Strange Things Happen At The One Two Points 1/9

[lovebashed]

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Frank's eyes sting from the dust that the wind keeps blowing in his face in torrents, and he breathes it in, fills his lungs with it until his mouth feels parched, grains of sand gritting between his teeth. The skin of his fingers is tight and hot, and there's a heavy pressure in his chest that he recognizes as regret.

The raspy sound of trucks rolling down the dirt road finally startles him out of his reverie. He's been staring into the emptiness for so long that when the distance suddenly shifts and one rattling truck after another comes into view it takes him a while to realize they're not just an extension of his imagination.

It's easy to imagine all the happy colors they were once painted: reds, yellows, greens and oranges, even though every painted surface is worn out and faded now, dust-blown just like the rest of the world. Frank's only ever seen a real carnival once in his life, when he was just a scrawny little kid, but he still remembers it like it was yesterday. He remembers struggling against his mother's vice-like grip as the trucks drove by their house, wanting to run alongside the slowly moving trucks and to follow them to the end of the world.

That same feeling hums inside him even now from memory, and he glances down at the sheet-covered lump on the ground by his feet, overwhelming guilt washing over him.

"Sorry, ma," he murmurs as the trucks come to a halt.

--

It’s still early when Frank wakes up. He’s spent the night under the belly of Brian's truck, craving for the fresh night air but needing shelter from the wind, which the truck provided. He's had an odd dream that he can't really remember, but the little he does, he'd like to forget.

Struggling to sit up, he bangs his head in the underside, sparks of color exploding behind his closed eyes.

"Motherfuck."

It's the second day in August, eight days since his mama passed away and as many days since Brian took him under his wing. If his mother had known what kind of people would be burying her, she would have held onto her life with more determination. But Frank likes Brian all right. At least when Brian isn’t besieging him with questions that he doesn't quite know how to answer.

But Frank knows Brian is a good guy. All through the funeral he kept his hand on Frank's shoulder, not saying one word against his mother when Frank removed the sheet, embarrassed that she was still clutching her big wooden cross in her death-stiff hands, and just knowing that if she was alive she would have made her opinion of Brian and his crew painfully clear.

But no. Brian just patted Frank on the shoulder and then barked orders at everyone, and it's thanks to him that his mama had a graceful burial with singing and real flowers, women in white pearls and black veils by the graveside. If nothing else, it was much more than Frank could have ever done for her, and he is forever grateful.

Afterwards, he was hauled into a trailer and told to sleep his sadness away. He remembers Lindsey bringing him a jug of water and a towel, placing the jug on the floor by the bed and gently washing away the dust from his face and neck, behind his ears, while Frank fought against the tears that threatened to fall.

The gramophone on the table played the kind of songs that his mother used to listen to every Sunday after church. They made him ache all over but comforted him all the same, the melodies cradling him, curling around him, and after Lindsey left he cried hot tears into a silky pillow and let the raspy sounds lull him to sleep.

He must have slept for hours; when he finally woke up they were already miles away.

Frank sprawls on the ground awake for a few hours, lost in his thoughts. He's waiting for the sun to climb up over the hill and for people to wake up. He still doesn't know why these people took him with them, but he can't help but feel that his new life is already somewhat of an improvement from his old one. Not that he'd ever admit it to anyone, least of all Brian.

"Penny for your thoughts," Bob says, startling Frank. He's kneeling by Frank's side with his hands crossed and tucked against his stomach, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Frank runs his sand-smelling hands over his face and rubs the embarrassing wetness from his eyes, hoping Bob hasn't caught on.

"Just, y'know," he says vaguely enough.

"Uhuh." Bob's voice is gruffy, like he has grains of sand in his throat, and he's shaking his head, giving Frank a pointed look. "Thinky-time's over now, kid," he grunts and stands up, raking a hand through his hair. "Get some food and then get to work. We've got a long day ahead. No time to be wasted on thinking."

Frank stares at Bob as he strides to the tables where people are already gathered around to set up breakfast. Bob never seemed too happy with the idea of Frank joining their caravan, not like the others were.

With one last glance at the rusty belly of the truck Frank rolls away from the cool shadow onto burning ground -- the sun's already high in the sky -- and pushes up, wiping his hands clean on the back of his dungarees.

He catches Tegan's eye and wishes that he wasn't blushing. She's hanging up clothes to dry in a silky, pigment blue dress that doesn't reach far enough to cover her knees. She pulls a strap up over her shoulder and winks at Frank, blowing him a kiss. It's sweet, even when she's messing with him, but Frank doesn't feel like humoring her and catching the kiss this time. Instead, he presses his head down and walks past her with a fast pace, hands balled into tight fists inside his pockets.

Brian makes Frank sit at his table, ushering Bob away. Frank keeps his jaw set as he watches Bob sulk past him, just knowing he'll pay for that later, knees deep in the shittiest job Bob can think of for him.

"Sit down, soldier," Brian speaks with a lopsided grin. "Make yourself comfortable."

Frank shrugs and takes Bob's seat, feeling every bit like the asshole Bob thinks he is. "Thanks.”

Brian waves at Butcher to catch his attention, then motions at the food and their table, and they sit and wait as Butcher scoops up eggs and bacon onto two plates and brings them over.

"Nothing like the smell of bacon first thing in the morning."

"I don't really eat meat," Frank says, poking at his eggs. The yolk wobbles under the fork.

"'That like a... religious thing?" Brian asks, and wolfs down his slice.

Frank's plate is a slaughterhouse of mushy, destroyed eggs and bacon. If there's a religion that tells you not to eat meat he might want to join it; then again, he has first-hand experience with religious lunatics, so maybe not after all. "S'more like a meat making me feel ill thing," he concludes, hating that his ears are burning now, like that's something he should be embarrassed about.

