fic: and the moon in their net (2/2)

[iphignia939]

Part One

*

Patrick didn't wake up until well past noon, and that was only because Pete came back into the room, a paper bag in his hands. That shouldn't have woken him up, though; five years of hotel rooms and buses and vans had pretty well inured him to Pete making noise.

"Hey," he said, sitting up. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Everything okay?"

"What?" Pete looked at him. "No, I'm good. You all right? Did I wake you up?"

Patrick shook his head. "I didn't mean to sleep this late," he said, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "You should've woken me up."

"You needed the sleep," Pete said, unpacking the bag. There were a couple of tiny bags Patrick wasn't familiar with, and what looked like a mortar and pestle.

Pete caught him staring. "It's -- there's something I need to do right before we go over," he said. "A couple things, actually."

"Okay," Patrick said. He wasn't really surprised; Pete could get weird and secretive about things, occasionally, and the best thing to do when that happened was to just leave him alone. "Need any help?"

Pete actually looked stricken, for a second. Pete *never* looked stricken.

"You can't," he said, and for once he actually sounded sorry. "I kind of have to do this alone."

"Okay." Patrick didn't know why Pete looked so miserable. To tell the truth, he hadn't actually expected Pete to say yes. "I'm going to go see if Joe and Andy are up yet. You'll yell if you need something?"

Pete was already opening tiny bags and pouring the contents into the mortar. "Yeah," he said, not looking up.

Patrick headed for Andy and Joe's room, glad for once that he slept in his clothes.

*

It was like gearing up for any other show. Patrick did his vocal warm-ups and limbered his fingers up, watched Joe do the same -- the limbering-up, anyway -- and Andy flex out his fingers and make sure his wrists and arms and shoulders were all right. He got dressed the same as he would any other night, and tried very hard not to think about precisely what they were going to do.

In the back of his head, Patrick had sort of expected Pete to be different -- for it to be visible tonight, for some reason, or to be dressed differently. But when he opened the door connecting their rooms, he was wearing a pair of jeans entirely too small for him and a t-shirt reading "Mick + David = Original Crossover OTP", and he didn't have on any more eyeliner than usual.

"You guys ready?" he asked, sounding more like he was heading for war than going to play a show. Which, Patrick supposed, he was.

"As we're going to be," Andy said. "Let's go. Traffic in L.A. always sucks."

*

The drive over was pretty subdued. Pete drove and played Lifetime the whole way over, drumming the bass line against the steering wheel at stoplights. He didn't look nervous, but he wasn't blinking more than he had to, and he wasn't talking, which was about as likely as -- well. As the rest of it, really.

They'd rented a van, because that made it easier to bring the instruments and gear over. It wasn't a hardship; they'd done it before they got big. Everyone had. Patrick still looked around some shows and remembered, oh, right, they had roadies now. It was strange.

It was eleven-thirty by the time they got there. The park was closed, but Pete ran his fingers along the keypad -- earning a whispered "oh my God, you dick, *fingerprints*" from Joe -- and it lit up green and the gates opened like something out of a children's story. They parked as close to the entrance as they could.

Pete dug out the small plastic bag of whatever he'd mixed up back at the hotel. It was mostly clear, with a very slight opaque edge -- like sunscreen, except for the fact that it was almost midnight. He dipped his fingers into whatever was in the bowl and touched his eyelids, his throat, the inside curve of his ears. "Okay, someone else lean forward. We don't have a lot of time."

Andy leaned forward from the backseat, wrinkling his nose a little at the smell; Joe went after, and blinked for a second when Pete touched his eyelids. "Oh, fuck," he said faintly. "I think my buzz is gone."

"Yeah," Pete said, sounding distantly apologetic. "It's a side effect. Don't worry, you won't need anything when you get in there."

"A side effect of *what*?" Patrick asked, eyeing him.

"Of this stuff," Pete said, nodding him over. Patrick unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over. "It's -- it's like a shield, sort of. Faeries don't always play nice. They're bound to play fair tonight, because the Queen said they would, and her word's law, but they'll trick you if they can, and that totally counts. This evens the playing field, or as close as we can come to an even playing field."

It was cool against his skin, but not uncomfortable, and wet without being sticky. Patrick didn't know why Andy had made a face; it didn't really smell like anything at all. There was a strange doubling sensation after Pete brushed his eyelids - very, very carefully - and then--

"You won't be needing these tonight," Pete said, plucking Patrick's glasses off with his free hand and handed them back. "You either, Hurley."

Andy looked at him, then took his own off. "Holy shit," he said, blinking and looking around. Patrick knew the feeling. It wasn't like having contacts in; it was like not needing glasses. The last time that had been true -- shit, he'd been seven or eight. "How are you doing this?"

"I'm not doing anything," Pete said. He didn't quite sound smug, but it was close. "Your vision isn't the problem. It's your *eyes*."

Andy narrowed his eyes. In the dimly-lit backseat, only working with the domelight and not wearing his glasses, Patrick could see it.

"I know," Pete said, "it sounds like something out of The Matrix, but it's true. Like I told Joe, it's a side effect. It'll wear off by morning."

"Right," Patrick said. "I should probably keep these handy, then." He put his glasses in his jacket pocket.

Andy fingered his labret. "Should I--"

"That'll be fine," Pete said. He rolled his neck on his shoulders, cracked his knuckles. recognized the gestures immediately; it was the way he always started warming up before a show. Of course, it also looked like he was warming up for a bar fight. "They get twitchy around a lot of metal. They'd hate federal prison, but a couple of piercings shouldn't bother them one way or the other."

He finished stretching out and opened the door. "C'mon," he said, climbing out of the van. "Let's get this over with."

*

The section of park that had been sectioned off was not quite half a mile back, and not in the best area. Being in the park was weird at night; Patrick had driven past it a bunch of times while they'd been in L.A., but it was different actually being there, and it was a dozen times stranger being in it past closing.

They left the equipment in the van and the doors unlocked.

"You're just leaving the *van open*?" Joe asked, sounding incredulous. For once, Patrick didn't blame him. "Are you kidding? Our shit's gonna be gone in, like, two minutes."

