koritsimou (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
koritsimou) wrote2009-08-25 12:16 pm
koritsimou) wrote2009-08-25 12:16 pm
Fic: The Afterlife of the Party
Title: The Afterlife of the Party
Characters: Patrick, Sandra (OFC) and others [FOB, PATD, MCR, TAI, CS]
Wordcount: 4391
Disclaimer: They all own themselves, minus Sandra who does not exist. I claim all as lies and make no profit.
Rating: R
Warnings: Blood, gore, intoxicated dancing and implied sex.
Notes: This is rather epic, for me. Look at that word count. I am so proud, haha. Okay, so I’ll try and make this note shorter than it’s already shaping up to be. Story prompted by clippedwings@lj here at bandom_abandon@lj which, by the way, is an excellent wee community that is great but would work so fabulously with more members. Hint hint. Many thanks go to the lovely periculosa@lj for the beta, and moondarri@lj for suggesting her and generally being a constant source of awesome. This also works as K is for Kiss, in that alphabet fic request thing. For Ellie.
Originally Posted: January 20th 2008. Here
-----
Patrick splashes cold water on his face. He can do this. He puts up with Pete. He can definitely handle one little Hallowe’en party. He eyes the red glittery horns forced on top of his hat in the mirror and sighs. It’s just one night. One night, a voice in his head echoes. But it’s one night that hasn’t even really started yet and already Patrick is tired. William and the Butcher, the first to arrive, went straight to the kitchen where they are currently dancing around the booze-loaded island singing “spiritual chants” to set up a “proper Hallowe’en atmosphere.” Patrick can hear them from the small downstairs bathroom; he can hear the Butcher’s low singing, keeping an even rhythm, Bill’s high-pitched squeals that Pete is “ruining it,” and Joe’s loud laughter over it all.
Well, better get going if I’ve only got one night, Patrick hears someone say.
He spins around, but he’s definitely the only person in the bathroom. Giving himself one last look in the mirror, Patrick pulls his hat and horns down tight and heads for the door.
Pete appears at his side as soon as he steps into the hallway. He’s somewhat predictably dressed as a vampire, and his cape swishes around his feet as he moves.
“You’re far too sweet to be a devil,” he grins. “I wish I had some tinsel so I could make you a halo.”
Patrick smiles back and thinks mmm, pretty, in a dark and twisty kind of way, and wait, what? Patrick did not think that. Not at all. Patrick tries to keep his expression calm as Pete fidgets with his horns.
“Eh, I think I’ll go adjust them,” he says, removing Pete’s hands from his head. Patrick steps quickly back into the bathroom and locks the door.
What was that? Patrick thinks, exhaling slowly and more than a little shakily.
That was an observation, Patrick thinks, but no. That’s not Patrick. Patrick does not find Pete attractive. Patrick does not “mmm” at the sight of his best friend.
But I do, thinks someone who is most definitely not Patrick.
“Who are you?” Patrick asks the empty bathroom in a whisper.
Hey sweetie, I’m Sandra, and Patrick wonders how he ever thought that was his own voice in his head.
“But. How?” Patrick mouths silently.
Welcome to possession, darlin’, Sandra says in his head, and as if to demonstrate Patrick lifts his right-hand and waves to himself in the full-length mirror. Only Patrick didn’t move his hand.
Patrick goes to stare at it, dumbfounded, but he can’t. He can’t turn his head or move his eyes.
“Mmm, full control,” Sandra says, but it’s his voice and the only reason he can tell for sure that it’s not him speaking is because he’s at a loss for words. He watches through eyes he doesn’t control as she wriggles his fingers, stretching, and forms a wicked grin that doesn’t fit his features.
“Time to get me some afterlife.”
---------------------- x --------------------
Patrick’s confident stride as he enters the kitchen is completely missed thanks to the very recent arrival of the My Chem guys. Joe’s already talking animatedly to Ray, and everyone else is admiring Frank’s new tattoo - a birthday present to himself. Well, everyone except William, who is busy pouring dangerous amounts of vodka into the bowl of blood-red punch.
Patrick is kind of freaking out. But as much as being possessed is a very good reason for freaking out, Patrick doesn’t like freaking out, so instead he tries to take in everyone’s Hallowe’en efforts as Sandra directs his eyes over the group. Bill is a cat - ears, tail and eyeliner whiskers. The Butcher is… a surfer - Patrick matches his shorts to the board in the corner of the room. Ray is a Viking - plastic helmet perched atop his masses of hair and a toy axe, which Patrick hears Joe declare is “totally pwned by my lightsaber.” Ray argues that he’d still win, because he’d have Bob on his side, and Patrick hears Sandra’s voice in his head asking, Who’s Bob?