Brian just shrugs and leans over the table to steal from his plate.

"More for me."

When Brian's plate is empty and half of Frank's eggs are churning in his stomach, Brian pulls out a worn pack of smokes from his pocket and tosses it on the table between their plates. Frank eyes at the pack suspiciously and tries not to think about how much he's been jonesing for a cigarette lately. The pack is forest green and has a deep red circle in the middle, Lucky Strike written on it in block letters.

Brian's smirking like Frank's an open book as he nudges the pack closer. "It's yours," he says, but when Frank tries to reach for it, he presses his finger tight against the body of the pack and doesn't let him snatch it.

Frank grumbles, resigned as he pulls back his hand. "What's the catch?"

"You tell me something about yourself that's worth the pack," Brian states, pulling out one cigarette, placing it between his lips. "Or you could tell me smaller stuff for one cig a story," he negotiates.

"I already told you," Frank says, following Brian's hand as he's shaking an equally worn matchbox until a match falls on the flat of his hand. He scrapes the match on the table's edge and brings the flame up in the cup of his palm. "There's nothing to tell. I grew up taking care of mom and the house. She got sick from the dust and died six months later. And then I got hijacked by you people." Self-consciously, Frank covers the small tattoo on his wrist with the palm of his hand.

Brian glares at him and smoke surges from his mouth and nostrils. This is what a bull must look like when some jerk waves a red cloth in its face. "Stop bullshitting me," he says. "I know you've got a story to tell, and something tells me it's worth a whole lot more than this pack of cigarettes." He pulls back and stands up, the cigarettes disappearing in the front pocket of his dusty jeans. "I suggest you start telling it before I'm all out, kid. Then your story ain't worth even that."

Frank scowls at Brian's retreating back, jealous for the trail of cigarette smoke curling above his head and thinning against the bright sky. He's itching for a smoke now more than ever. Even though he doesn't know much about Brian, he knows that it takes more than that to fool him. But Frank's also not ready to pour his heart out to anyone, not even to the people who gave him a new life, and he doubts that he ever will be.

More people are lining up for breakfast now, and Frank spends the last of his free time observing them. He realizes the stretch on his face is a genuine smile as he watches Gerard struggling to balance two full plates and mugs in his arms while trying not to step on the carnie puppy that's circling his legs and yapping excitedly, begging for scraps. It doesn't take long for Bob to come to Gerard's rescue. He grabs the plates from Gerard, all smiles and suggestive body language that Gerard seems oblivious to. Frank snorts when the pup attaches himself to Bob's legs instead.

An hour later Bob sends Frank off to clean the supply trailer. The lonely one under the withered tree by the road. "You can't miss it," he grins, patting Frank on the back. The leathery support strap around his wrist makes a slapping sound against Frank's shoulder, reminding Frank of the times his mama slapped him around the ears or the back of his hand for being naughty. Frank has asked him about it a few times, but all he's ever gotten for an answer is a dismissive grunt and more work to occupy his ‘all too peaceful’ days. "You have enough time to trouble yourself with my well-being, you have too much time altogether," Bob's said.

Frank walks through the carnival, saying a few hellos to the rousties, watching them setting up tents and fixing up the paint on a few well-used posters depicting the Turtle Man, the Boneless Man and the Bearded Woman, Victoria.

Loud, raspy French music catches his interest, and he tries to look as casual as ever when he peeks through the tent opening, blinking a few times while he waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark lighting. Tegan, Sara and Lindsey are up on the stage practicing for the night's show, sashaying and swirling with so much panache that Frank is transfixed on the spot. They're in white brassieres and underskirts, doing some complicated-looking choreography where the sisters dance together in the background and Lindsey bends her back so close to the stage floor that Frank is afraid that her spine will snap like a twig, but he’s fascinated by her. Jimmy finds him looking and says, with a controlled smirk, “If you want a show then you have to wait for the evening and pay good money like all the other pervs.”

Frank frowns because he refuses to be intimidated by anyone, least of all Jimmy. Jimmy is a smart man, sharp and loud-mouthed, a gambler and a thief. As the manager of the cooch show Jimmy lures men inside the tent with promises of a grand ol' time, then cashes in on their last cents and pennies while Lindsey and the Quin sisters striptease on the stage. Sometimes, when the cashbox glares empty, Jimmy plays a few well-practiced tricks on the guys like he did last night with the old camera lens.

Frank had watched Jimmy taking the crowd, the back of his neck sweat-slick and his lungs full of hot, oppressive air. Brian had put him on crowd patrol, which meant that he was to make sure none of the Okies attacked the girls while they were dancing. The girls had finished their thing a while ago, and were in their dressing room getting ready to take in customers for a private show, but Jimmy didn't want anyone to leave yet. There was still more to come. He talked fast and easy, making the guys think they were something special, like this was once-in-a-lifetime kind of deal.

"Because, gentlemen, only the select few," Jimmy paused, crouching down to pick up a small box in his hands. He opened the lid and continued over the murmur of the crowd, "Only a select few ever get a chance to see something this rare. Oh, I'm telling you, fellas, it'll make you cream your panties for sure."

He presented a small, round device with a lens in the middle, claiming that peeking through the glass one would be able to see the scandalous pictures of Jenny Lewis that the Administration had banned in all the forty-eight states earlier that year.

Frank scowled at the men, but he knew there were no pictures. His head was heavy from the stuffy air and all he wanted was to be outside in the crisp night, to get away from the throng of the tent. He watched as men upon men threw money on the stage and competed with each other for one peek through the magical lens.

Frank had had a hard time trying to pacify the irritated crowd when the truth finally dawned on them. By then Jimmy was long gone.