"No it won't," Pete said. He didn't even bother to look back and check. "Don't worry, it'll be fine. No one's out here tonight who doesn't have to be."

Patrick ignored Joe's grumbling and Andy's attempts to ease him down. "You okay?"

"I'm as good as I can be right now," Pete said tightly. "Which isn't saying a lot." He swung his arms every couple of yards, kept flexing his fingers. "I keep thinking I should be nervous, but I'm *not*. I really just want it over with."

Patrick wanted to say something to that -- would have loved to, actually -- but he'd never been terribly good at saying reassuring things. That was more Andy's department. He kept quiet instead.

The rest of the walk was just as quiet, except for the sound of their feet on the grass. There were no security guys, no homeless people hiding and trying to find a place to sleep. There weren't even any security lights, which freaked Patrick out almost more than the whole faerie thing. Sure, they were on their way to possibly be murdered, but he'd rather it not be by a mugger.

Just over half a mile back, in the middle of a hell of a lot of nowhere surrounded by sidewalk, Pete stopped and nodded ahead. "This is it."

They looked around.

"Um," Andy said. He raised his voice a little. "No offense to anyone who might be listening, but I was kind of expecting something more than tiki torches." He lowered his voice. "Seriously, it kind of looks like my junior prom."

Pete kicked him in the shin.

"Ow! Goddammit, Pete--"

"That's the *barrier*, okay?" Pete snapped, keeping his voice low. "Once we're inside, they get lit, and they're spelled, so it'll keep in all the noise we make and leave us blind to the naked eye, or camcorders, or whatever. It also keeps people away, so we're not interrupted."

All that, from tiki torches. Patrick was suitably impressed.

Joe said, "Is that -- that's our stuff over there."

It was. It was set up as well as Patrick had ever seen it, even though he couldn't have said where everything was plugged in, let alone how or how it had beaten them there.

"I don't see anyone," Patrick finally said.

"You won't," Pete said. His voice was still low. "You can't see them until you're inside the barrier. It's that naked eye thing." He waved a hand and moved forward another couple of feet.

The funny thing was, Patrick realized as they inched forward, he wasn't scared. Sort of freaked out, but it wasn't any worse than going to the Grammys or performing at the VMAs. A little easier, actually, because no one here expected him to be anything other than a terrified human, and that wasn't that hard. Trying not to get twitchy when you were being interviewed by Rolling Stone or AP, now, *that* was hard.

"You can't lie to her," Pete said suddenly, stopping in his tracks. "You just -- you can't, okay? If she asks you something, I don't care if it makes you sound like the biggest asshole on the planet, you *can't lie*. Okay?"

"Okay," Andy said. Patrick and Joe nodded.

"If she offers you any gifts, don't take them, because she'll see it as a binding contract and we don't have anything of equal value to give back to get you out of it. You can eat and drink, because it's a field of truce, but it's like being at a party with people you don't know -- be careful, don't pick your drink back up if you've put it down, all of that." He was speaking a little faster. "Try not to puss out in front of her; it'll give her a psychological advantage, and right now that's the last thing we-"

"Dude," Joe said. He rolled his eyes. "We're not stupid, okay?"

"I know that," Pete said. His voice was tight again. "But if something goes wrong tonight it's my fault, because I'm the one who got you guys into this, and I just." He took a deep breath.

Andy put a hand on his chest. "You've done worse," he said, not unkindly. "We'll get through this, and you'll probably do even stupider things in the future. You just have to trust that we're not complete morons."

"Which," Joe added, "you knew last night. And this morning." He punched Pete in the shoulder, but not hard.

"Now you're just stalling," Patrick said. He put his hands on the small of Pete's back and shoved him toward the torches. "Come on, let's get this over with."

They passed through the ring of torches-

*

--and then they were lit, and there was a faint but audible snapping noise in Patrick's ears, like a rubber band breaking.

Patrick looked around.

There were what looked to be somewhere between fifty and two hundred people milling around like it was a cocktail party. None of them had been there a second ago - but then, Pete had said they wouldn’t be seen from outside the circle, so score one for faerie magic.

"Is this everyone?" Andy asked out of the corner of his mouth.

"No," Pete said. "It's a lot of them, but it was sort of short notice. Anyway, it's not that big a deal."

"Excuse me?" Joe's eyebrows were up. "We could be dead in the next couple of hours, and it's not that big a deal?"

Pete shrugged. "Not to them." He kept moving toward the makeshift stage.

No one said a word; no one looked at them. They were silent as an empty room, except for the slight crackling sound of the torches. After almost a year of people freaking out every time they so much as spotted one of them in a Denny's, it was kind of weird.

They were almost to the stage when they heard it.

"Son of Adam," someone called, and Patrick’s head jerked up like someone had pulled on his leash. Pete grabbed his hand. "You have arrived."

“Oh fuck,” Pete said faintly, but didn't look away.

There was a woman standing maybe ten feet away from them. She was slender and tall, but not supermodel-tall, with black hair pulled back in a long braid. She was wearing what looked like a leather jacket and pants, pointed boots, a dark green t-shirt - and good God, that looked like a *chain wallet*. Her features were sharp and pale, and she was wearing just the right amount of eyeliner and blue lipstick. She would have had trouble explaining the pointed ears, but hell, a lot of clubs were dimly lit.

Nothing about her seemed that strange or otherworldly. But the lizard part of Patrick's brain was telling him to MOVE MOVE MOVE GOD NOW MOVE, which couldn't be a good sign.

Pete clutched his hand like it was a lifeline. Patrick didn't move.

The woman's -- the Queen's -- arms were crossed over her chest. "Some of the court suspected you would run," she said. "Like a rabbit, perhaps, or a deer." She took a step forward and grinned. The expression looked oddly familiar. "Like *prey*."

Pete didn't say anything.

"I said no, of course," she said. The grin fell away, leaving someone who looked supremely bored. Her arms were still crossed over her chest. "Son of Adam or no, no one with our blood in his veins would run, no matter who was chasing him. You have proven me correct. For that..."

