The Redemption of Peter Wentz

Another five weeks passed with no sign from the Dandies and their figurehead. Pete tried to keep calm, telling himself that he didn’t need to go out, and that William would come to him as Brendon assured him he would. Pete gets his wish on day 58. It doesn’t happen to him firsthand like he expected, wanting to finish this fight head on, unfortunately, and the shout that echoed down the staircase really set him off. It was Patrick’s turn to feed Brendon tonight, so that leaves another motive for Pete to drop what he was doing in the kitchen and bolt up the stairs without thinking twice. He’d been on edge for weeks and this was where he was relieved to have that familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through him. He races down the hall and bursts through the vault doorway. The tree packets Patrick brought up lay forgotten at his feet. Patrick is gazing about the room in complete shock: first at the cracked window, then to the restraints that lay in pieces, limp on the floor.
“Fuck.” Patrick hisses.

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.
But this can’t be right, Pete thinks. His brain works much quicker than Patrick’s at any given moment, more than ever now, and when Patrick makes a move toward the window, Pete puts a stern hand to his chest that stops him dead in his tracks.

“Don’t.” he orders quietly. A growl rumbles deep in his throat in warning, hairs bristling at the nape of his neck.

The potent scent of him still lingers. Pete bares his teeth and narrows his stare.
The air in the room is too tense.

It’s in that split second between blinks and breaths, the moment Pete exhales and glances away, the moment he lets go of Patrick and takes that first tentative step toward the restraint wall.

Brendon comes out of fucking nowhere, and Pete only catches a glimpse of his moving form in his predatory peripheral. He was up on the ceiling, perched precariously between the far corner and the frame of the door. He pounced with calculated efficiency, wrapping himself around Patrick like a pale octopus and attaching his mouth to the jugular. The roll of Brendon’s throat as he drank, the fluttering of his eyelids and ecstatic groans went in slow motion for Pete, who stood stock-still with disbelief.

His whole existence flashed before his eyes before it was ripped away from him, and he was shoved back into reality when Patrick’s choked cry rang shrill and anguished around them. He scrambled into the one-sided struggle. Patrick was barely making a dent in the fight to get Brendon off of him and he was rapidly losing strength with each of Brendon’s desirous swallows.

Pete snarled and went for Brendon’s shoulders, clawing and not succeeding in the least to pry him off. Brendon wouldn’t budge; he appeared to clamp down harder and more aggressively onto Patrick as they sank to the floor.

“Get off of him!” Pete howled, going for another feeble attempt to separate them. That plan went completely to shit. He was forced back by a fist in his hair and thrown in the other direction, sliding across the concrete floor, his hip hitting the handle of the makeshift painfully and most likely breaking it off.

And there he stands.

As Brendon continues to feed, the condescending laugh begins.
“Jealously doesn’t suit you. Don’t be sour that he got to Mr. Stump before you ever struck up the nerve.” William towered over Pete like a scolding parent to a child.

Brendon breaks away from Patrick with a large gulp of air and a pleased sigh. Patrick’s blood smeared his mouth and shirt. The smirk on his face was horrifying and wrong…all wrong, and in this moment, Pete abandoned all hope. In his gut, that instinctual itch, he felt he’d lost Brendon for good. He didn’t even seem to bother to clean up his mess, and William took notice. He ran a finger along Brendon’s dripping jaw as he stared down at Pete, helpless on the floor, and tasted the blood, grinning.
“Excellent taste, Brendon.”

Patrick was a stoic mess on the ground, back turned to Pete and still bleeding on the floor. William now motions Brendon forward, almost in silent conversation. Brendon at his side, they smirk wickedly at Pete, and Brendon makes a move to keep him on the floor with the weight of his bare foot to his cheek. He turns Pete’s face slowly and grins, running his tongue over his pink-tinted teeth.

This is Brendon at his most terrifying and demonic. The blood smeared over his mouth drips in some places, flakes off in others. Eyes are black orbs mocking his futile situation.

“Don’t touch Patrick.” is all Pete can manage. Joe and Andy barrel in through the doorway, armed and alert, but the scene is too much for them to handle. They’re just as dumbstruck, particularly in seeing Pete so vulnerable and defeated. He doesn’t even bother to fight back now. This all happens in less than three minutes, and it’s pushed Pete so far off the edge that he’d willingly throw himself into sunlight, just to amuse the crowds curious enough to get close.

“You move, and Pete will be nothing but ash.” William threatened, not breaking eye contact with Brendon, keeping sharp focus on his face. The weight of Brendon’s foot wasn’t enough to crush him, but enough that he couldn’t move without feeling the unbearable pressure. Pete clutched his ankle, reveling in the taut tendons and protrusions of bone.

This is the last he’ll ever see of Brendon.

“Why would I do anything to him, Peter?” Brendon sneered, licking the blood on his fingers languidly. “I’m going to make him watch what I’m going to do to you.” He said this like it was being told to a child, mocking and naive. “Perhaps I’ll start with Mr. Trohman.” He focused his attention on Joe, compelling him with an intense glare. “Drop the weapon.” He commanded, dual voices stern and clear. Beckett continued to smirk down at Pete, mulling over different scenarios of torture. Joe’s gun clattered to the ground.

