Sequel: Paralians ›
Status: Completed.
The Redemption of Peter Wentz
Scheszura
Pete couldn’t properly remember the last time he felt this good, this alive. Sure, he’d ignore the reeking stench of death in the alleys the he’d pass every now and then. Brendon was getting to him.
Pete, you need to understand that this is meant to happen. There are a lot of things you cannot control.
Of course he didn’t want to listen. Pete’s first instinct, despite his short stature, was to fight for his life and any he came across. But…well, fuck, he’d listen to Brendon’s nonsense any day because it was beginning to make sense, like how he began to ignore Brendon’s inability to shut the fuck up for once and…actually listen. And how it was all coming together, how his words simply made life so much more bearable to swallow every night. Brendon was his blessing. He’d scream it from the rooftops if he could, if only he knew how to get up there so fast. I mean, come on…he was only human for crying out loud.
He’d vaguely remembered discussing after Brendon would get done swapping tactics and godknowswhat with the parish priest three blocks from the warehouse (and seriously, what the fuck was that about? Mormon to Catholic in five months flat, what is that shit?) that he would rendezvous with Pete by the late night diner where the two counties meet, precisely three blocks to meet halfway. It’s not like both of them could screw this up.
Pete thought highly of Brendon, more than the other three in his little group of naïve hunters. After discovering vampires, Brendon was adamant that none of them really knew what they were getting into, a species far more dangerous than humans were to the rest of the food chain. Pete saw right through his idiotic antics, the sentences that made absolutely no sense, straight to the ones that only his fucked up mind could comprehend. What Pete couldn’t wrap his head around was Brendon’s seemingly cryptic warnings and pleas of watch yourselves and don’t do anything reckless. All eyes went to Pete at this statement like he was going to commit murder on the spot.
(Actually, all of that changed, literally, when Pete first met the kid. It was like he lit up the fucking room just by breathing. Pete had quit with the nights passed out from near overdoses of Atavan and the self loathing with razors once Brendon walked through that door, shivering from the downpour and covered in bite marks. Now that he thought about it, other than Patrick, Brendon was really all he had to live for in this world, no offense to Andy and Joe, but none of them had the same effect.)
Fifteen minutes went by, wondering if Brendon was still fucking around the streets, greeting random strangers in the early hours of the morning. That was shot to hell anyway.
The shrill scream was unmistakable. Ringing out of the derelict facades of the industrial parks, Pete’s defensive instincts kicked in, and he would swear to you that the hairs on his neck bristled. His feet moved on their own, saying fuck you, brain, if you’re moving too slow, carrying him from each side of the street, searching the turn offs as he darted past them, drawing closer as the screams condensed to highly audible whimpers.
BrendonBrendonBrendonnonononononononofuckshitsostupid
The screams were drawing so close he could virtually hear the terrified pleas in that familiar, velvet voice he loved so much, now reduced to sobs.
BrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendon
“BRENDON!” he called. Pete’s voice broke with each syllable in desperation. He was so fucking ready for a fight. Fingers itched as they gripped the wood of the stake.
He turned the right corner. Finally, but –oh,god- not what he wanted to see, not in this lifetime. Pete could feel that proverbial prickle grabbing at his eyes. Knees gave out, stake cluttered to the ground; naturally at a sight like this, one he definitely could not handle. God, so much blood.
“Brendon…god…w-what” Pete couldn’t even form a cohesive sentence with this crumpled mess before him. He didn’t know what to do, where to touch (if he could even do that without causing more damage). Blood was everywhere that soaked into Pete’s jeans as he hovered. He didn’t know a body could hold so much. The gashes, yeah, he could handle those, no problem. It was the sight of Brendon’s neck pouring out blood like the fucking Mississippi River and hyperventilating. Brendon’s hands grabbed for nothing as his eyes searched around, desperately for someone to find him, let alone realize what the fuck was going on.
“Who did this? Brendon, who?”