She tilted her head to the side. Apparently that meant something, because Pete relaxed a fraction and some people in the crowd started muttering. Not that Patrick could tell who; he couldn’t have picked any faces but the Queen out of the crowd even if he’d wanted to. They were all fairly uniform - smooth skin, flawless complexions, features a little too perfect to be real. Most of the women were nicely curvy, and a lot of the men looked like scene kids, all razor-sharp hips and pointed hair.

There were other, less appetizing, shapes around the fires, but Patrick didn't let himself look too closely at those.

"My Queen," Pete finally said. In the five-plus years Patrick had known him, he'd never heard Pete sound that deferential, not even to his own mother. It was a little scary. "We are honored by your presence."

"Honored," she said. Her voice sounded like - like music, almost, except that would have been too crude a comparison. "You must be of our blood, mortal. No mere human could make terror sound so sweet." She smiled. "And you *are* scared, boy. Don't try to lie to me. I can smell it on you." Thoughtfully: "It smells like cherries."

Patrick thought, We are so fucked.

"Do you want us to be scared, or do you want us to play?" Pete asked, and this time he sounded more like himself. It made something in Patrick’s stomach relax a little, though that was probably stupid; at a time like this, it would probably be better to be alert, even if that came with being completely terrified. "Because the way it was explained to me, you were going to give us a fighting chance, at least. If you're not, there isn't a hell of a lot I can do about it, but you should probably talk to the asshole who explained it to me so that there aren't any miscommunications next time." He looked around for a minute, then pointed to the Queen's right. "There, right there. The guy with all the tattoos.”

The guy with all the tattoos - who, Patrick thought, looked a lot like a couple of Pete's friends back in Chicago, and a surprising amount like a guy Pete had hooked up with once in Boston - glared and balled up his fists, started to come toward them.

The Queen held up a hand. The guy with the tattoos stopped and, after a couple of seconds, moved back to where he'd been standing before. He kept glaring at Pete, though.

Not that Pete noticed. It was like he was on stage already, sneering and proud and just that much crazier than normal. Add in some wind and rain, and it'd be the VMAs all over again. Patrick just hoped there wouldn't be any sound problems this time.

"These are your brothers," she said, barely glancing at the rest of them. "Do they know what you've risked on their behalf?"

"Yes," Andy said, "we do." He didn't sound anywhere near as echo-y as she did, but he was clear and strong, and if he was scared, he didn't look it.

"I doubt that," she said. It didn't sound snotty or condescending; it made Patrick feel like he was a kid again, too stupid to know what he was doing or seeing, and this was all going to--

Joe bumped his arm with his guitar. Patrick took a deep breath and blinked, glanced at Pete. Pete cut his eyes toward him, but didn't glance away from her.

God, that was *with* shields at full power, Captain? Oh my God, they were so far beyond fucked.

On the other hand, piped up a voice in the back of his head, so what? Nothing you can do about it now except play, and if that doesn't work, it doesn't work. You gave it a shot. You're not going out at home, and you're not going out like a pissy little *bitch*, and how many people can say their last act was to perform for the Queen of All Faerie before they died?

The scary thing was, it was *his* voice, but the words? Totally Pete's. They sounded like his, anyway.

"Lady," he said out loud, and everyone whipped their heads to look at him. "We don't mean to be rude, but we came here to play. If we keep talking, we're probably just going to annoy you even more; and I've been around you all of a minute, but I already know I don't want to do that." He tilted his head and closed his eyes, hoped it looked courteous enough. "We're not all that good with words, Your Highness. Not spoken ones, at least."

Patrick held his breath and waited.

"As you will," the Queen said. It sounded like she was smiling; Patrick couldn't tell, since he wasn't about to look at her if he didn't have to. He felt, rather than saw, her step aside and out of their way. “You have our attention.”

“Right,” Pete said out loud. “Okay.” He paused, then bowed as low as he dared in those jeans - not that low, really, but no one tried to stab them, so Patrick figured it was passable.

Without thinking about it, they turned into a huddle.

”This is-“ Pete started, and stopped. He shook his head. “Fuck it. It was just going to be trite.”

”There you go again, being a pessimistic motherfucker,” Joe said. He looked a little freaked, but only around the eyes, and only then if you knew him. “Dude, we’ve had worse. We’ll be fine. And if we’re not, MTV has no one good on tomorrow, so we’re totally getting Kurt Loder.”

Pete almost smiled.

”It can’t be worse than Detroit,” Andy said, shrugging.

Pete said, “Uh, actually-“

”It can’t be worse than Detroit,” Andy said again, except it was more like an order. Pete nodded.

”Right, no, way better.”

“Damn straight,” Andy said.

Pete looked at him.

There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but he went with the easiest. “If this fucks up my voice, I’m killing you before anyone else gets the chance.” He took Pete’s hand and squeezed it tight.

“Oh, no,” Pete said, “no pressure.” But he squeezed Patrick’s hand back.

The walk to the stage was just as silent, and just as eerie. Patrick could honestly say he felt everyone’s eyes on them, watching them cross the remaining couple of feet and pick up their instruments. They did soundcheck, same as they always did, and still no one said a word.

Then soundcheck was over, and all they had left to do was start.

“Okay,” Pete said, letting out a long breath. “Autumn?”

“Hey!" Joe yelled. "High-fives, assholes. Jesus, put lives on the line and you start forgetting all the important shit.”

Patrick let out a breath and looked at Pete. Pete relaxed, grinned back a little. “He’s not wrong,” he said, and slapped Patrick’s hand.

Then it was Patrick to Joe, Joe to Pete, Pete to Andy, and Andy to Patrick, and for a second everything was all right. It wasn’t any different than any other show, except for the dead silence all around them.

They got into position, and Pete leaned into the mic. “So who here wants to see us dead tonight?” he snarled, and everyone howled back at him.

And then everything else fell away, and the show started.

*

They'd had a plan, that afternoon.