“I believe it was a mistake to make you. It was an impulse at the time. Brendon felt incomplete, so naturally, I would comply to my progeny’s wishes; nevertheless, with hindsight, I can tell it was one of the worst decisions I've made in my 400 years.", William snarled. Brendon removed his foot, giving leverage for William to get Pete by the collar of his shirt and hoist him up against the wall, his other hand coming up to grip his throat. “I had you once, Peter. When it was you and Brendon together, it was marvelous. I couldn’t imagine anything less than the finest example of what we are. I should’ve expected you to be just as stubborn as you were human. What a waste.” He smacks his lips condescendingly and purses them in a drawn scowl, eyes narrowing.

Though Pete was somewhat broken, he was as defiant as ever. It was as if his eyes were deeper, the spark that had been there for so long had been swallowed by the void.

“All this time, you have been such a little shit. Why is it so difficult to just accept what you are? Why can’t you stop pretending to be something you’re not?”

Without thinking, Pete spits in his face. William’s reaction is just as fast, grip tightening around Pete’s throat, and with a snarl, thrust Pete to the ground and gives several blows to his ribs. Pete had landed with a sharp crack against the concrete that made Andy wince at the sickening sound. Pete cried out to Brendon with each harsh kick to his side, and…something shifted.

Brendon wasn’t smiling anymore. He wasn’t laughing or egging William on like he should. This is where Andy pieced everything together. With William’s focus broken, his influence on Brendon loosened its grip. But, as soon as he made a move toward Pete, Brendon snapped his attention back to him with a stern scowl and held up his finger.
“Don’t you dare, Andrew.”

Andy was desperate now, Patrick bleeding at their feet, Joe completely taken, and Pete crying in agony with every swipe and fierce kick Becket delivered. Looking between Brendon and Pete, he felt that the connection was still there, delicate and faint, and knew exactly what must be done. Brendon’s last resort.

”You don’t know that, B. Don’t think like that.”

“No, Pete. He won’t stop. If it happens, it’s the only thing left that may work. You remember what it means. It’s all you need.”

“Pete!” Andy shouted, harsh and broken over the screams. Pete snuck a glance in his direction, trying to shield his lesioned face. “Say it! Do it, now!”

Through gasps and whimpers, Pete knew exactly what Andy meant. He fought to stay completely conscious when William knelt andyanked him up in his grip, biting harshly into his shoulder.

“Paralian!” he screamed, half out of torture and delirium.

Brendon stiffened, froze like he was impaled, and dropped his stare from Andy and Joe. His expression faltered and he turned slowly to face Pete, confused and horrified. He stumbled backwards toward the wall, and Pete said it again, trying earnestly to claw William off of him, only for him to pull away and find a new place to clamp down on.

“Paralian! Brendon! Paralian!”

Each word hung in the air and piercing Brendon more to where he slid down the wall, doubling over in the pulsing pain as the weight of the word rang through his mind. As Andy was scrambling between Joe and Patrick, he could make out Brendon’s pinched face beneath the fringe of hair. His eyes were fighting a battle of their own, how the milky blue would be swallowed by the brown, then come back full force. A full on war raged inside of him and blood began to drip from his ears and nose.

William snapped from Pete’s shoulder to Brendon and Andy with murder in his eyes, dilated to where there was no hint of white.
“No!” he growled. “Nononononononono!” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pete make a break for the stake forgotten a few inches away, and he catches him just in time, nails ripping through the artery and tendon in Pete’s left wrist. Pete screams, and it breaks through every other sound like a knife, blood gushes from the wound and pools, so close to Patrick’s own forming lake. William dives for it and closes his fingers around the splintering wood.

Andy has never seen a vampire act this feral, and it terrifies him, burning the image into his mind forever. He shakes Joe out of his stupor and springs into action once he feels Brendon’s movement escalate into thrashing and whimpers. William is poised to drive the stake through Pete’s ribcage, licking his lips and baring his teeth with a vicious hiss. Andy throws himself onto Beckett’s shoulders and wrestles to distract him. Joe follows, leaving the net gun behind and going in to flank Andy, but is stopped when Andy is thrown back, toppling onto Patrick’s heaving body. Andy doesn’t waste any time because, shit. This is it.

“Joe, the window! Go!”

It takes a split second before Joe is sprinting for the barred window with the net gun. William is still dead-set with the stake in his hands to bother paying any attention. He’s running on tunnel vision now with the seething hatred. And just like that, when Joe rips the curtains off of the wall and smashes the painted glass, early morning sun floods the room in a bleached, overexposed brightness that nearly blinds all of them.

Pete and Brendon recoil at the same moment, hissing and screaming, scrambling for a shadowed corner, anything to get away from the light that was beginning to char them. William shielded his eyes in the light, but goes straight for Pete again.