The ninja, Patrick answers, still surprised when the words don’t come out. Bob’s striking blue eyes stand out against his black coverings.
Sandra continues looking around the room. Who’s Robin Hood?
Gerard. I think he’s Peter Pan, actually. Note the skinny un-amused guy in fairy wings. That’s his brother, Mikey. I think he’s supposed to be Tinkerbell. Patrick doesn’t remember getting used to having conversations with someone else in his head, but right now Mikey dressed as Tinkerbell is easier to think about.
Tinkerbell is pretty, Sandra thinks, as they watch Pete tackle Mikey, laughing.
What? Patrick isn’t really used to it, he supposes. Eh, he’s engaged.
Affairs get people hurt, I’ll be good. Sandra smiles, and Patrick can feel it, on his face. It’s strange. He’s still pretty, though.
Sandra flicks her attention to the last guy in the room. Frank is-- hot, Sandra supplies.
Not what I was searching for, thanks, Patrick thinks. But Frank is pretty hot for a guy, Patrick reluctantly admits. Frank is wearing a black and white striped tee, a black eye mask and is rifling through a sack marked “swag.” Patrick quickly finds himself on the other side of the room.
“Hey,” Sandra greets Frank, and when he looks up Patrick is so sure he’s going to know.
“Hey Patrick,” Frank grins and there goes that hope. “Chocolate coin?” Frank offers, pulling a handful out of the swag bag. Patrick takes one and thanks him.
“Nice costume,” Patrick hears himself comment.
“Thanks. Same to you,” Frank grins.
“Pete,” Sandra says by way of explanation and Patrick decides he would prefer it if she weren’t doing such a good job of pretending to be him.
Patrick is saved from feeling too disgruntled by Andy’s arrival. Frank grins when he sees his costume and waves him over.
“Dude, they caught you? No way. I hope you broke out.”
Andy laughs. “Yeah, I just need to work out how to get rid of this,” he points at the plastic ball and chain attached to his left ankle. Andy is dressed as an escaped convict, in an orange jumpsuit, complete with stencilled number.
Frank nods, “Nice. I don’t always bother, but everyone else made the effort.” He gestures around the room. “Even if Mikey is getting paid for his.”
“I was wondering what was going on there.” Andy smiles.
“Yeah. He told Gee to go as Peter Pan, and he said sure, as long as Mikey went as Tinkerbell, at the same time betting him $300 that he wouldn’t. Mikey’s just trying to prove him wrong and even though he’s doing so, Gerard still wins in my book. I mean, Mikey’s wearing sparkly wings.”
Andy nods.
“It’s a shame his skirt ripped.” Frank adds as an afterthought.
Pete drags Patrick away from Andy and Frank when the doorbell rings. Hemingway follows them.
“You alright?” Pete asks, as soon as they’re in the hall. “I know you don’t like the huge party thing, but I want you to have fun, yeah?”
Patrick wants to scream at him that of course he’s not alright, that he’s freaking possessed and no one’s noticed - that Pete hasn’t noticed. But he can’t. Sandra says, “I will” and, “It’s cool, I’m fine” instead, and Pete doesn’t look totally convinced, but nods and opens the door to a pirate, a cowboy, a mummy, and a baseball player.
“Happy Hallowe’en!” Brendon cries through his bandana/kerchief thing, and Ryan rolls his eyes, but eye-rolls don’t mean that much when one is wearing an eye patch.
The place fills up pretty fast. Almost as soon as Pete closes the door, someone knocks on it and the entirety of Cobra Starship are joining the party. Gabe is dressed as a Roman Centurion, and is viciously guarding Vicky T, who is in a toga, with his plastic sword. Alex is dressed as a chef, and even brought food, and Ryland is a very convincing stoned hippie and Nate--
“Oh my god,” Pete says laughing, “ Did you come as Ryan?”
“Shut up,” Nate frowns, “I am sick of people thinking I’m dressed as Ross. I am a hobo!” Nate hits Pete with his cardboard “Help the Homeless” sign, and Gabe doubles back with a grin.
“He’s totally dressed as Ross.”