"Don't worry about Top 40," Pete had said, "just go for the jugular and don't let up until you hear her tell you to stop. And don't worry about not hearing her, because trust me, you'll fucking hear her. They'll fucking hear her in *Deerfield*, if she's not careful. Cover songs are fine, so if you feel like going for Joy Divison, dude, do it. Just try not to repeat anything, because she hates that."

"So really," Patrick had said, "all she has to do is wait us out and see if we get tired enough to do two or three over, and she could kill us? On a technicality?"

Pete had started to say something, and his eyes had gone wide. "Oh. Oh, *fuck*."

"If she doesn't like encores, she doesn't like encores," Joe had said. He'd looked up from double-checking the amps. "Nothing we can do about it now, right?"

"Right," Pete had said, relaxing a little. "And for the love of God, Trick-“

"I know, I know," Patrick had said, "nothing from the first album."

At two in the afternoon, that had been the best plan *ever*.

*

Two lines into Grand Theft Autumn, the plan went out the window.

The equipment was fine; Andy had had a couple minutes' freak out about that before Pete had assured him that while faeries didn't like metal, the spells protecting them from the outside world -- and vice versa -- should still let everything work just fine, because to do otherwise was considered being a bad host, which, for a faerie, was the worst thing in the history of anything ever, or at least in the bottom three.

Patrick had started simply enough - Sugar, then Dance, Dance, because by now he was programmed for it; they all were. Then it was Liars and Fakes, Snitches and Talkers, and Space Camp to cushion the blow; then Saturday and Chicago is So Two Years Ago and XO. He looked up enough to notice the Queen nearly having an expression on Dead on Arrival and Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner, and unless he was wildly off-base - which was entirely possible - she’d almost looked interested at Sophomore Slump; but then, she could have just been interpreting the lyrics literally and been a fan of arson.

That was followed with I Slept With Someone and Get Busy Living, which always made something in the back of Patrick’s head sit up and listen carefully, because really, Pete didn’t sing enough. There wasn’t any nuzzling - and Patrick was grateful for that, but also oddly disappointed - and as soon as that was done, he went right back with Champagne For My Real Friends and Of All the Gin Joints. Then he’d done Love Will Tear Us Apart, because he was pretty sure Pete had been kidding about that but fuck it, the song was awesome.

There were a bad couple of seconds, then, where Patrick got tired -- no, not tired, exhausted, because everything was on him and performing for all of Faerie, it turned out, was the biggest energy suck ever -- but Pete had jumped in and saved his ass by busting out a couple of Arma Angelus songs, and it had given him enough of a rest to come back swinging. Sure, he was swinging cover songs, but that counted. He got through the entire range of Bowie he knew off the top of his head (which, admittedly, was damn near everything), and half the Bad Religion catalogue; then pretty much everything Panic! had ever done and most of Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, which had been worth it just to see Pete start laughing when he realized Patrick was starting with You Know What They Do to Guys Like Us in Prison. And Pete had done Bert's part, so bonus.

Halfway through To the End, though, he just -- stopped.

He didn't stop singing, because apparently My Chem got faeries worked up like a son of a bitch, but he could feel whatever lift he'd gotten from Pete jumping in drain out of him, and *fast*. And really, what the fuck had they been thinking? He was *twenty-one*, for God's sake, and they'd been recording all week, and there were lives depending on him? What the fuck? This was -- it was too much, it was too big, and he was coming up on a wall and he was going to hit it, and they were all going to be dead, and oh my God, it was all his FAULT-

And just that fast he was up over the wall instead of smashing into it, and then it went insane.

Because it wasn't words anymore, or at least it wasn't a song. It was *everything*: every thought, every moment, every note and chord and part of him, sung out in the longest fucking note of his entire goddamn life. It started under him and went through, like a wave, or a fire, and he couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to; and he didn't, because he knew -- he *knew* -- he'd never do this again, never let every inch of himself out like this. It all made sense, when he was singing -- why he did this, why he loved it, why it loved him back.

After a couple of seconds, Pete joined in.

And that made sense, too, because Pete was like that: he'd never ask you to do something he wasn't willing to do, too, no matter how painful or messy or incredibly stupid; and Patrick loved him for that. Not just like a brother, though that was part of it, but loved him, desperately and fully and with a passion that was total and intense and terrifying. But it wasn't terrifying then, because it was in the song, and everything made sense when Patrick was singing it. And Pete loved him back, and that was okay, because everything was okay, even if they never said it out loud or acted on it, because it was in them.

And then Joe and Andy were singing, too, because they couldn't *not*, not now and not here; and that was all right, because they were brothers and he loved them, too. And if this was how it ended, it was all right, because there were worse things to go out with than love.

Patrick didn't even know it was over until he opened his eyes and realized he was on his knees, head raised toward the sky, and the last of his voice was singing the last note.

He stopped.

No one said anything.

Finally, Patrick croaked, "Any requests?" He sounded like he'd been awake for a thousand years, and his voice sounded worse. He didn't let himself think about that, though.

"And don't say 'Freebird'," Pete added, sounding just as horrible. "That shit is so fucking played out."

No one said anything for a very long time.

And then someone was standing in front of them, and Patrick had just enough energy to look up at whoever it was.

”Son of Adam,” the Queen of All Faerie said, looking only at Pete. Patrick wasn’t surprised; Pete had that effect on women. And tiny boys with sharp hips. On most of the world, actually.

Patrick thought he might have seen something glimmering in her eyes, but he told himself it was just reflected firelight; and when she glanced at him for half a second, he knew that had been the right idea.

“Any trespass you have offered is forgiven,” the Queen said. It was quiet, but no one else was saying anything, and it echoed. Or maybe that was just her. “Though you might want to watch your tongue from now on,” she added, sotto voce, still smiling with too many gleaming white teeth.

"I'll remember that," Pete promised. He sounded okay again, if still deferential, which made something in Patrick’s stomach unknot.

"See that you do." She flicked a lock of hair back from his eyes and walked over to where Patrick was still on his knees, looking up at her. She didn't seem as awe-inspiring, now, though the lizard part of his brain was still terrified of her.