He shrugs out of Jimmy's reach. ”I’ll ask Brian to put me on crowd patrol again if I feel like watching the girls,” he tells Jimmy. Jimmy doesn't need to know that he'd rather dig the dirt for a new outhouse than spend another night surrounded by a smelly mass of horny, dirty geezers.

He takes one last look at the girls, mostly just to rile up Jimmy some more, before he continues his way past more tents and carnie folk, towards Bob's supply trailer. Lindsey's standing on the ledge of the stage, smiling at him.

Some small part of Frank is surprised to find the trailer where Bob said it’d be. Another part of him is wary to step in. The trailer is dingy and derelict, and Frank has to throw rocks at the vultures sitting on the branches of a lone tree before he dares to venture inside. Vultures make him nervous, they're the first sign of death in the desert.

A gust of warm air smelling like mold, dust and spices hits Frank in the face when he steps inside. As he closes the door, the air stands still like a wall, flecks of dust floating in the stripe of light from the window. He looks around and shivers, already hating the place. A thick layer of dust blankets the floor from corner to corner; only Frank's own footprints give an indication of a visited space. It's like no one's been here for ages.

Frank looks around, not sure anymore what he's supposed to be doing, the thought of cleaning up the trailer feels less significant by the second.

Resigned, he picks up a dirty rag from the shelf and swats it around, watching as dust flakes swirl in the close air.

An hour passes and Frank finds himself sitting on the floor, a box of photographs between his legs. He chuckles at the odd people, clearly circus folk from the beginning of the century. He pockets the one he likes the best and rests his head on the trunk he's been using as a backrest, closing his eyes.

--

There are four people in the diner: Frank by the counter, the waitress behind it, and two men in old military jackets dining in a booth by the window.

The door slams open in a gust of wind and a minister walks in. He's dressed in a black, tight-fitting cassock that flows and trails on the floor as he walks. He looks around with an air of serenity, nodding at the couple drinking wine in the burgundy booth by the windows but doesn't talk to them. He bunches the hem of his cassock in his fist and sits down on the bar stool at the counter. He hooks his feet around the chair legs and picks up the menu, scanning it with no real interest. The white collar around his neck is spotless like fresh snow.

Frank glances at the waitress in a pale yellow work dress and a dirty-white apron, blond hair tucked inside a black hairnet with meticulous care. She places two cups on the counter, one for Frank, the other one for the minister. Frank watches through a mirror on the wall as the couple toasts in their booth, cheap glasses clinking like cowbells. Coffee trickles into Frank's cup from the pot in the waitress's grip just as heavy wind outside grabs the door and bangs it shut again. Behind the windows dry dust swirls in the air. The waitress turns to the minister, cocks her pot just enough for the burning black coffee to start pouring into his cup. She looks at Frank and opens her mouth, lips red like rose petals.

"Every prophet in his house."

--

Pete wakes up with a gasp, his nightshirt sticking to the sweaty skin of his back. He rolls over and mushes his face into the pillow, trying to clear his head from that bleary half-dreaming, half-awake state. Ashlee's pacing downstairs, the click of her heels loud on the parquet. The radio gets switched on, and Pete lounges in his bed for awhile listening to Ashlee's steps and the music.

They meet up with Mr. Simpson for breakfast in the diner before going to church. Inside Pete remembers his dream and amuses himself for a while scoping out the diner, looking for similarities. The mirror on the wall, the waitress in yellow, the round coffee pot. But they're all truisms, he could find them in every diner in the country.

Joe says, "The papers are full of Joe DiMaggio today."

"Did you listen to the game?" Pete asks as Ashlee pulls him down beside her. He had been zoning out again.

"I'm afraid I may have dozed off somewhere in the middle," Joe admits and Ashlee leans over the table and squeezes his shoulder.

"Good old daddy," she laughs.

"I caught the last of it," Pete says, twisting his head to look at the picture on the paper. It's upside-down but he can still make out Joe DiMaggio posing with his bat and the trophy, the rest of the team scattered around him.

"Well I don't see the appeal of the game," Ash says, dipping her spoon in the coffee, melting the lump sugar she added from the glass jar. "And to celebrate this one man like he was our Good Lord and Savior --"

"But that's the beauty of it, princess," Joe interrupts. His looks are almost boyish when he gets excited. "Your brother knows it,” he adds, wagging his teaspoon in Pete’s direction, giving him a pointed look. “Every morning we get to read about new disasters: grown men choking up on all this dust, women dying in childbirth, their babies starving to death. Farmers losing their crop for drought. In desperate times, the Lord looks over the flock and chooses one man to inspire the multitudes, one man to accomplish the impossible, one man to offer hope where there's only hopelessness. Who are we to judge the wisdom of the Almighty? He chooses His servants as He sees fit and gifts them with talents; it's a grave sin to bury them in the earth.

"These times -- these people -- need heroes. America needs heroes." He turns the paper around and taps at DiMaggio's head with a stubby finger. "They've just found one."

Ash clasps her hands together and beams, all doubt vanished from her pretty face. "Amen, daddy!"

"Amen," Pete repeats, staring at the image.

Pete’s migrant church -still just a small tent put up outside of the town’s Baptist church where Joe holds fort -- is packed with people and the amount of new faces makes Pete feel powerful, like everyone in the world has come to hear his sermon.

He reads a chapter from the New Testament that talks about forgiveness and asks for benevolence from his audience. They all sing together while Ashlee walks around the aisles with the collection basket. "We don't have much," he’d said, "But we give from the little we do have."

Some days he sits in the living room with the radio on, Ashlee's leg following the rhythm of the music from her rocking chair while she sips her coffee, and he wonders if Joe had been right about his calling after all. But then people seek him out after his sermons and thank him for bringing them hope, and for changing their lives, and then Pete can't think of anything more rewarding than this.

