The Redemption of Peter Wentz

Pete watches patiently as Patrick writes, cataloguing their interrogation together that ended only hours before. It’s methodical. Pete finds it soothing, the mundane task of logging questions, responses, and reactions. His arms are folded at the end of Patrick’s desk, hunched over the surface and observes.

Patrick stops, double checks, and curses under his breath. “Shit. I forgot one. Do you mind if I—“

He skipped a question. It’ll eat him alive if he doesn’t get to it. The open expression on Patrick’s face tells Pete that this isn’t as lethal as the others that made him scream for Patrick to stop. He trusts him with his life. “Sure.” he says. It shouldn’t be much.

Patrick nods and the light of the lamp casts dramatic and concentrated shadows on his face. He flips back a couple of pages in his blank journal to find the right line in the other. Pete sees the charms hanging around his neck in his exuberance, jingling together. He reaches to touch one in particular, careful to avoid the platinum ring amongst the others. Patrick does notice, eyeing Pete in a knowing manner that says this is somewhat related. Pete runs his fingers over a particular flattened disc of metal, admiring the carvings and veins of metalwork.

Supposed to ward off things like me. What a piece of shit.

“Okay, so going back to memory attachment, wh-what exactly do you feel when you think about Brendon?” Pete’s face pulls into a frown, brows knitting and he drops the charm to sit as far away from it as he can. He eyes the ring on the chain around Patrick’s neck. “Not about who he is now, but how you remember him. What do you feel at the very thought of him?”

Patrick is curious. He’s doing this for all of them, especially for Pete, just to understand himself. He doesn’t mean to antagonize him.

Pete licks his lips before clearing his throat. He closes his eyes, letting his last mental picture of him flood his mind. He’s young and naïve, bright and alive. Even with his lethal teeth, Brendon wouldn’t lay a hand on him, or the others. Pete’s jaw clenches. “If my heart were still beating, it would be pounding. My chest hurts. There’s this…” Patrick leans forward as Pete tries to continue, jotting notes in shorthand as he speaks. “I feel this nervous itch like a meth addict. It’s like when I want to feed, but I’m not hungry. I just want. It’s almost unbearable. My mind whites out if I think too long about it.”

Pete opens his eyes, and Patrick is fishing out the ring from his many pendants and charms. Pete backs off even further because he knows. He’s afraid of it. That ring could kill him, slowly, agonizingly slow.

“I know your memory attachment prevents you from even touching this. It isn’t your fault, Pete.” Patrick says. He digs through a drawer in his desk and produces a small manila envelope, enough to fit a couple of keys into. He places the platinum ring and chain into the envelope and folds the seal to tape it together, handing it to Pete. Brendon’s ring is heavy in his hands. He isn’t touching it directly, but it makes his stomach turn violently at the thought. “Keep this. Hide it away, save it for another day, whatever you want.”

“Is this some sort of therapy?” Pete growls.

Patrick smirks, smoothing his hand over the new page in his journal and continuing his notes. “No, but you need it. He left it to you, and maybe someday you’ll appreciate it, if he ever wants it back. Just to, you know, have something to keep to yourself.”

--

As Pete perched at the apex of roof tiles, he felt a sting of penance. Screams echoed up the faces of buildings as he watched the scene before him. He'd naturally care less if it was some mugger or rapist, of course, it happens as often as rabbits breed. But this wasn't some urban-Chicago mugging. It was a feeding frenzy. If they were Punks, he'd be happy to break up the scene. But these were a different beast. These were quick, efficient Dandies.

How they fascinated him. How silently they would act, and the speed and intensity of their reactions. He'd starved himself, it didn't make things any easier, and he longed for the same satisfaction they took for themselves. A part of Pete wanted to stop them from ravaging the helpless college students, but he couldn't peel his eyes away; the darker side of Pete, however much he suppresses and exaggerates, wants--- knows he should join them. It is a longing he wishes he could never express. He feels that he belongs with them, among them, yet their ways go against every ounce of humanity he has.

The moment ran in slow motion. He processed every movement and sound meticulously. It was in the close examination and detailed thought process running through his head like a play-by-play that he felt himself slipping ever deeper into the abyss.

He had lost track of who was who in the commotion between his own thoughts, and he refocused to meet eyes with Brendon's, staring up at him from the bodies they'd thrown aside. He stared at Pete with intense fascination and wanting, almost daring him to come down from the roof. A jolt of adrenaline shot through Pete when the situation registered. He had not made a sound or motion. He only became lost within himself silently. But Brendon knew exactly where he was. He lifted an arm, motioning Pete to come down with his index finger.