Finally, she said, "I have heard worse."

And then she was gone, disappearing back into the crowd, and Patrick let himself breathe again.

“That’s *it*?” he heard himself say. Not that he was disappointed, really - he wasn’t going to die tonight, which made it the best day *ever* -- but come *on*. Something. Fucking *Spin* was nicer to them, for Christ’s sake.

”That’s it,” Pete agreed. “You heard the lady: any trespass I have offered is forgiven. Get out of jail free card, dude.” He stretched for a couple of seconds, then looked over at Patrick. “You okay?”

"I could sleep for a year," he said. He moved carefully, stiffly, and sat down on the edge of the stage, let his legs dangle over the lip. Not just because he wanted to look cool, but his feet were still pins-and-needles. "No, a hundred."

His voice sounded all right, though, and that let the rest of whatever was knotted up in his stomach unravel.

"Don't let anyone hear you say that," Pete warned. "They could do it. I think we got them a little worked up." He grinned a little, bouncing on his toes. "That went better than I expected."

Patrick was almost afraid to ask, but that hadn't stopped him before. "What *were* you expecting?"

Pete shrugged. "That they'd like us enough to do it quick."

Patrick looked at him, realized he wasn’t kidding, and shook his head. Because really, what other choice did he have? "So what do we do now?" he asked.

"Now," Pete said, "because we didn't piss anyone off, and we haven't all been brutally murdered? We party."

*

He'd give faeries this: they knew how to throw a party.

It was every Grammy party, every post-VMA celebration, every house party in the world crammed into one, all outdoors and with enough alcohol to kill a team of Clydesdales. People were naked, people were half-naked, people were geared up like it was the dead of winter back in Chicago. There was a great deal of singing, though it didn't seem to be in English, and even more dancing. It was almost like being back on Warped.

Patrick kept staring at the ring of fires, surprised they were still holding up. But Pete had said they'd hold until morning, and that they'd keep away unwanted attention, so he guessed letting out the ambient noise of a magical house party was included in that.

"Excuse me," someone said, and Patrick turned around.

There was an extremely attractive man standing next to him. He looked the same as every other person they'd seen out here - same cast to the eyes, same tilt of the head, same curve of the lips. They were like figurines, except with different coloring. All the human-looking ones, anyway, Patrick mentally corrected.

"You sang very sweetly," the man said, smiling at Patrick.

"Um." Patrick didn't really know what to say. He decided to play it safe. "Thanks."

The man winced. "Do not thank me," he said. "It is - we have no concept of it, among the fey, and the human term grates against us."

Crap. "Sorry," Patrick said.

"That one's fine," the man said, smiling again. He had very white teeth, Patrick noticed, and his skin was pale. Not, like, vampire-pale - he'd seen one woman who looked weirdly like a vampire, but she'd been staring at Andy all night and it'd probably be rude to ask her if she was - but just like he hadn't seen a lot of sun lately. He was dressed like every other scene kid Patrick had ever seen, if even prettier than normal and wearing fewer wristbands. "The Queen was most impressed with your voice. We all were."

"Th-" Patrick started to say, but cut himself off. "I'm glad," he said. "And not just because, you know, we're not dead."

The man grinned and took a step closer. "Would you like to be with me tonight?"

Patrick blinked at him. Clearly, he meant - oh. Oh.

"I do not mean to be rude," the man said. "It is - I am not proposing marriage, or some longer union, and if you are already promised to another, say the word and I'll withdraw. But if not..." He trailed off.

"Really, it's not," Patrick said, and, faltering, looked around. God, if there'd ever been a time he actually wanted Pete to show up and save him from--

Except that wasn't going to happen, he realized, because Pete was on the other side of the clearing, a tall blonde woman on one arm and an androgynous-looking man on the other. They were both pressed entirely too close to him for comfort, and Pete was grinning. It was the vicious one, the one he usually wore at awards shows and photo ops.

It never touched his eyes, Patrick had noticed, but no one else ever seemed to get that. Sometimes he didn't even think Pete did.

“No,” Patrick said, turning around, "I'm really not. Promised to anyone else, I mean.” He smiled a little. “I'd like that. I mean, if the offer still stands.”

“Always,” the man said, smiling at him; and, taking his hand, led him off.

*

It was-

-- different from the other couple of times Patrick had been with a guy, in part because they were outside, but mostly because the guy seemed like he wanted to be there. "Wanted to be there", hell; one time someone else had come near them and he'd hissed at him (or her; Patrick couldn't really see, what with the fading firelight and his glasses being somewhere very far away from his face) in some language that sounded more like music than words. The guy - whose name was Ciel, Patrick learned, and he'd said it enough times over the course of the night - was completely captivated by him, touching him everywhere he could like it was some kind of compulsion, and he'd hummed the whole time and smiled;

-- hot, crazy-stupid-hot, the kind of sex that happened a lot less than Patrick would like. Ciel had smelled and kissed and tasted him all night, murmuring words in Patrick's ear and touching his face and laughing softly. He was like a ghost, or some kind of really good dream, right up until he turned Patrick over and fucked him hard and fast against the earth, whispering in that same language, and making soft broken noises when Patrick tried to whisper it back to him. "Yes," he'd said, "yes" and "again" and "harder" when Patrick had lowered his head and sucked his cock, carding his fingers through Patrick's hair and gasping his name like it was some kind of prayer;

-- it was very good.

*

Sometime before dawn, Ciel slipped away, touching his cheek and draping his clothes over him. If he said anything as he left, Patrick didn't hear it.

But his clothes were all right there, and his glasses were next to his head; and the equipment was where they'd left it and there weren't any people around to gawk or take pictures for MTV News or arrest them for indecent exposure, so maybe that was some kind of blessing, or gentle word.

Patrick took it as one, anyway.

*

Even still half-asleep, ambling in the general direction of the van and yawning, Patrick could still hear Pete losing his shit a couple dozen yards away.

"--where he is, I'm getting on the phone and calling someone, and I don't give a fuck who--"

"What?" Patrick called, running a hand through his hair. "What's wrong? Who's missing?"