The taste of the communion wine still lingers on his tongue when Ashlee walks through the tent opening into his make-do office space. "Peter, I'd like to introduce you to Miss --?"

"Hayley Williams, ma'am." A pretty, young lady peers over Ashlee's shoulder, her eyes bright even as she emits a nervous energy. Her face is pleasant but dirty, hair sand-dyed and in a messy bun on the back of her neck.

"Ah, of course," Ashlee smiles, her arm around Hayley's shoulders now as she leads her into the room. "Her family traveled here all the way from Franklin, Tennessee, can you believe that?"

"Is that so?"

Hayley smiles cutely, hesitating before she steps forward and grabs Pete’s hand, squeezing hard as she shakes it. "We're farmers but the drought has taken most of our jobs," she brings the knot of their hands up to her chest like in prayer. "What you said back there, that -- that our Lord would reward our patience and faith with fertile ground, verdant valleys and food for everyone --"

"He will," Pete says. "But right now we just hang on, take each day as it comes and thank God and our neighbors for the alms we receive."

Hayley jerks away like she’s been burned and shakes her head, staring at the floor.

Ashlee touches Hayley's shoulder and she jumps a little like a startled animal. "Can I treat you to a cup of coffee, Miss Williams?"

"I -- p-please," Hayley stutters, voice suddenly raspy. Remembering herself, she hastens to add, "thank you. And it's just H-Hayley."

"Hayley," Ashlee smiles. "Peter?"

"Coffee sounds awesome," Pete says, and Ashlee nods and walks away.

"Are you alright?" he asks when Hayley starts shaking like a leaf.

She looks up, scared, her hand flying to her throat. "Wh-what?" She starts coughing and spluttering, so hard that her knees buckle. Pete catches her before she hits the floor.

"Hayley?" Pete demands as her coughs worsen. In a matter of seconds coins start pouring out of her mouth. She coughs them up and vomits them to the ground. They gush from her mouth like water from a cascade. "Shit! What did you do, Hayley? Hayley?"

"I'm sorry," she cries and then vomits more coins. "We've just been so --" more coins, "-- so hungry!"

"Did you steal from the collection basket?"

She cries out as a couple of coins come up bloody to the ground.

Pete pulls her against his chest and takes her hands into his. "Pray with me, Hayley. Come on, repent. Repent!"

--

"Where the hell have you been all fucking day?" Brian's exasperated voice drills into Frank's brain, worsening his headache. "We really needed your help today."

"I was cleaning up that motherfucking supply trailer," Frank says, slowly making his way to Brian. It took him all day and now he's aching in places he didn't even know existed. He hacks up a lung, dust tickling in his throat.

"What are you talking about? What trailer?" Brian demands.

"The goddamn supply trailer Bryar told me to dust."

"Frank, we don't have a supply trailer," Brian says, then sweeps his hand over his face, breathing out a long, suffering sigh. "That's an old rookie prank, sending the new guy out to clean some trailer that doesn't exist," he speaks into his palm, and Frank just stares at him blankly. "The guys had a laugh at you."

Frank blinks. "But the trailer's there." He digs the photo from his pocket. "Look, I even took this from one of the boxes I was sorting out."

Brian frowns and grabs the photo from him. It's of a young boy in rugged clothes, standing by a Ferris wheel and staring at the camera with a blank face.

"You got this from the trailer?" Brian sounds unconvinced.

"Where the hell else would I -- Christ, just. I'll show you, okay?"

"Fine," Brian says, like it physically pains him to humor Frank. "Show me your magical trailer."

They stop by the tree with the branches heavy with vultures. It looks the same it did hours before with the exception that the trailer is gone. "I don't get it," Frank says, circling the tree: there aren't even any wheel marks or shoe prints anywhere he can see.

Brian's tapping his foot against the ground, the epitome of impatience.

"Well?"

"It was here. Right here," Frank says a little hysterically, thinking maybe he's losing his mind.

"Right," Brian drawls. "Okay."

"Did Bryar fucking move the trailer?" It sounds a little far-fetched even to him, but nothing else makes sense.

Brian's mouth twitches and he lets out a guffaw. "Nice going, Frank, you almost had me going for a sec, good job. Now stop dicking around and wasting my time, it's almost sundown," he adds more soberly. "So far I haven't seen you being of any real use to me. Don't make me regret taking you in."

Frank would like to remind Brian that he hadn't asked to be taken in, and that he doesn't appreciate being treated like a stray dog, but he doesn't see the point. No matter which way he looks at it, the truth is that back at the farm there was nothing left for him anymore. Ma being sick was the sole reason for him staying so long. But now, having to take care of the farm by himself, he wouldn't even know where to start. He never was much good at growing things. Being on the move suits him just fine.

"I don't know where you got this from," Brian says, handing back the photo. "And I care even less." He's looking at Frank like he's got something useful to add, but then just says, "I got a fucking business to run."

Back at the camp Frank hides from Bob who's busy getting the carousel up and working. He hops onto a wooden box and peeks into a trailer through the misty window, realizing it’s the girls' dressing room -- they're painting their eyes and lips in the yellow light gushing from the bulbs framing the mirrors -- the flick of a thin wrist and the silk of their gowns lulling, comforting, until Jimmy's voice sounds somewhere too close for comfort. He doesn't feel like getting caught watching the girls twice in one day, not even to rile up Jimmy.

He walks around without much of a purpose while the carnival slowly rises from the dust.

After a while, Saporta calls him over, needing help with his snakes, so Frank picks up a twig-wound basket -- surprisingly heavy -- and follows Gabe into his tent. "Thanks man," Gabe grins, taking the basket from Frank. "That's the King Cobra. Most people I know won't go ten feet closer to him."