In one last attempt, “Paralian! Please, Brendon!”

“Shut up!” William snarls, wiping the blood from his mouth and ignoring the way his skin begins to peel and smolder under the heat.

Out of nowhere, Brendon is on William, snarling, hissing, growling, so animal that Andy and Joe barely recognize him at all. His fangs are bared in his ministrations of getting a good grip on Beckett, and without much effort, throws himself through the window, breaking the bars and taking William with him, a hand buried deep into the muscle of his hip, bleeding profusely through the fabric.

Hisses and screams are heard in the open industrial yard, and one last growl, shrill and guttural, dying out into the harsh November wind.

Joe and Andy make an effort to tear the sheets off of the bed and throw them over Pete who lies limp and motionless on the floor with a vacant stare. There’s a crack at the window. Joe turns his head toward Brendon’s burning silhouette climbing back through, tripping and collapsing with a low growl like a wounded animal, but struggles to push himself back up. At this sight, Andy is quick to motion Joe over. They lift the solid mass of the bed and push it to block the window completely, and the room is enveloped in darkness once again.

Smoke rises off of Brendon’s burned arms and shoulders like a charred steak. The places with the most severe blisters, his shirt has been singed through to reveal raw, bleeding skin. The hair on his neck has been scorched off in patches, and the blistered skin stops around his eyebrows and ears, framing his face.
“H-he’s…he’s gone. There’s n-nothing left.” Brendon winces as he gets up, swatting Andy away as he stumbles upright. The trails of blood from his nose and ears have dried and flake off in some places, but he ignores it and makes a beeline for Pete. When he crouches beside him and gingerly removes the sheet, Pete isn’t as bad as Brendon, but he’s entirely comatose. His mind is gone, and Brendon feels nothing.

He’s holding an empty vessel. Brendon feels like dying.

"Pete." He doesn’t look up to meet Brendon’s eyes on his own, and Brendon needs to take his face in his hands and physically make eye contact. Pete only holds it for a second before his eyes fall back vacantly to the floor. Brendon makes a small whine in the throat.

They’ve lost Patrick already. They can’t lose Pete. Two is too much.

“Pete, man, please, look at me.” Brendon’s voice will break any second along with his fluid composure. “C’mon. I’m here, feel me.” He puts his hand to Pete’s chest at the bruise where the stake was poised to pierce, his touch cold trembling. Brendon searches his face.

It’s faint; Pete’s voice is nothing but a whisper. “You’re not real.”

“I am. Pete, look at me.” Pete doesn’t respond. His eyes may shift, but they don’t notice Brendon at all.

“I'm so tired of this. He never came back.”

"I'm here. I'm real, Pete, please. Don't give up. Don't. It's over. Don't give up like I did."

Brendon stares for a long while. As the blisters around his face begin to heal slowly, he’s whimpering. He laces his long fingers with Pete’s and grips firmly, nearly digging his nails into Pete’s hand. There is no pulse, no energy and no life that Brendon can sense at all. He sees the deep wound in Pete’s shoulder where the fabric had been ripped away from the shirt. He doesn’t like how he can’t feel his nerves bunching up in the same place on his skin, and feel Pete’s pain.

Brendon moves to bite into his wrist, taking a mouthful, and with a longing look to Pete’s empty eyes, he presses his mouth to the wound and licks gingerly over the spot, feeling it knit back together. He’s being gentle and loving, which is all he can do, the pads of his fingertips stroking soft patterns at the small hairs on Pete's neck. He wants to leave Pete in one, perfect piece if Brendon’s life will no longer have him in it. In the background, he can hear Joe gasp at the intimacy of the scene. They didn’t realize until now how intertwined, how emotionally attuned to each other they were.

Pete leans into Brendon arms with a sigh, his cheek starting to brush against Brendon’s hair. Brendon continues to mouth the spot until he can only feel skin beneath his tongue, and when he moves to take another bite and move to Pete’s neck, Pete’s hand fists the denim of Brendon’s singed jeans.
“Only he does that for me.” Pete whispers, clutching the fabric harder and biting his lip. Brendon freezes mid-motion and turns to face him.

Pete is looking at him, trying to register. The pulse slowly beats in the back of Brendon’s mind, growing louder and louder, more intense with every quick flit of Pete’s eyes on him. There’s a hint of a smile, trying to form on both of their faces, and when Pete reaches up to touch at one of the burns on Brendon’s shoulder blades, Brendon hisses and recoils away from his fingers.

Pete suddenly beams at him with distressed relief.
"Brendon. You’re here…” he states, just to be sure it’s known for the both of them. They’re sharing the same space, nothing matters, and nothing exists anymore. It’s all relative compared to Brendon who is holding him, supporting him, with him.

“Of course I'm here. You gave me my life back.” Brendon envelops him in the tightest hug he can manage through the pain of the burns. He’s stroking Pete’s neck soothingly, and Pete’s fists dig into his back, but he doesn’t care.

He’s been saved.

Fin.