Pete, Joe and Andy turned to stare at him.

Ah. Apparently, him.

"Hey," Andy said, waving a hand. He looked disheveled as all hell, right down to the leaves in his hair, but there was a hickey on his neck the size of a man's fist and he was grinning so wide Patrick almost couldn't see his eyes. He was wearing his glasses again. “Good night?”

Patrick shrugged.

"Oh, God," Joe groaned, "it's - seriously, have you *met* him? Patrick isn't going to tell us *shit*. Fucking gentleman," he said, rolling his eyes. He didn't have a hickey, but his hair was messy and he was missing a shoe. He looked about as awake as Patrick felt, and still not stoned.

"Are you all right?" Pete asked him. He looked - about the same as he had the night before, actually. But then, Pete usually looked freshly-fucked, so maybe it was just that Patrick’s eyes had finally adjusted. Or re-adjusted. Whatever. Speaking of which…

Patrick found his glasses and put them back on. "I'm good," he said. "Little tired. Is the van okay?"

"Van's fine," Joe said, still looking at him. "Someone even loaded everything up and locked it. Didn't do that bad a job, either."

Andy sounded thoughtful. "I thought they didn't like touching metal."

"They got over it," Pete snapped. He headed for the van and flung the door open. "Apparently, that was the theme of the night."

Patrick didn't even need to look at him to know who Pete was talking about. He just...couldn't bring himself to care. It was strangely freeing. This had to be how Pete felt, like, three-quarters of the time, coasting on being the dashing rogue and knowing he could bat his eyes and everyone would forgive him.

That wasn’t entirely fair, Patrick knew, but fuck it. It had been a very long night, capping off a very long week. He could let himself be a little uncharitable, if only in his own head.

The drive back to the hotel was mostly silent. Patrick was aware that Pete kept glancing at him every couple of minutes, but he was too tired to even crack a joke. He felt exhausted all over, actually, though he supposed that was a side effect of what had happened last night.

When they got back to their room, Patrick could hear Pete talking to someone on his cell phone - probably Chris - but it took the last bit of energy he had to kick his shoes off before he climbed into bed.

His head touched the pillow, and he was out.

*

When Patrick woke up, he started yowling.

"It's okay," Pete said quickly, moving to block the lamp next to the bed. "It's okay. You're fine."

"No I'm not," Patrick said, squeezing his eyes shut. He was either too cold or too hot, depending on what part of his body he was talking about, and he was starving and vaguely nauseous. Parts of him he hadn't known he had hurt, either twingeing or aching in no apparent order, and he couldn't be certain, but he was pretty sure his hair felt hungover. His *hair*. "This is why I don't drink."

"I know," Pete said. "If it makes you feel any better, Joe and Andy feel -- okay, not *this* bad, but they felt crappy when they woke up."

"When was that?" Patrick demanded.

"Um." Pete shrugged. "Like, six hours ago."

"Oh my God. I'm dying."

"No you're not." Pete was wearing his Clandestine shirt and faded jeans, and his feet were bare. "Last night, did you--" He looked...on anyone else, Patrick would have said it was uncomfortable, but nothing really made Pete uncomfortable. "I mean, you clearly got -- look, last night--"

Patrick let one eye open for a second, then squeezed it shut again. "I got laid last night, if that's what you're asking."

"Okay," Pete said. "Did he say anything last night? Like, during?" Patrick nodded. "And it sounded sort of like music, right?"

"Sort of," Patrick said warily. This did not sound good.

"Okay." Pete turned off the lamp and sat on the edge of the bed. "It was probably just a glamour or something. A little spell," he said when Patrick stared at him blankly with the one eye he risked opening again now that the lamp was off. "Teeny-tiny. For them, I mean. I don't know that I could do one." He stared off for a second. "I mean, I haven't tried, but I could always give it a-“

"*Pete*."

Pete looked at him. "Right," he said, "sorry. He probably didn't even know he was doing it; magic bleeds off these guys, sometimes, especially when things are getting good. And to be fair, the shielding--" he gestured to the mark on Patrick’s forehead, which he couldn't feel anymore "--probably didn't help. Magic bumps into magic, it isn't always pretty." He touched Patrick’s forehead, his throat, behind his ear. "You don't have a fever. How do you feel?"

"Crappy," Patrick said. "But I think I can--" he tried opening his other eye "--yeah, okay, less shooting pain. But everything hurts, and if you put food in front of me, I don't think I'd ever stop throwing up."

"That'll fade," Pete said, taking his hand away. "You're probably gonna sleep the rest of the day, and you should feel fine when you wake up again." He shrugged. "I mean, considering."

"'Considering'?"

Pete raised an eyebrow at him. "You didn't look in the mirror before you passed out last night, did you?"

"No." At least, he didn't think so. The last ten or so minutes were sort of fuzzy.

"Trick,” Pete said, rubbing the bridge of his nose and looking like he was trying not to smile, "you look like you just took on an entire soccer team and had enough energy left over for a couple of Marines."

"Yeah, that's pretty much how I feel." Patrick made himself sit up, yawned into his hand. He was still wearing what he'd had on last night in the park, minus his shoes. He looked at Pete. "Is it that bad?"

"You probably shouldn't go visit your mom for a week or two," Pete said, raising an eyebrow at him. "Unless you enjoy the thought of answering a bunch of awkward questions."

Oh, God, just the idea of his mom and sex in the same conversation-- "Please stop giving me flashbacks to junior high," Patrick said faintly. He rested his forehead against his hand. "Why don't *you* look this bad?" Pete looked normal, if a little more tired than usual.

"I'm used to it," Pete said matter-of-factly. Patrick waited for him to crack some kind of joke about a threeway splitting the difference when it came to precisely who looked like they'd been ridden hard and put away wet, but he didn't.

"I have to say, I was a little surprised," Pete said, running his thumb over one of the marks on Patrick’s throat. His voice sounded light. "I didn't think you liked pretty guys. I mean, not *that* pretty."