"If they were spiders, you'd be on your own."

"Ah," Gabe nods. "Then I'm lucky spiders don't make for good charmees... Or, I don't think they do?"

"See you around, Gabe," Frank gives him a grin, Gabe's happy-go-lucky attitude rubbing off on him.

When the evening rolls around the carnival is a hodgepodge of color, lights and noise. The smell of sugar, grease and smoke is everywhere.

Brian's truck is parked behind a tent and Frank hops on the back of it, swinging his legs back and forth as he watches Bob tending to the Ferris wheel close by.

What a sight the carnival must be from space, like a glow-worm in the middle of a giant sandpit. He looks up and sees the stars and wonders if there's anyone up there looking down on them.

This is the moment everyone's been looking forward to all day. These past eight days he's seen the carnival up and running just once before, everything's still full-on shiny to Frank, and he can't imagine that the novelty will ever completely wear off. In this moment he can't think of a better place to be.

Gerard hops onto the truck after a while, bumping Frank's arm with his elbow as he gets comfortable. "Hey, man. I saw you sitting alone from the window of my trailer."

"Shouldn't you be telling fortunes?" Frank asks.

"Mikey's -- uh, he's kind of giving me the silent treatment," Gerard pouts.

Frank likes Gerard's presence a lot. Sitting with Gerard is a hell of a lot nicer than sitting alone anyway, so he plays it cool and doesn't point out that Mikey can't talk, even though the thought is on his tongue.

"It's a little embarrassing, to be honest. I tried to read this man's cards for him without Mikey's help and I couldn't come up with anything. So then I panicked and ended up telling him he's gonna find some big treasure in the near future and that his best friend'll try and steal it from him," Gerard laughs. "Talk about cliché. And Mikey just lay there and let me make a fool of myself."

"Well at least you didn't tell him he's gonna die a horrible death or something shitty like that," Frank reasons.

Gerard looks serious. "God, no, you don't mess with shit like that unless you're fuckin' sure about it. Even Mikey doesn't predict peoples' deaths unless he knows how to prevent them from happening."

"He can see that stuff?" Frank's wondered about Mikey ever since he first met him. It had been awkward, Mikey lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling while Gerard tried to explain that his kid brother wasn't a fucking vegetable.

"Oh, yeah," Gerard's smile is a little sad, Frank realizes, like Mikey's been through more than anyone should in a lifetime. "He just -- knows things, I guess."

"He sounds real special."

"He's the best," Gerard says at once, like there's no possibility of it being anything but true. The way Gerard talks about Mikey makes Frank long for a big brother of his own.

Out of the corner of his eye Frank notices Gerard studying him. "When you said that Mikey knows things," Frank starts, glancing at Gerard, "he said anything about me?"

Gerard gives a laugh, patting Frank on the back. "Stop freaking out, man. He'd have to see your cards first."

"I wasn't freaking out," Frank makes a face, elbowing Gerard in the ribs.

"You totally were," Gerard grins, then leans in and says more seriously, "Why you were freaking out though, that's what I wanna know."

"I wasn't freaking out," Frank glares, realizing that he'd been rubbing at the tattoo on his wrist only when Gerard's fingers pry his hand away.

Frank tries to snatch his hand back but Gerard's holding onto it with both of his, not letting go. He studies the tattoo for a while, running his thumb over it, and says, "The number of the beast," looking like he's trying to hold back a grin.

"Shut up, asshole," Frank says, twisting his arm in Gerard's grip. "It's not... I'm not a fucking Satanist, okay?"

"I didn't think you were," Gerard says and gives Frank his hand back. "And you can keep your secrets for now. I bet by the end of the year you've told me most of them."

Frank laughs because Gerard's tone is playful rather than threatening. "You sound so sure of yourself."

"I know! It's pretty amazing considering it's me."

"I bet you've got like, air-poisoning," Frank reasons. "You've been baking in your trailer all day, the fresh air's making you all... loopy."

"Ha ha," Gerard says dryly. "I was keeping Mikey company. Or at least trying to."

"Why's he mad at you anyway? The way you talk about him -- he should be happy to have a big brother like you."

Gerard shrugs, and Frank's almost positive that he's blushing behind all that hair.

"It's nothing, seriously. It's silly."

"It's something," Frank presses.

Gerard glances at Bob with an odd look on his face, his neck flushed pink, and Frank finds himself suddenly burning to know what’s going on between those two.

"Mikey seems to think," Gerard starts, then laughs and shakes his head. "You know what? Forget it. He won't even remember being mad at me in the morning."

Frank sighs but lets Gerard off the hook for now, after all, Gerard didn't pressure him about the stupid numbers on his wrist.

"You smoke?" Gerard asks, pulling out a wrinkly pack from the inside of his jacket.

"God yes," Frank enthuses. He watches as Gerard jiggles the pack until a cigarette drops onto his palm.

"It's my last one so we'll have to share," he says apologetically, placing the cig between his lips.

"Seriously not a problem," Frank says, gums itching with just the thought of smoking again.

Shadows lick at Gerard's face as he brings a burning match up to the cigarette and cups his palm against it. He takes a long drag and smiles, staring into distance, then after what feels like fucking forever he passes the cig to Frank.

"Christ." Frank breathes the smoke in for a while and then plucks the stick from his mouth, rolling it gently between his fingers.

Gerard's laugh rumbles from his chest and Frank can feel the sound tickling over him like a caress. "You look like you're having a religious experience."

"Oh, yeah," Frank says with a giddy voice. "Smoking's my only true religion."

