto the back of Patrick’s neck. “What a smart boy you are, Patrick. So smart, but so stupid.” Patrick shivers as the dark hand releases its hold.

Patrick’s wrist drops, and the sudden burst of pain that shoots through his arm causes him to sag to his knees, his good hand braced on the gritty sidewalk. Despite the pain, he wants to turn to Peter and hold him tight, beg him not to leave him behind again. But something tells him to stay where he is.

He can feel Peter kneeling beside him, the irregular bursts of hot breath on his neck making him nothing but nervous.

“You’re shaking,” Peter observes. “Do you think I’m going to hurt you?”

The way Peter says it makes Patrick think that’s exactly what he’s going to do. He stays silent.

Laughing at a joke only he understands, Peter leans closer and plants a kiss on Patrick’s shoulder. “Why so silent?” he inquires mockingly. “We used to be so,” he licks Patrick’s ear before whispering the last word, “Close.”

Patrick shudders. “W-what do you want, Peter?”

Patrick can feel Peter’s predatory smile against the suddenly hyperaware skin of his neck. “To do something fun with my favorite little Patrick.” He runs his hands down Patrick’s back slowly, grinning further as the boy arches almost involuntarily into his touch. “Oh, the fun I’m going to have.”

The stench of alcohol washes over Patrick once again and he can’t help but ask, “Have you been drinking?” Yes, of course he has. Why else would he be doing this to Patrick? He must be drunk. He has to be. Right?

Peter laughs, just slightly too loudly. “No. I have no taste for alcohol, but dumping a bit on my head makes me smell more like a human. But I don’t drink. So don’t worry; you have my full attention, baby.”

Patrick feels his heart crumble as the words leave Peter’s mouth. He’s not drunk. And in some sick, twisted way, Patrick thinks that’s a good thing. But it would practically be suicide to admit that now. “Why are you here, Peter?” It’s embarrassing how close his voice is to a whimper. “You said you were going to leave me alone.”

“I did. You think I forgot? You think I forgot the worst promise of my life? Well, I’ve changed my mind. Lying awake for those long nights, alone in the bed that you slept in, I thought how unfair it was that you got to go off and live a life full of people and love. And all I got was memories of you.”

Patrick opens his mouth to comment but Peter covers it with his hand.

“You got to move on,” he continues, voice verging on a snarl. “Meet a nice guy, fall in love, move to Canada and get married. Live in a golden field with magical unicorns and bunnies and moose and shit. I thought we’d both be better off if that happened, but no. I’m not going to sit by and let that happen. You’re mine, Patrick. And I’ve come to claim that.” The last words spill out in a harsh growl as he pushes Patrick to the ground and rolls him over, jumping to straddle the confused boy. And before Patrick can even look at his face, Peter’s jamming his mouth onto Patrick’s soft, plump lips, forcing his tongue into the boy’s slack, shocked mouth.

After a few seconds the shock wears off and Patrick tries to push Peter back, turn his head away, but Peter just follows. The hands that were pushing futilely at Peter’s chest are forcefully removed and pinned high above his head by one painfully strong hand.

Patrick bites his lip hard enough to draw blood as Peter pulls away, grinning. “Come on, Patty,” he croons, smoothing one sideburn with his thumb. “Aren’t you going to play?”

Patrick opens his mouth to scream and yell for help; there’s got to be someone around to help him.

“Nope. Sorry, Patrick. All alone,” Peter smirks, pressing his lips to Patrick’s neck.

Patrick closes his mouth, then opens it again. “Peter, don’t do this. This isn’t you,” he pleads, painfully aware of how helpless and childish he sounds.

“How would you know? You were only with me for a few days; you wouldn’t know what I’m truly like,” Peter points out, turning his head to lick at Patrick’s smooth throat.

Patrick wants to spit as the blood from his lip fills his mouth, but with Peter’s mouth attached to the his neck, he has a feeling that if he moves Peter might think he’s submitting and bite his neck, bringing him more pain.

Peter looks up at him, grinning wolfishly. “Don’t like the taste of blood? Here, let me help,” he mutters before once again closing his mouth over Patrick’s.

Patrick’s protest is stifled as Peter’s mouth devours his own, licking the blood from deep inside his mouth.

Tears rapidly build behind his eyes at the sudden realization that he is probably going to be raped tonight. The worst part is, no matter what Peter does, Patrick’s heart still aches for him, will still ache and will probably never stop. And there’s nothing he can do about it. He can only blink back the tears and stare up at the faint stars overhead as if they could help him.

Peter pulls back to look deep into Patrick’s tear-glazed eyes. And, all of a sudden, he’s frozen completely at the heartbreaking infatuation in those beautiful blue orbs. He can’t go through with his plan. He can’t hurt Patrick like this, he can’t. He loves the boy, after all; loves him so much that it almost killed him to take Patrick home. But, still, he loves him so much that he has to do the right thing by him, regardless of the holes it rips out of his heart.

I took him home for his own safety, Peter reminds himself. I did it so that something like this wouldn’t happen.

Drawing in a long, shaky breath, he gets to his feet, battered sneakers on either side of Patrick’s hips. He can’t take his eyes off the younger boy’s as he says a quick, “Sorry,” before looking away from that terrified azure stare and preparing to flee back to his rotting home.

The hand that wraps around his leg stops him.

He looks down, ready to tear himself free, when a broken voice makes his mind go completely blank.

“Please. Please, don’t leave.”

Regaining composure, Peter lets out a bitter laugh. “Why do you want me to stay? Do you have any inkling in your pretty little head of what I was going to do to you, Patrick?”

Patrick tightens his grip. “I think I have an idea,” he grits out. “And I don’t care. Don’t leave me here. Take me with you.”

Tearing his eyes away from Patrick’s determined but still watery gaze is the only way Peter can bring himself to give the answer he knows he has to give: “No.”

Patrick shoves Peter’s leg away, releasing his grip and pushing his body up and out from between Peter’s legs. He stands, averting his eyes from Peter as he brushes himself off and turns to leave, a single tear trickling from his eye. He wipes it away quickly.

Peter watches as Patrick makes his way out of the alley, mind going a mile a minute. He’s running before he even registers the movement, catching up to Patrick in mere seconds, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him so they’re face to face. “I don’t deserve you,” he says simply.

To his surprise, Patrick glares at him. “Then leave me the hell alone,” he snaps in a choked voice. “Stop jerking me around.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Peter repeats slowly. “But I think I can live with that, if you’ll have me.”

It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in, and Patrick stares blankly back at him. Peter misinterprets this as rejection, his face falling instantly.

But before he can run off again, Patrick grins, throwing his arms around Peter’s shoulders and hugging him tight. “Of course I will,” he whispers in Peter’s ear. “I love you.”

Peter wraps his arms around the boy’s soft waist, pulling him even closer if that’s even possible. “I love you more.” Soft, certain words, whispered back into the crook of Patrick’s pale neck.