Pete, if anything, Beckett would be the one to really have a personal vendetta against you. Any idiot could see that.
“No no no no no no! Brendon! Did he do anything to you?” Pete searched his body for any other maladies, telltale signs of what he feared the most. He couldn’t lose Brendon like this. Shit, he…god, he wouldn’t know what to do. All he could comprehend at the moment, the only instinct registering aside from Brendon, tell me what I can do is to scream, hiss Back the fuck off!and Don’t touch him! But yeah, that was entirely fruitless when, hovering close enough to Brendon’s heaving mouth, the retched stench of blood emanated from Brendon’s chapped lips.
Brendon cried out again, cringing in on himself, and Pete knew, he just fucking knew, this was the last time he would ever see Brendon’s precious tears, the last time he’d ever need to use his lungs as a primary life support. “P-Pete,” he whimpered, eyes rolling slut, clutching Pete’s wrist firm enough to leave several bruises. “It hurts. So much. Please, Pete! It burns.” Brendon cried out again; his back popped so audibly that Pete cringed at the sickening sound.
Like a time lapse film, gradually, Brendon’s skin lost its tanned luster he brought with him to Chicago, gashes began to stitch themselves back together. This was the sure sign that Pete knew all hope was lost. He couldn’t do anything. Fuck, he. couldn’t. do. anything. And yet, Brendon was still shrieking in agony.
“Shhhh…Brendon, I’m here. I’ll make it go away. I’ll make it all go away.” Pete whispered now, as if anything he would ever say to Brendon again would be their secret, like the world didn’t deserve them anymore, not after what fate has put them through. He pushed the hair from Brendon’s forehead, trying to no avail to stop the poor boy’s convulsions.
William hated this, more than ever, watching silently as Pete writhed and shouted from the pillows. Standing in the doorway, between the door itself and the frame, he growled at the thought that he couldn’t control Pete, like he was slipping away. The dreams were a dead giveaway. The anger in him had been rising these past couple weeks since Brendon had been gone. William was losing control. His solution was the same as any other when matters like this presented themselves.
I will fix this.
Pete, you need to understand that this is meant to happen. There are a lot of things you cannot control.
Of course he didn’t want to listen. Pete’s first instinct, despite his short stature, was to fight for his life and any he came across. But…well, fuck, he’d listen to Brendon’s nonsense any day because it was beginning to make sense, like how he began to ignore Brendon’s inability to shut the fuck up for once and…actually listen. And how it was all coming together, how his words simply made life so much more bearable to swallow every night. Brendon was his blessing. He’d scream it from the rooftops if he could, if only he knew how to get up there so fast. I mean, come on…he was only human for crying out loud.
He’d vaguely remembered discussing after Brendon would get done swapping tactics and godknowswhat with the parish priest three blocks from the warehouse (and seriously, what the fuck was that about? Mormon to Catholic in five months flat, what is that shit?) that he would rendezvous with Pete by the late night diner where the two counties meet, precisely three blocks to meet halfway. It’s not like both of them could screw this up.
Pete thought highly of Brendon, more than the other three in his little group of naïve hunters. After discovering vampires, Brendon was adamant that none of them really knew what they were getting into, a species far more dangerous than humans were to the rest of the food chain. Pete saw right through his idiotic antics, the sentences that made absolutely no sense, straight to the ones that only his fucked up mind could comprehend. What Pete couldn’t wrap his head around was Brendon’s seemingly cryptic warnings and pleas of watch yourselves and don’t do anything reckless. All eyes went to Pete at this statement like he was going to commit murder on the spot.
(Actually, all of that changed, literally, when Pete first met the kid. It was like he lit up the fucking room just by breathing. Pete had quit with the nights passed out from near overdoses of Atavan and the self loathing with razors once Brendon walked through that door, shivering from the downpour and covered in bite marks. Now that he thought about it, other than Patrick, Brendon was really all he had to live for in this world, no offense to Andy and Joe, but none of them had the same effect.)