They sit in silence for a while, sharing smoke and space, watching the flood of people surging into tents and rides, listening to the tinny gramophone melodies drifting from a tent nearby, loud yells and cheers and children laughing everywhere. The wind ruffles the hairs on the back of Frank's neck, and he sighs, the tension he’s been carrying around all day finally easing up..

"These people in these towns," Gerard's voice is quiet and close, “they're asleep. All day at work, at home, they're sleepwalkers. We wake them up."

He nods at the Ferris wheel where Bob's lifting a small, crippled girl into one of the seats, leaving her dad and her small cart waiting for her by the ticket stand. He shakes his hands, rubbing his wrist under the support strap for a second before he grins and clinks the safety bar closed, arranging the kid's hands so that they're wrapped tightly around it.

"Now hold on tight and say hi to the man on moon for me, sweetheart," he calls after her as he pushes the ride into motion.

Watching her whooshing up into the starry sky, Frank rubs a thumb against the tightness in his chest and blinks away the sting of the smoke from his eyes. Next to him Gerard is still smoking, face warm and relaxed like he's completely at peace with himself and the people around him. This, Frank decides, is what makes life worth it all.

On the next morning Brian sends Gerard away to get some supplies. "Take somebody with you if you want," he says, tossing Gerard the keys to his truck.

"Wanna come?" Gerard asks Frank at once. Frank's been sitting in the doorway to Gerard and Mikey's trailer all morning, listening to the brothers conversing. Gerard was right: with a little bit of brotherly teasing, Mikey seemed to acknowledge Gerard's presence again.

When Gerard talks to Mikey it's like he's performing a weird monologue. It's fascinating to follow, especially when Gerard is quiet but everything in his body language still suggests that he hasn't stopped talking to his brother. Frank is starting to realize that they don't need spoken words at all, that they are there just for Frank's benefit, a friendly gesture that says that he's not intruding. Sometimes Frank is uncertain whether Gerard is the one asking him questions about his life or if it's Mikey prompting him.

Frank's about to reply to Gerard when Bob jogs up to them, grabs the keys from Gerard's hand and grins winningly. "Schechter wanted you to go into town? I was thinking I could keep you company since we're not moving anywhere until tomorrow. It gets a little boring here during the day."

"Oh," Gerard says, looking helplessly at Frank. "Actually --"

"You guys go ahead," Frank jumps in. He doesn’t feel like getting in the middle of a possible argument right now. "I was looking forward to a day of leisure, anyway," he gets up and stretches his back, then turns to leave, amused by Bob's triumphant face: it's kind of cute.

"Oh, and Gee," he adds, because he just can't resist an easy tease. "Thanks for last night!" His grin grows wider when he glances at Bob's perplexed face. "Seriously, man. That was amazing, I owe you one!"

He bursts into a fit of giggles by the fields, not able to hold it in anymore. He takes his time to come down from his fit, wiping his eyes and taking in his surroundings. Sunflowers grow strong and luxuriant here, even though it hasn't rained in months. The buzz of energy is easy to feel when he gets closer to the fields; there's a lot of life here.

The fields stretch out far and wide on either side of Frank and up on the hill on the other side is a house, a little girl sitting in her cart in the yard.

Frank crosses over, marveling at the yellow flowers almost brushing up against his neck, and climbs the gentle slope all the way up to the top of the hill, stopping by the girl.

"Don't I know you?" he asks, brushing strands of hair from his sweat-slicked forehead.

"Are you one of them carnie folk?" she asks, staring up at him with shining eyes.

Frank thinks about it. Is he? Can he talk about himself as one? And does he even want to? How long will it take to absorb the spirit of the carnival? He doesn't know where he belongs anymore, doesn't know what purpose he has. "Yeah," he says though, because she doesn't need to hear about his issues. It's close to truth anyway. "You're that kid from the Ferris wheel," he adds and she brightens up, nodding her head enthusiastically.

"I was so high up I thought I could touch the stars!" she beams.

Frank grins, he remembers being a kid once. "What's your name?"

"Laura."

"Hi, Laura," he says, kneeling down. Her position in the cart looks uncomfortable but she doesn't even seem to notice. He looks at her legs, her knees are turning inwards, thin layer of skin stretching over her crooked bones.

"Were you always like this?" She just stares at him so he adds, searching her eyes, "Not able to walk?"

"Yup," she says, frowning at her knees. "I think they're wrong somehow. I don't think legs are s'posed to be like this." It's like she's waiting for his confirmation and Frank is at a loss.

He presses his face into his knees and concentrates on the steady hum of energy everywhere around them. It's inside the girl and him, too, and it flows through every flower in the field. It's innocuous and life-affirming, and Frank is soaking it in, pulling it away from the field, from the thousands and thousands of flowers, from their stems and roots.

"Don't be scared," he says, gripping the girl's legs with both of his hands as he forces the energy into her bones, shaping and stretching and straightening them, feeling them changing under his palms.

He's shaking when it's over, cold sweat running down his back. It's been years from his last time, but he doesn't remember it taking this much out of him ever before.

Standing up, he wipes his face on his sleeve and flashes her a weak smile, turning around to leave.

"What's your name?" the girl yells after him, cocking her head to the side.

"Frank," Frank says softly, mostly to himself.

Stumbling down the fast dying sunflower fields, brown, dried up stems get crushed under his shoes. Memories of his mama flash through his eyes. She's yelling at him to stay back, to not touch her, calling him Godless and Devil while holding her cross in front of him, coughing up blood on the white linen pillow.

He turns around and notices that the cart is empty, and he stops for a while to watch the girl running along the edge of the field with stiff legs that she’s just learning to use, chasing after yellow sunflowers that are drying out, turning brown before her eyes.