"Oh, no," Patrick said, trying to keep his voice just as light. "I like my men older than me and covered in tattoos and war stories. Didn't I tell you?"

Pete looked at him.

"And bears," Patrick added thoughtfully. "Not always, but sometimes you just have to go for the big hairy guy, you know?" He managed a smile.

Pete was still looking at him.

"And I'm going to stop making jokes now, because you're not saying anything and it's kind of weirding you out." Patrick reached out a hand and waved it in Pete's face. "Pete? You with me, or should I start to worry? Because I'm really not up for that right now."

"Why did you go off with that guy?" Pete asked.

Interesting question. Interesting, very pointed question. "He's not a guy," Patrick said. "Remember? Pointed ears, left me with a magical sex hangover?"

Pete waved a hand. "He has a dick, he's a guy. Nominally, anyway." He didn't look away from
"And you didn't answer my question."

"He asked," Patrick said. The nausea was fading, but he was starting to get a headache. "Anyway, why do you care?"

"I care," Pete said, "because I was, like, six feet away from you. What, you couldn't have walked over?"

Patrick told himself not to gape, but really, if Pete didn't want him doing a startled fish impression, he should probably stop dropping tiny conversational bombs. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

Pete didn't say anything, just reached out and stroked his thumb against the marks on Patrick’s throat again. "This is sloppy," he said quietly. had never heard that voice out of him before, all soft noises and murmurs. "I wouldn't have left marks anyone could see."

Patrick jerked back. "What the *hell*? Are you -- oh my God, is this your twisted way of telling me you like me?"

"You knew!" Pete shot back, glaring at him. The voice was gone; he just sounded like himself again, if a little raspier than normal. "You knew last night, when we were playing, and don't tell me you didn't feel it."

Fuck. "That was -- I don't know what it was," Patrick said, "but I didn't feel anything." Which was a lie, of course, but his stomach was in no way up to any kind of discussion about what had happened out there the night before.

"Of course not," Pete said. "You're like a rock in a fucking stream, everything happens around you but it doesn't touch you. You're so calm, so patient, so even-tempered." He leaned in close. "And you're a bad fucking liar, man, so don't try that shit with me."

"Pete--"

"More importantly," Pete continued, "you can't lie to *me*. And I can't lie to you either, remember? That's what I told you a week ago, when all this shit came out: 'I sure as shit wouldn't lie to *you* about this. And if you don't know that already, you have not been paying attention the last five fucking years.'" He was angry now; even worse, he was scared, and things tended to go sideways when Pete got freaked out. That wasn't magic, either, or at least Patrick didn't think it was; it was just Pete. "And God, maybe you haven't been! Or maybe I'm just some kind of fucking savant when it comes to being subtle."

"Yeah, no," Patrick said.

And just that fast, all the anger, all the fear -- all of whatever was coursing through Pete drained out of him, leaving a 26-year-old kid sprawled on a hotel bed with his best friend, wired and exhausted and more than a little punchy.

"Patrick," he said quietly. "If you didn't feel anything last night -- if it's all in my head -- just say so. Because I have been on a fucking rollercoaster in the last two days, dude, and I'd kind of like to climb off and pass out until, like, May."

Patrick started to answer-

--and stopped.

He was silent for a long time.

"You aren't wrong," he finally said. He looked at Pete. "That's what you want to hear, right?"

"I don't really *need* to hear it," Pete said, looking back at him steadily. "I was there last night. I know what I felt."

"Great," Patrick said. "So maybe you can explain it to me, because this entire week has just been fucked up." His voice didn't break on the last two words, but it was close.

"Patrick--"

"I have put up with a lot of shit over the last five years," Patrick said. He took a deep breath. "I have put up with a crappy first album, general musical obscurity, mainstream popularity followed by people talking crap about us *because* we're popular, losing a Grammy, being dumped exactly four times by three women and a man, not showering for weeks on end during Warped, not sleeping, not eating, listening to you piss and moan because Mikey stopped sleeping with you, losing my hair, and your mini-nervous breakdown. And somehow, the last week has topped all of that handily, because you -- in short order - told me you were part magical being, told me you'd accidentally signed our death warrants, then announced that *I* had to do all the hard work involved in us not being brutally murdered by creatures out of an Emma Bull novel. After I did that - which, by the way, is still freaking me out enough that I can't let myself think about it -- I had sex with a faerie, then caught the temporary equivalent of a magical STD, woke up in this hotel feeling like liquid death -- and no, that's not a metaphor -- and had my best friend hit on me, because something I sang while under the influence of faerie magic told him I liked him as much as he apparently likes me, despite the fact that I have, over the last *five years*, seen no evidence of this."

He let the breath out.

Pete said, "Are you done?"

"Actually," Patrick said, "no. Because I don't know if you've noticed this, but you have two kinds of relationships: actual *relationships*, and people you have sex with for different periods of time. The relationships always end horribly, because you have the world's worst luck with people you date - seriously, someone should write a paper on it, because if there is a girl who doesn't grasp the meaning of 'don't dick around on me when I'm out on tour', not only will she find you, she will *date* you. And yeah, the friends-with-benefits things have, so far, ended fairly amicably, but that's because you shut yourself off emotionally and reduce everything to body parts - except for that whole thing with Mikey, which, for the record, is the exception that proves the rule. And all of that’s fine, but it's not for me, and I'm not going to risk our friendship crashing and burning because of something spoken or sung under the influence of *magic*, which is about as reliable as TRL.”

Patrick let out a long breath. There. It was all out in the open. They could go back to ignoring it, pretend the last week had never happened, and everything would be fine.

"Yeah," Pete said after a second, "that doesn't work for me."

Patrick looked at him. Pete looked back. "I don't know that you get a say in how I feel, really," he said.

"I don't have to," Pete said. He folded his arms across his chest. "You didn't say anything about how you feel about *me*. You said I suck at relationships, which is true; you said I shut myself off emotionally when I'm just fucking around, which is also true." He tilted his head a little. "But I also know something you don't know."

"Really," Patrick said flatly. "And what would that be?"

