The Redemption of Peter Wentz

Throughout the city, the violence raged on, hunters practically powerless to stop it. Shrill screams bounced and ricocheted off of the walls downtown. At this point, the metro police and swat team sent in to control the riot had been massacred within an hour. Their armored truck tipped on its side and desolate as the blood-soaked streets, the crimson rivers draining into the sewers.

There were no real witnesses to account for. This was what made the Dandies so merciless, that they left no survivors, witnesses, or prisoners to really live and tell. Beckett was there to orchestrate it all, keeping watch over his carnivorous flock. He had reason to keep a close eye. It had been almost seven months to the day that he'd taken Pete in; his prize. As with all things that go his way, the hold he has on his two favorites is beginning to falter. William simply tells himself I will fix this.

In the financial district, amid the frantic sirens and emergency vehicles, Pete had dropped the limp body that had been slowly dying in his arms and made his way to Brendon, crouched at the ledge of the roof, running the brim of his hat along his fingertips, as he frequently did when mind wouldn't settle. He hadn't bothered to feed tonight. Despite the nagging urge to satiate the the blood lust raging and ripping inside of him, he buried it. Brendon stared blankly to the horizon, and this perplexed Pete beyond comprehension.

"You're killing me, Urie." Pete huffed, wiping excess from the corners of his mouth and chin. "It's been three days. You've got to eat something."

Brendon didn't acknowledge his crude joke. "Pete," he asked reluctantly. "Do you ever.....sunlight, do you ever miss it?"

Without missing a beat, Pete answered with confidence, staring at Brendon with coal eyes. "No. I have nothing to miss." Brendon faced him now, narrowing his eyes with disbelief. Not even the rabid Pete was immune to Brendon's gaze.

"I think that's a lie, Pete."

Pete stared at his shoes against the backdrop of the empty street below. He sighed, "And what if it is? Shit like that shouldn't cross my mind anyway."

Brendon mused, "I want to remember what it feels like, to have that kind of warmth crawling across your skin, and it kills me that my body temperature never rises above forty-five degrees. I feel so useless and pathetic because whenever I try to recollect, I get this pain in my temple that feels like a lion is tearing my mind to shreds." Pete listened patiently, looking back to the surrounding avenue.

"You should tell William about this. It isn't normal."

"No." Brendon replied firmly. "Since when have I ever been the least bit normal? And don't say anything, Pete, please. Imagine if I were to tell William what I'd just fed to you, my limbs would be scattered over the lake." Pete scoffed, and Brendon took this vulnerability to pounce. "...I hear you scream in your sleep. You shout my name as if you're fighting off demons."

"It shouldn't make any difference to you." Pete countered defensively. He was still resisting Brendon's gaze.

"I've just begun putting the pieces together. All of these bits of memory that come to me in my sleep are starting to make sense." He gestured between the two of them. "It isn't much, but it's a bit to go by. We have a history."

"Yeah? How far?"

Brendon shook his head, disappointed that he couldn't produce a decent answer. "Have no idea. But then again, I'm still trying to see the bigger picture. I try to remember, and all I get in return is the worst headache imaginable."

"Well, I can tell that something's up with you. It's like you've changed overnight. You even talk differently. But, Brendon, I know that blood will help you out..." Pete mused, coaxing indifferently.

"You're right." Brendon sighed, turning to look for the body, growling when he concluded that Pete had left nothing for him to finish.

Over the past few days, Brendon has come to realize that there was a massive, gaping hole in his life. As much as he tries, he can't conclude much from what he's pieced together in the dreams and subtle differences he's never noticed before...at least, he thinks he hasn't. Though he'd love to go out and get himself something to eat (he's always enjoyed the thrill of draining a fragile life in his arms), he's lost the will to do it. The subtleties become more apparent as the days pass, that he becomes more estranged from Beckett and more attuned to Pete's mannerisms and presence, that he has finally grasped the desire for sunlight again, or for the first time since he was turned from what he can deduce.

His insomnia worsens, watching the wall with curiously at Pete thrashing in his bed to the same nightmares he's been having for weeks. It was obvious now, even his demeanor when Beckett would give him instructions, then stare worriedly at his appearance. As anal-retentive as he is about his outward presentation, Brendon can't help that his hair is lifeless, lips chapped and cracked, and eyes dull and boring, sunken against his cheekbones. As Pete pointed out, he hadn't fed in days. He was a sickly mess and near prepared to do anything to make it right.

____________

Brendon awoke with a start, bolting upright in a frantic pant. His chest rose and fell in a familiar elevated rhythm.

shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit ran through his mind with a torrent of other thoughts.

He knew where he was, and finally, remembered everything. More than his longing to kill, he sensed where Pete was, next door, screaming at the top of his lungs in the same, pathetic nightmare. Brendon knew he needed to get Pete out if there was any chance that he could follow.

Grabbing fistfuls of his hair, Brendon began to hyperventilate, clenching and baring his teeth to bite back a scream of frustration and trying to come up with a plan. He sat in bed amid the bunched sheets and looked anxiously about. The thick blackout curtains held a glow of daylight trying to peek from beneath the bottom edge, and left a three foot long shaft of lethal light in the corner of the room. Thirst suddenly clenched inside of him, and he gripped his stomach, doubling over in agony and want. He wanted to shout with the pain, but refused for fear of waking William.

"When was your last feeding, Brendon?" William asked politely from Brendon's prized leather chair in the back of the room. He sat poignantly with one leg crossed over the other, something dark and curious burning behind his eyes.

Brendon himself was taken aback by his sudden appearance, either not noticing that he'd been here the entire time watching while he slept or had slipped through the door unnoticed. He backed slightly on the mattress but did not break eye contact with William. Pete cried out again, this time Brendon’s name echoed from the other side of the drywall and wallpaper.

"F-Four or five days, I suppose."

William calmly lifted himself from the chair and sauntered to the footboard of the bed. Pete's screaming slowly became more desperate. "Brendon, you know that I need you. That everything I've built depends on you. Please tell me that I still have your loyalty."

"Of course, William." Brendon muttered, seeming to avert his stare to Beckett's hands, examining the dried blood under his razor fingernails.

"Funny," William stated, biting the corner of his lip. "Usually when you refuse to feed, you become weak. You're not weak, are you?"

"William, I wasn't--" Brendon began to tap into his defensive instincts, arching his back and staring William down.

"You are remembering, Brendon, and we cannot have that. You are too valuable of an asset for me to just let go. You belong to me." he glared to Brendon in the growing darkness.

Through the tufts of bangs, all Brendon could see was William sigh before lunging at him with a rabid snarl.