--

Ashlee's rocking her chair to the slow tunes playing on the radio. She's removed her stockings and opened her blouse a little, moaning about the California sun, but Pete's still getting chills when he thinks about Hayley spewing coins on the floor.

She's making afternoon coffee in the kitchen now; she'd been almost in tears when Ashlee offered her a simple housemaid's job. "It's a big house," she'd said with that southern hospitality of hers, not even a glance in Pete's direction. "I wouldn't say no to a little bit of help around here." Hayley's voice was grating and painful to listen to when she cried out in joy, thanking her.

Sticking his thumbs into his eye sockets, Pete tries to massage the stress of the day away, his head pounding. At this rate his migrant parish will start requiring a bigger setting sooner than Pete thinks it's possible to arrange. Each day new people keep traveling into town like swarms of locusts, destructive in size. The migrants need a place to feel welcome in, a place of peace and self-study and prayer, and it’s Pete’s responsibility to find them one.

"You're very quiet today," Ashlee comments. She's fanning her face with her hand and looking at him with intent, searching for something in his eyes. "Did something happen at the sermon?"

If only you knew, Pete thinks grimly. "Nah," he says aloud, digging his thumbs deeper. "You know how big crowds can drain me sometimes."

She gets up and walks behind Pete's armchair, draping her arms around him, her nose pressing to the side of his head. "You're a good man, Peter. You give these people your time and you give them hope. You take care of them. Sometimes I just wish you'd remember to take care of yourself, too."

"But that's your job," Pete manages a smile, because this feels good, this feels familiar. "Isn't it?"

She hums and squeezes him tight, but stays silent.

He gets up after a while and starts wandering around the house. The pounding in his head is getting worse, his mind wandering. He’s trying to block out the thoughts that won’t stop pushing into his consciousness. Some of them make him uneasy, a month ago he wouldn't have recognized them as his own. He knows he had something to do with what happened to Hayley, something in his presence forced her to reveal her sins to him.

He's brought back from his thoughts by a loud crash and a wail, "Goddamn son of a bitch!"

Peeking into the kitchen, there's a soapy puddle on the floor and Hayley Williams sprawled out next to it.

"You okay?"

"Shit! Brother Peter!" Hayley exclaims and covers her mouth. "I -- I hope you didn't hear that."

"Uhhh --"

"Christ," Hayley whispers, running a hand through her hair. "God must be really disappointed in me today."

It's such an honest reaction that it startles a laugh from Pete. He steps into the kitchen and hunkers down next to her, taking her hands into his. "Vulgarity isn't a sin against God, but against Polite Society," he smiles, lowers his voice and adds, "Between you and me, I don't give a shit about Polite Society."

--

A dust storm travels through the carnival early in the evening. Frank busies himself stuffing clothes into the cracks and holes under the door and the windows in Gerard and Mikey's trailer, trying to stop the whirl of dust getting in. Gerard and Bob still aren't back, probably waiting the storm out in the car somewhere nearby, and Frank knows he could never understand the volume of worry Gerard has for Mikey right now but he knows if he had a kid brother, he wouldn't want him to end up alone in a storm.

"I hope Gerard doesn't hold these scarves in high value or something," Frank says, feeling the sand prickling his fingers as he crams a silky grey-black one into the edge of the window above Mikey's head. Mikey cocks an eyebrow and stares at Frank's fingers working the scarf.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure our wellbeing is more important to him than a couple of girly scarves. Or if it isn't then he deserves to get his scarves ruined anyway." Frank glances back down and finds Mikey almost smiling at him.

A comfy-looking chair stands next to Mikey's bed, perfect with pillows and blankets and lush cushions. The setting smells like cigarette smoke, incense and Gerard, and Frank curls up in it, pressing his cheek into the soft pillow and tugs the blanket up to his ears.

He listens to the wind whipping the windows and rattling the trailer, and watches the steady rise and fall of Mikey's chest, making sure he's okay.

At night he dreams about making Mikey walk, but when he turns around Gerard's taken Mikey's place in the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, not able to talk or move. Mikey's looking at him in agony, calling him a monster, telling him to make things right again. Then his mom is there, next to Mikey, hissing at him and stabbing at his chest with her wooden cross and smacking him over the head with it.

"Devil! Get away! Get away!"

And Frank stumbles out of the trailer, hateful words raining down on him.

It's night outside, dark and cold. Explosions illuminate the dirt-ground in small patches, but fire and smoke hide all the stars. A plethora of men in soldier’s uniforms run amok around the field and fire their rifles, bark out instructions that make no sense to Frank. Frank is still running, but now to get out of the range of the firing bullets, to not get shot. His lungs and thighs are burning, and his mouth is parched, his gums taste like blood.

Spotting a ditch nearby with people in it that don't look like they're trying to kill him, Frank lunges forward and rolls down the dirt-wall, dropping onto his back in the bottom of the pit. He scoops air into his lungs and focuses on the fast beat of his heart in his ears, concentrating on not being sick.

"Where the fuck am I?" he pants as another explosion throws dirt and sharp-edged stones at him.

Pulling himself to his feet is a bitch, his legs are trembling and hard to coordinate and his arms feel too weak to support his weight, but somehow he manages.

He peeks over the top of the pit and tries to force his eyes to adjust to the dark. On the other side of the battlefield stands a man, bull-like, his whole posture taut and threatening, hands clenched in tight fists and nostrils flaring. Frank can't tear his eyes away from him and he's staring straight back at Frank. He hesitates when the man starts walking towards him in a fast pace, breaking into run halfway there. His upper-body ripples as he moves, a huge tree, wilted and black, tattooed on his chest. He drops onto all fours and changes shape, black, thick fur rushing out of his skin, palms growing into huge paws with sharp mauling nails, and face stretching in width and length until a huge, black bear is standing in the man's place, snorting air out of its nostrils, baring white, sharp teeth.