---------------------- x --------------------
Brendon is bouncy and excitable, because “it’s Hallowe’en, Patrick, Hallowe’en!” And sure, Patrick isn’t stupid. He has noticed he is currently possessed by a woman. A very straight woman. A very straight and quite horny woman, but what is she doing? This is scarring him. For life, he screams at her, as she attacks Brendon’s mouth. Sandra, Patrick thinks, seems to be finding this way too much fun. (Damn right, I am.)
Oh come on, it was too easy, Sandra thinks. And Patrick kind of agrees, if only because right now he wants to be thinking about anything but the feel of Brendon Urie’s hands pushing up the inside of his t-shirt.
--- --- ---
“Trick or Treat?”
Brendon puts on his filthiest expression and asks, “Do I have to pick just one?”
And before his face has a chance to break out into a big joking grin, Patrick (Sandra) answers, “No.”
--- --- ---
Brendon gets bored and Sandra doesn’t seem to mind when he flounces off to find Ryan. She steers Patrick’s body to the living room and stands against a wall, watching the room.
Mike and Sisky have just appeared, and everyone is making a fuss of their costumes. Mike’s dressed as a cop, and is very quickly tiring of the whistles and Bill’s frequent cat-calls (no pun intended) of “Who called the stripper?” and “Take it off!” Sisky has procured one of those huge step-in costumes - an ostrich with a pair of legs attached on top. He’s got an old bicycle helmet on too, and keeps telling people he is “the best ostrich racer the world has ever seen.”
Can you leave my body please? Patrick decides to try an actual request. Y’know, now that you’ve completely ruined my life.
Don’t exaggerate, he wasn’t that bad. Your life ain’t the one that’s over. And Patrick might feel a pang of guilt there. The next guy’ll be better, okay? And right, guilt is gone.
What?! No, no thanks. Please, please, just leave. Just go somewhere else. You must have options. If you don’t fancy heaven or hell, how about haunting? That’s gotta be fun. No?
Look Patrick, I can appreciate that I’m invading your, well, you but I’m not an expert at this or anything. It’s just... it’s my unfinished business.
Sandra sounds (if thoughts can sound) serious and a little bit sorry, but Patrick still can’t help but think, Brendon is your unfinished business?
No. Sandra rolls his eyes, and resumes surveying the room. But he could be…
---------------------- x --------------------
Spencer is starting to think maybe the punch was not such a good idea. He had totally planned on staying at least somewhere near sober tonight and it is starting to feel more and more like somebody spiked the punch with every sip he takes. Spencer stops thinking and nearly throws his punch in the air when he feels a hand low on his back. He was pretty sure he’d been standing against a wall. And yup, that’s a hand on his ass now. Spencer turns and finds himself looking at the top of Patrick’s hat. If Patrick looks a little predatory when he smiles at Spencer, it’s probably just the punch. Until Patrick grabs his shirt and pulls Spencer towards him, closes the door and pushes Spencer roughly against it. And maybe Spencer has the tiniest crush on Patrick - cute little Patrick who blushes when Spencer raves about the first time he saw him play drums. And as hard as it is to even watch someone’s hands when they drum, Spencer has no doubts about the fact that he wants Patrick’s all over him. So he’s not exactly pulling away when Patrick rips off what is left of his toilet paper bandages.
Patrick is forced to watch his own fingers card through Spencer’s hair. As he tries desperately to ignore the sound and feel of Spencer moaning into his mouth, Patrick is granted the distraction of memories that are not his own, playing in his mind.
A handsome young man smiling in a supermarket aisle, holding a tin of peaches.
The same man, his hand entwined with Patrick’s. Except Patrick is tall and slender and his long fingers have neatly manicured nails. The man is laughing and squeezing Patrick’s hand.
Patrick is returned to the now of his body and Spencer’s, the latter having just collapsed to the floor.
I think he blacked out, Sandra tells to him.
What did you do!? Patrick yells silently.
Calm yourself, sweetheart. I think it must have been the alcohol. It does smell pretty strong. Sandra toes the cup on the floor with Patrick’s shoes.
Patrick takes in the scene at his feet, as Sandra surveys it. Spencer’s slumped body propped up against the door, as a pool of dark red slowly spreads out, soaking into the carpet.
Is that… Patrick doesn’t finish the thought, wishing that if he should regain control of his body ever again it would be right now so he could look away.
It’s punch, Sandra thinks, softly, and exhales long and slow with relief. I’m not here to hurt anyone, Patrick. I promise.
---------------------- x --------------------
Frank’s outside, smoking. He’s alone and the lights on the decking haven’t been switched on. Patrick closes the sliding door quietly behind him and walks towards the floating speck of light that is the end of Frank’s cigarette.
