The Redemption of Peter Wentz

Pete awoke that evening with a splitting headache and the worst hunger pains he's ever experienced. The first person that came to mind was Brendon, because he of all people would understand, but it was William waiting for him by the draped windows.

"Where is Brendon? I need Brendon." Pete winced through the waves of agony, staggering out of the sheets.

"Brendon is gone."

Pete stopped dead in his tracks, glancing up to William's cool gaze and stature. For a moment, Pete regarded this as mumbled nonsense until, "The Hunters took him."

"T-that doesn't mean anything. He'll come back. We can get him back."

"Peter," William sighed softly. "I will do what I can, but with hindsight, I can't imagine his situation getting any better."

The snarl in Pete's throat grew more guttural by the second. He wrenched his eyes shut as he dug his hands through his hair, fighting the urge to punch the door in as he paced. After a few moments, he went still, bringing his face to William's.

Beckett put a cold hand to the back of his neck supportively. Pete winced. "Then lie to me. Tell me that he'll come back."

"He'll come back."
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In the long run, Patrick hoped that the vault door would hold, that the chains once used to restrain Pete were doing well against Brendon's jerking and prying. Compared to Pete, Brendon was the faster of the two, swifter and more fluid-like with his movements. This meant unpredictable behavior when Patrick sits in to visit him and monitor his condition in Pete's old room.

Patrick has had a long standing hope for Brendon, filed and locked away in the most guarded part of his mind that even Pete has failed to open. He sat motionless in the opposite corner of the room, eyes closed as he listened to Brendon's fingers examine the restraints.

"Patrick." Brendon's voice was dark, with another colder, and definitely more malicious one behind it, dancing in his throat. "Patrick."

He answered by opening his eyes slowly, shifting on the blanket he'd brought with him on the concrete floor. Brendon's eyes flashed in the dark, reflecting the streetlight peering through the window.

"Patrick, exactly how long do you expect to keep me here?" Brendon asked. He was gaunt, his skin paler, getting to the point where it was close to translucent, dark circles around his eyes, and lips bleeding in certain spots where the thin film of skin split open. He watched from the light of the window, held down to the bed in padded shackles, inspecting Patrick curiously. The opaque color in his eyes hinted to Patrick that this whole ordeal was only the beginning of Brendon's inner struggle to regain control over himself.

Patrick knew for certain that though silly and childish, Brendon was not insane as rumors claimed him to be. He knew the real Brendon, consoled him, sheltered him, and loved him. He and Andy knew that this was not the real Brendon, and he was upset to accept that Pete was now in the same dark pit that Brendon was gradually pulling himself out of.

"How long do you expect to keep me here, Patrick?" Brendon pestered again.

Patrick growled, finding his center and letting Brendon move out of focus. "Until you snap out of this and starve."

"Now Patrick, surely you must be joking. I'll die if I do not feed, and you do not want that. Stop these childish games and let me go."