The soldiers around him yell in fright and start shooting at it, bullet after bullet after bullet, but it won't stop advancing on Frank, eyes glowing red, breath coming in wet, strong gushes through its nose.

"Frank!" somebody shouts nearby. "Frank! Frankie!"

Frank groans and rolls out of the chair, fighting to free his legs from the mess of the blanket, but just getting them in a tighter tangle.

"Frank, calm down," Gerard's voice is frantic above him, his hands a solid weight on Frank's arm and between his shoulder blades. "Stop freaking out."

"What --?" Slowly, Frank stops struggling, getting more aware of his surroundings. He exhales shakily, blinking hard, trying to shake off the remains of his dream. "You're back," he says, testing out his voice. It sounds loud in his ears and much stronger than he feels like.

"Yeah," Gerard agrees, rolling his thumb on Frank's back. "We got back ages ago. I wanted to check up on Mikey but Bob made us wait out the storm in the truck."

"He was okay," Frank says, attempting to sit up.

"I know," Gerard smiles, making room for Frank on the floor. "I just talked to him. He said you were here all this time, that you made sure he was okay."

Frank shrugs one shoulder, kicking the blanket away. His skin feels slick from sweat and his shirt is bunched up and sticking to it. "Didn't really feel like sleeping outside tonight."

"Ha, right, of course," Gerard's smile doesn't fade, if anything, it just keeps on growing.

"I destroyed your scarves," Frank adds, biting his lip. "I think you uh -- I think you need to check the window insulations, the dust keeps getting in."

"There aren't any," Gerard nods gravely, giving the window above Mikey's head a thoughtful glance. The grey-black scarf is hanging loose from the hole Frank stuffed it in to, sunlight peeking in through the tears in the scarf.

"Well, yeah, that's my whole point."

"Is --" Gerard starts, glancing at Mikey. His face turns into a huge frown and he looks ashamed of himself. "Frank, your mom, fuck. I wasn't thinking."

And that's not the direction Frank wants the conversation steering to. He’d have a lot to say about his mom and most of it nothing good, but for the longest time she was all that he had. "C'mon, Gee," he says, quickly changing the subject as he hauls himself up. "I don't know about you but I really need to get something to drink, it's like Sahara in my mouth."

--

It's already dark outside when Pete ventures out of his room. It's been another strange day, he's been zoning out and losing parts of his memory, and the dreams he's tried to suppress are just getting clearer, more real. He’s almost positive he’d dreamed about being a huge animal, a voice in his head urging him to kill kill kill like it was the only thing he knew.

He had been following Joe's service that morning in the Baptist church, listening to him speaking about the importance of charity work and the power of the masses. It was nothing new, the way Joe talked to his parish hadn't changed in a decade, but something inside Pete clicked this time, and his feet carried him to the altar, and before he even knew it, he was already churning out words, taking Joe’s crowd.

"Evil exists, it's drawn from Lucifer's veins. It's part of who you are, part of who I am, who we are. The evil in you is the root of our sins. You can't be saved by prayer and bible study, but by blood and fire!"

Afterwards, he knelt by Joe's feet and demanded to be baptized so that he could be reborn. The wave of Amens that swept over him from the pews, from the mouths of the churchgoers, had thrown him into a strange, fierce ecstasy. Joe hesitated for a while, but then Pete reached into his mind, commanding him, pressuring him until he went through with the baptism, moving almost as if he had drifted into a strong, hypnotic trance. He wet his fingers in the Holy water and drew a cross on Pete’s forehead, reciting the Trinitarian formula at Pete’s command, his hand shaking like he was fighting against it. Pete felt the water sliding down his face becoming thicker, warmer, the texture changing. As Joe gasped in fright, he brushed his fingers against the wetness on his cheek and rubbed his fingers together, marveling at the sharp tang and texture of his own blood.

After church he retreated back into his room, faking a headache when Ashlee came to check up on him. Only when the house became quiet again did he muster up the courage to leave the safety of his room, sneaking outdoors when no one was looking.

And here he is now, standing in the middle of the road and enjoying the light breeze on his hot skin. The streets are mostly vacant now, and the air feels cool and refreshing; even though he wouldn't tell Ashlee, he definitely prefers the nights.

He tries to avoid talking to people, he gets to do that enough at the church meetings, right now he just wants to walk and clear his mind, to figure out solutions to the questions that have been bothering him for days. The parish still needs bigger premises, but everywhere is expensive and full. And what would God think of him if he failed the simplest missions?

He wanders around, not really paying attention to where he's going, until he realizes he's walked to the edge of the town and he's standing on the doorstep of the last building before the desert begins.

Lanterns in all shapes and sizes burn bright near the house, red papery ones that make him think of China, even though he's only ever read about the land in books and travel accounts, and more familiar ones made of glass and metal. There are shadows looming on the porch, women in tunics and heavy make-up and weatherworn men all around them, leering and whispering to them in suggestive tones.

Up in the windows there are shapes moving behind the curtains, melting together like warm butter. A neon signboard promotes Chin’s whorehouse on the rooftop.

The clouds shift overhead and snow starts falling over the dark ground, melting at the first contact. It never snows here but the women and men on the porch don't seem to notice or care.

A step forwards and the snowfall grows into a blizzard, another step and the fresh, white flakes turn red. Pete kneels down and lifts his head up at the sky as fat drops of blood splatter on his face and on the walls of the building, gliding down the windows. A cross manifests on the signboard, flickering red, the light crackling, before everything goes back to normal again. The blood disappears together with the cross.

If this isn't a message from a higher power, Pete doesn't know what is.

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