Patrick slips his arms around Frank’s waist, and Frank turns towards him.
Frank blows the smoke out of the side of his mouth and says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Patrick says back and smiles. Patrick may know it’s useless but he is not resigning to this again. He’s concentrating really hard but all he is able to accomplish is a chant of walk away, walk away, walk away bouncing around his head. Patrick gives up and is once again granted distraction, as both he and Frank lean in.
“He’s going away,” Patrick hears himself say, “for the whole weekend. From Friday morning to Sunday night.” The painfully wide smile on Patrick’s face is mirrored by the tall handsome man in front of him. But his eyes are sad. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he kisses Patrick softly on the forehead, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Can’t you leave him?” the man whispers into Patrick’s hair as he holds him.
As Patrick pulls away, there are tears in his eyes. In both their eyes as he says, “He’d never let me.”
But Patrick isn’t pulling away. Frank is.
“I’m sorry, Patrick. I can’t.” Frank does look genuinely apologetic, “Maybe. A few years ago…” He shakes his head. “I can’t, Patrick.” And neither Patrick nor Sandra misses his glance through the glass sliding doors, into the room beyond.
Patrick can’t help but be a little amused. He probably should have seen that coming. Sandra hears him think so.
“You mean you don’t want to.” Frank looks even more sorry, but it’s said kindly and Patrick’s smiling. “It’s okay.”
Frank smiles back. “Yeah, I guess. To be honest, I’m surprised you’re not in a similar position.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow at that, and hang on. That is so not fair. Patrick had to work really hard to learn to raise one eyebrow. His face seriously just does not like to do it. Sandra should not have better control of his face than he does. Even if he currently has no control of it.
Patrick stops huffing just in time to catch Frank say, “I’m going to head back in.”
He stamps out his cigarette on the deck, and heads back in.
“Good luck, Frank,” Patrick calls out quietly to him. Frank acknowledges it with a small wave and Patrick can feel the tears forming in his eyes.
You okay? Patrick asks.
I’m fine, Sandra thinks. But Patrick can hear and feel her swallow, before she heads back inside.
---------------------- x --------------------
Patrick is back in the living room, watching people dance. Well, he’s attempting to watch people dance, but Sandra keeps focusing his attention on Nate, who is similarly not dancing, but standing against the opposite wall watching.
Seriously, Patrick thinks, a hobo? Your standards are slipping.
I could go for the Roman Soldier, if you’d prefer.
God, no.
Sandra smirks. He can feel it on his face. Anyway, would you prefer I went for someone sober, who is definitely going to remember it in the morning?
Patrick frowns. Or, well, he thinks about frowning. Frank was sober.
Frank was different, Sandra thinks. You’ve obviously been there before. Don’t make me dig in your memories for proof.
Patrick is thinking about frowning again and they’re on the move.
“Homeless, eh?”
Nate nods, smiling a little. “Not Ross.”
“Definitely not Ross,” Patrick says and Patrick can hear her quietly asking, Who’s Ross? while he thinks, Thank God not Ross, he’s Pete’s protégé. And, oh god. Pete.
Patrick had kind of successfully not been thinking about Pete. Really successfully actually. Successfully enough to feel really guilty now. Not that he could help being possessed or anything, y’know, but it’s Pete’s party, and he should have been helping instead of making out with every pirate, mummy or hobo that crossed his path.
Could you stop thinking so much? It’s really annoying, Patrick hears and notices that he already has Nate pushed up against a wall.
Oh my god! Sandra! People. Dancing. All. Around. Privacy woman! Please, god, move away from the roomful of people.
Finally Patrick’s screaming inside of his head has an effect as Sandra moves Nate and herself (himself, myself, Patrick reminds himself) into an empty room. It all feels like déjà vu as Patrick slams the door shut and pushes Nate against it. He’s about to delve into his own memories, to think about anything but what’s right in front of him - what he’s doing - when he doesn’t need to, being thrown into Sandra’s instead.
Patrick hears the slam of a door, banging, more slams and as he tears his eyes from the beautiful man leaning over him to throw a terrified glance at the door, he hears a shot. And all Patrick can see is blood. Blood soaking into the bedclothes, blood running down his lover’s chest, blood spattering his face and he hears himself shriek. And before he can recognise the feel of the blood, the taste of it as it mixes with his tears, there is only darkness.
If Patrick’s mind and body were connected, he’d be shaking. He feels physically sick as he is returned to the now.