Fifteen minutes went by, wondering if Brendon was still fucking around the streets, greeting random strangers in the early hours of the morning. That was shot to hell anyway.
The shrill scream was unmistakable. Ringing out of the derelict facades of the industrial parks, Pete’s defensive instincts kicked in, and he would swear to you that the hairs on his neck bristled. His feet moved on their own, saying fuck you, brain, if you’re moving too slow, carrying him from each side of the street, searching the turn offs as he darted past them, drawing closer as the screams condensed to highly audible whimpers.
BrendonBrendonBrendonnonononononononofuckshitsostupid
The screams were drawing so close he could virtually hear the terrified pleas in that familiar, velvet voice he loved so much, now reduced to sobs.
BrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendon
“BRENDON!” he called. Pete’s voice broke with each syllable in desperation. He was so fucking ready for a fight. Fingers itched as they gripped the wood of the stake.
He turned the right corner. Finally, but –oh,god- not what he wanted to see, not in this lifetime. Pete could feel that proverbial prickle grabbing at his eyes. Knees gave out, stake cluttered to the ground; naturally at a sight like this, one he definitely could not handle. God, so much blood.
“Brendon…god…w-what” Pete couldn’t even form a cohesive sentence with this crumpled mess before him. He didn’t know what to do, where to touch (if he could even do that without causing more damage). Blood was everywhere that soaked into Pete’s jeans as he hovered. He didn’t know a body could hold so much. The gashes, yeah, he could handle those, no problem. It was the sight of Brendon’s neck pouring out blood like the fucking Mississippi River and hyperventilating. Brendon’s hands grabbed for nothing as his eyes searched around, desperately for someone to find him, let alone realize what the fuck was going on.
“Who did this? Brendon, who?”
Pete, if anything, Beckett would be the one to really have a personal vendetta against you. Any idiot could see that.
“No no no no no no! Brendon! Did he do anything to you?” Pete searched his body for any other maladies, telltale signs of what he feared the most. He couldn’t lose Brendon like this. Shit, he…god, he wouldn’t know what to do. All he could comprehend at the moment, the only instinct registering aside from Brendon, tell me what I can do is to scream, hiss Back the fuck off!and Don’t touch him! But yeah, that was entirely fruitless when, hovering close enough to Brendon’s heaving mouth, the retched stench of blood emanated from Brendon’s chapped lips.
Brendon cried out again, cringing in on himself, and Pete knew, he just fucking knew, this was the last time he would ever see Brendon’s precious tears, the last time he’d ever need to use his lungs as a primary life support. “P-Pete,” he whimpered, eyes rolling slut, clutching Pete’s wrist firm enough to leave several bruises. “It hurts. So much. Please, Pete! It burns.” Brendon cried out again; his back popped so audibly that Pete cringed at the sickening sound.
Like a time lapse film, gradually, Brendon’s skin lost its tanned luster he brought with him to Chicago, gashes began to stitch themselves back together. This was the sure sign that Pete knew all hope was lost. He couldn’t do anything. Fuck, he. couldn’t. do. anything. And yet, Brendon was still shrieking in agony.
“Shhhh…Brendon, I’m here. I’ll make it go away. I’ll make it all go away.” Pete whispered now, as if anything he would ever say to Brendon again would be their secret, like the world didn’t deserve them anymore, not after what fate has put them through. He pushed the hair from Brendon’s forehead, trying to no avail to stop the poor boy’s convulsions.
William hated this, more than ever, watching silently as Pete writhed and shouted from the pillows. Standing in the doorway, between the door itself and the frame, he growled at the thought that he couldn’t control Pete, like he was slipping away. The dreams were a dead giveaway. The anger in him had been rising these past couple weeks since Brendon had been gone. William was losing control. His solution was the same as any other when matters like this presented themselves.
I will fix this.