He turned away, expecting a route of escape from the shame he was committing. He knew several getaways, and he was now certain that this whole idea was fucking suicide, endangering his sanity and what family he had left. He couldn't just throw his friends into Death's lap like this. But he needed to, morals aside, stretched and broken past their breaking point, he concluded that there was simply nothing else left to lose. Facing back to the alleyway, a shadow caught his attention in his left peripheral, and he had just enough time to identify it as Brendon’s lapdog, Michael Carden. A dark scowl adorned his poreless face. With a flash of his lethal teeth, he smacked Pete off of the roof with force before he had time to react.

The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him, causing Pete to gasp as he freefalled from the five story high roof. His mind was fogged and he hit the ground with a crack, smashing the asphalt beneath him, causing a small crater of debris. Pete groaned loudly, grasping his side where Carden had struck him. He failed to notice the group of Dandies closing ranks around him, cutting off any room for escape. He stood up slowly, calculating as pain raced through his nerves like a raging forest fire. Yet Pete focused his eyes on the one person he'd hoped to find here.

Pete stood his ground as Brendon circled him like a vulture, slowly licking the excess from the corners of his lips. Brendon's brown eyes shone like orbs, flashing in the dark as the shadows traveled across his smirking face. The air was palpable. The other Dandies were waiting with anticipation, though shockingly, all of them ignored the pool of blood reaching their shoes from their former victims.

Pete's eyes traveled with Brendon as he circled, trying anything to distract himself from the sweet stench of fresh blood. Brendon removed his Derby hat now, running the rim between his fingers whilst grinning to himself that he'd gotten Pete into such a corner, simply by fate.

"Tell me, Pete, you were turned, what...two years ago, am I right?" he asked curiously, setting a formal mood to his taunting.

Pete growled, resonating in his dry throat. "You should know, Urie. You watched it happen."

"Yes, I remember." He laughed, prompting the others to do the same despite their ignorance of the memory. "You were in agony then. Oh well, look where you are now. Pain seems to have done you some justice." Pete's fists clenched in restraint. "Yet you are so weak as to seek us out of desperation. I'm surprised that you've held on this long." Brendon's pace halted as he examined Pete, sizing him up. "I'm here now, mind as well say what you wanted to out loud and not plead at me with those godawful eyes." Pete had Brendon's full attention, yet he couldn't form a sentence out of shame. "Oh, come now, Pete," Brendon moaned, stepping forward and circling him at less than arm's length. "We may have eternity, you are definitely wasting my time."

Aromas hung in the air. The transparent mist traveled as a breeze picked it up and sent it down the boulevard. Pete shut his eyes tight and took in a merciful breath. Brendon snickered, running his nose up Pete's shoulder, into his hair in one lingering, taunting sweep. He exhaled heavily.

"Carden, go fetch something." he ordered. Michael Carden promptly left out onto the sidewalk as a swift current. "Oh, Peter," he moaned, "I smell your hunger. In all honesty, I pity you, going on this long without the one thing you really crave most."

Pete was slowly losing himself as the seconds ticked on, as the fantasies began and his veins burned fire. He could see himself in Brendon's malicious eyes, dilated and calculating like his own. He winced at the human scents entering his consciousness. Oh, how badly Pete wanted to ravage them.

"Tell me, Peter, how did you drag yourself down to this level?" Brendon inquired.

Sirens blared far beyond them.

"Choice. I am not a soulless parasite like you." His voice was now a strained whisper, more animalistic than ever.

Brendon inched closer, his breath dancing on Pete's earlobe in a venomous tone, and a second, colder voice backing his own. It was vicious and definitely familiar, yet not his own that held the warmth Pete remembered. "Let me tell you something, Peter Wentz. I've been around far longer than even before the idea of your existence was even conjured, and do not think for one minute that I am soulless. I accept what I am. Brendon has accepted the same, so it appears that you are really the only parasite, a dying one at that, living on a delusional notion that you still belong to a far weaker and flawed species. And for that, you disgust me. You are the one who is soulless by not living to your potential. I should've left you to die, rather the pathetic, naïve newborn that you were."

Pete had fallen pathetically to his knees under Brendon's strong influence. "Then what really is the difference between us, Brendon?"

Brendon knelt close to Pete's ear. Word after word, the other voice bled into nothing. "I don't wallow in my misery."

Pete wanted to smack him, throw him into a brick wall, anything to just take his anger out on Brendon, the Dandy. But he couldn't bring himself to. He knew he needed Brendon. That darker part of him longed for Brendon, the said aspect of him that was quickly consuming him. Pete tried to speak, but his mouth was void of any sound he tried to produce. Brendon leaned close in ample curiosity.

"I don't want to anymore...can't. So...tired..." Pete gasped. A darkness slowly crept into his consciousness, nearly swallowing him whole as much as he tried to fend it off.

In this brief moment, Pete had found what he was looking for: a meager weakness, a break in the defenses, a window between Brendon's split personalities. He took advantage of this spontaneous vulnerability.
"What are you saying, Pete?" he asked, with that familiar warmth in his voice.

"I'm so thirsty."

"Finally." Brendon grinned sympathetically. "Carden, bring that girl over here."