My God, Sandra, he thinks, what happened to you?
Nothing, Sandra thinks, but he passed out.
Patrick’s hand points to where Nate is lying on the floor, against a wall.
“Not having much luck tonight,” Patrick hears himself sigh, but it’s deeper. Too meaningful for this.
Sandra, Patrick thinks, slowly.
You know what happened to me Patrick, she thinks, and this time Patrick can feel the tears spilling out, running down his face. He collapses to the floor and Patrick listens to her sob, feels his body shaking, completely helpless.
I’m so sorry, Sandra. I’m here. I’m here, he thinks softly.
---------------------- x --------------------
Patrick surveys the living room with something like defeat. The party is very much over. Almost everyone has left over the past hour or so, minus those too drunk to make it home and too daft to have arranged a lift. Joe is wrapped up tightly in his brown cloak, asleep in one armchair. Hemingway is snoring lightly from the other. William has passed out on top of Sisky on the couch, at the foot of which Sisky’s ostrich lies looking no more dead than its owner. One of Bill’s long arms is stretched out towards the floor, where Carden handcuffed him to the coffee table, before leaving.
“Oh, hey. You’re still up,” Pete enters the room, carrying a stack of blankets.
“Yeah,” Patrick gives him a small smile.
“Hey, you don‘t look… have you been--” Pete swallows whatever he was going say and drops the blankets on to the low table. Hemingway twitches in his sleep. “Are you alright?”
Pete takes a few steps forwards and lifts one hand to Patrick’s face, looking into his eyes. He looks concerned and Sandra thinks, last chance, and Patrick’s suddenly screaming inside his head.
No. No, no, no. Stop, please god, stop.
And Patrick’s kissing Pete, and Pete’s surprised, but kisses back. And Patrick is still screaming.
No. You are not allowed to fuck. With. Him. No! No. Not him. Not “…Pete.”
The last word comes out as a whisper. But it comes out. Patrick spoke. Patrick, not Sandra. It’s barely a word at all, more a breath. But Pete is pulling away. Pete is pulling away to ask Patrick if he’s drunk, to ask if he knows what he’s doing. Pete is pulling away and Pete hears it, and it is more of an answer than he needs.
Pete takes his hand. He’s leading him upstairs and Patrick is still yelling, but it’s not making a sound. The only result is the beginning of a headache for himself and Sandra.
No, you can’t. STOP. God, please stop. And Patrick’s not screaming now, but if he had control he might be crying. Please, please stop. He’s my best friend. I… you… we can’t do this. We can’t. Please don’t, Sandra. Please.
I’m sorry, Patrick. I have to.
No. No, you don’t. Anyone else. Please.
There is no one else. Not for you. Sandra smiles sort of sadly when she thinks it.
What? No. I don’t know what you think but-
Patrick. I’m in your head. And honestly, I don’t even think I’d need to be to see this.
God, just, please don’t hurt him.
Pete stops in front of Patrick, in his bedroom. He looks nervous, and he’s still and it’s one of the strangest things Patrick’s ever seen. “Are you sure?” he asks, and it’s slow and quiet, and so very un-Pete.
Patrick sits on the bed, and nods. He’s kicking off his shoes and Pete’s doing the same.
Patrick can’t help but notice everything. How cold the sheets are, when he is slipped between them - the tightness of them, tucked around the mattress. They’ve probably not been slept in for days. Patrick notices that he doesn’t really question the actions he can’t control. He notices how he’s pointedly not thinking about where he would have been sleeping tonight without Sandra’s intrusion. He notices all of this before he is granted the feeling of Pete’s skin on his. His smell surrounds Patrick, and it’s familiar and comfortable and warm. What Patrick doesn’t notice is his need for a distraction. It’s not there to notice. And even if it was, he has nothing more to learn about Sandra. He knows why she’s here. Knows why she needs this.
The last thing Patrick notices is Pete’s eyes searching his. Searching for him.
---------------------- x --------------------
When Patrick wakes up the next morning, Pete’s arm is slung across him and his nose is tickling the back of Patrick’s neck. Patrick sighs and thinks, thank you. He rolls over to face Pete, and watches him sleep for four minutes and eighteen seconds before he realises he just rolled over. He just rolled over. And he wanted to. Patrick grins widely, and kisses Pete on the forehead.
“Sh’ said thanks,” he mumbles.
“What?” Patrick asks, a little shocked.
Pete doesn’t answer, and Patrick figures he’s asleep again, or always was. But when Patrick sits up, Pete claws at him and pulls him back down. “S’cold,” he mumbles into Patrick’s neck.