Pete leaned in, arms still folded, and said, "This is going to work."

And once more with gaping. "Pete--"

"This is going to work," Pete said again, "because you want it to, and I want it to, and there is nothing we can't do when we're on the same page."

Which - was true, actually. Frightening, but true. Patrick felt his expression soften. "It's not that easy."

"Of course it is." And now Pete looked like himself again, proud and a little smug, and - if you were looking for it - a little freaked, but too proud and smug to admit it. "More importantly, it isn't that *hard*. You know every stupid thing I've ever done, right down to the felony record. I know every freaked-out, neurotic thought you've ever had. I know better than to try and slip you real bacon at Denny's, you know better than to wake me up at seven in the morning unless my head's on fire. I nuzzle you on stage and whisper in your ear, and you flick me in the forehead and tell me I’m running low on Xanax and need to renew my prescription.” He rubbed his eyebrow. “I hate to tell you this, dude, but we're *in* a relationship. Just without the sex.”

Patrick started to open his mouth and say something, then stopped. He sat there for a very long time; eventually, he even closed his mouth.

"I should be protesting this more," he finally said.

"No you shouldn't," Pete said.

"Yes, I should," Patrick said. There was a little bubble of something that felt like happiness in his chest; if he didn’t smack it down soon, he was pretty sure it was headed straight for his brain. “What if you're using your powers on me or something?”

"Okay, A, it's *power*, singular," Pete said, scooting closer. Their hips touched through the sheet. "And B, it doesn't work on you. Believe me, I know, I tried it years ago. Unconsciously, but still."

"Oh," Patrick said, and sat up straighter. “*What*? When?”

"The first week you were in the band." Patrick stared at him. "What? Shut up, you were hot."

Patrick decided to table that until later. "And *sixteen*."

"Oh, come on," Pete said, rolling his eyes, "like that's stopped me before."

"I'm your best friend!" Patrick yelled. "And -- seriously, sixteen!"

"You weren't my best friend at the time," Pete said, "and by then I'd figured out it wouldn't work, so we'd be okay. And I was right."

Patrick wished he could have argued with that, but he was still exhausted and a little punchy himself; and if he'd figured out anything in the last five years, it was that Pete's logic didn't always resemble Earth logic. Except now, that sort of made sense.

"You're basing this," Patrick reminded him, not unkindly, "on a *song*."

"I base everything on songs," Pete said dismissively. "And it's not like you could deny it. You were there; you were under the geas, too."

Patrick blinked at him. "The what?"

"The geas," Pete said. "That thing I said before we went in, about only speaking the truth in front of the Queen? That wasn't advice. I was warning you: you can't lie in front of her. Faeries can't lie at all, but humans can't lie in front of her any more than they can make themselves taller by just thinking about it. It's metaphysically impossible."

"And the song counted," Patrick said, mostly to himself. It made very weird sense; songs were just words put to music, after all, or so his ninth grade English teacher had told them a couple dozen times, trying desperately to get someone - anyone - into poetry.

Pete nodded.

Patrick sat back against the headboard. "Huh." He thought for a second. "Hey, can you lie? Since you're part faerie."

"Dude, you've heard me lie to, like, *cops*," Pete said. "I'm one-sixteenth faerie. I can lie to someone while driving a car *and* saying thank you." He looked smug. “Hat trick.” He paused, then added, “If it makes you feel any better, after I found out I tried using it on you deliberately.”

”No,” Patrick said, “it really doesn’t.” He looked at Pete. “Did it work?”

”Have we had sex?”

”No.”

”Then no.” Pete scooted back until he was next to Patrick again, hips still touching. “I’m pretty sure you’re naturally immune or something,” he said. He actually sounded a little disappointed about that.

“Um,” Patrick said, “I wouldn’t say that just yet.” He moved over just enough to let his hip bump Pete’s.

”That’s not magic,” Pete said, but he was smiling. “That’s my natural animal magnetism.”

”Oh, come on,” Patrick said, “you don’t *have* any anim-“

Pete kissed him.

It could have gone better, all things considered, but Patrick was pretty sure that was because he still felt like crap. Pete’s hand was on his collarbone and he tasted like toothpaste, and it was completely unfair that he couldn’t enjoy it more.

Pete pulled back and looked at him. “Okay, you can do better than that, and I know damn well *I* can do better than that,” he said. “It can wait until you wake up tonight.”

“It doesn’t seem real yet,” Patrick admitted. He scooted back down and thunked his head back against the mattress. “I keep thinking I’m going to realize this is some kind of hallucination.”

Pete propped himself up on his side and rested his hand on Patrick’s hip. His thumb slowly stroked the skin there, moving smoothly. Patrick closed his eyes.

”Don’t worry,” he heard Pete murmur. “It’s not.”

NOTES: …So what have we learned from this? Several things:

1) Stop reading urban fantasy.

2) If you are in the middle of writing a story that features Pete Wentz, One-Sixteenth Faerie, it is probably not a good idea to look at that picture from Rolling Stone where they’re all sitting down and Pete has his head on Joe’s leg, because that is the sneaky part-fae bastard I’ve had living in my head for the last couple of weeks, down to his *hair*, and y’all are welcome to him.

3) Stop with the crack. You’re not doing anyone any good, here.
3a) 16,588 words; 32 pages in 10-point Times New Roman. JESUS CHRIST. SERIOUSLY.

4) No, seriously, lay off the Emma Bull and Terri Windling.

5) On the other hand? It explains, like, a *lot*.

6) If I, at some point, end up writing the MCR companion piece to this, in which Gerard and Mikey find out they’re, like, one-eighth faerie? You have no one but xoverau to blame.

7) This was written before anything from the last two weeks happened, i.e. Hey Chris Goes Crazy on LJ and Wentz Wang ’06 (tm Aja).

Also, apologies for any and all liberties taken with Exposition Park, which actually is located in Los Angeles and has the best name ever. It would totally be copping out if I threw up my hands and said, “Artistic license! Mea culpa!” - but then, I’m surprisingly good at copping out, so: Artistic license! Mea culpa!