---------------------- x --------------------
Epilogue ---
It’s November 3rd and Patrick is on Pete’s couch, eating cereal while watching the news.
“There’s coffee,” Patrick calls out, when he hears Pete at the bottom of the stairs, “but it‘s probably cold.” The reporter is telling the viewers at home all about some recent development that could be “the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for” in solar power and Patrick’s not overly interested, but he likes to keep up to date.
Pete’s standing against the doorway when he says, “I don’t even know why you watch the news. They only show what they want you to see.”
Patrick snorts into his cheerios and says, “Yeah, whatever.”
“It’s true,” Pete says like someone’s disagreeing. “Been any murders on the news this morning, eh?”
“It’s the afternoon,” Patrick mutters.
“Any double murders?” Pete continues, “Doubt it.”
“What are you talking about, Pete?” Patrick puts his empty bowl down on the coffee table, and turns to face the door.
“My mom was telling me, about some guy that murdered his wife and her lover about a week ago. Found them in bed together - when he just happened to have a gun in his hand. Bet that hasn’t been reported. It’s all been hushed up, because the guy was a judge. Dad told mom. S’obviously not to be spread around, but apparently dad had met the girl. Says it’s a real shame. You won’t see that on the news.”
Patrick is glad he’s already put his bowl down, because Pete would probably notice the rattling if he hadn’t. He clasps his hands together, but they are still shaking a little when he says, “He shot them?”
“Yeah. They’ve got him, but it’s fucking sick. If he knew, why couldn’t he have just divorced her?”
“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, and sits back against the couch, leaning against it heavily. Pete comes over and drops himself down beside Patrick, who murmurs, “At least they went together.”
Pete leans up and gives Patrick a light peck on the lips. “Life is shitty, and the news doesn’t report all of the shit.” Patrick leans his head on Pete’s shoulder as Pete’s arm slips around his waist.
Pete tickles at Patrick’s side, “Ooh, sports news. Turn it up.”
Patrick does.
-----
Love it(me) or leave it(me) or rip it(me) apart.
Characters: Patrick, Sandra (OFC) and others [FOB, PATD, MCR, TAI, CS]
Wordcount: 4391
Disclaimer: They all own themselves, minus Sandra who does not exist. I claim all as lies and make no profit.
Rating: R
Warnings: Blood, gore, intoxicated dancing and implied sex.
Notes: This is rather epic, for me. Look at that word count. I am so proud, haha. Okay, so I’ll try and make this note shorter than it’s already shaping up to be. Story prompted by clippedwings@lj here at bandom_abandon@lj which, by the way, is an excellent wee community that is great but would work so fabulously with more members. Hint hint. Many thanks go to the lovely periculosa@lj for the beta, and moondarri@lj for suggesting her and generally being a constant source of awesome. This also works as K is for Kiss, in that alphabet fic request thing. For Ellie.
Originally Posted: January 20th 2008. Here
-----
Patrick splashes cold water on his face. He can do this. He puts up with Pete. He can definitely handle one little Hallowe’en party. He eyes the red glittery horns forced on top of his hat in the mirror and sighs. It’s just one night. One night, a voice in his head echoes. But it’s one night that hasn’t even really started yet and already Patrick is tired. William and the Butcher, the first to arrive, went straight to the kitchen where they are currently dancing around the booze-loaded island singing “spiritual chants” to set up a “proper Hallowe’en atmosphere.” Patrick can hear them from the small downstairs bathroom; he can hear the Butcher’s low singing, keeping an even rhythm, Bill’s high-pitched squeals that Pete is “ruining it,” and Joe’s loud laughter over it all.
Well, better get going if I’ve only got one night, Patrick hears someone say.
He spins around, but he’s definitely the only person in the bathroom. Giving himself one last look in the mirror, Patrick pulls his hat and horns down tight and heads for the door.
Pete appears at his side as soon as he steps into the hallway. He’s somewhat predictably dressed as a vampire, and his cape swishes around his feet as he moves.
“You’re far too sweet to be a devil,” he grins. “I wish I had some tinsel so I could make you a halo.”
Patrick smiles back and thinks mmm, pretty, in a dark and twisty kind of way, and wait, what? Patrick did not think that. Not at all. Patrick tries to keep his expression calm as Pete fidgets with his horns.
“Eh, I think I’ll go adjust them,” he says, removing Pete’s hands from his head. Patrick steps quickly back into the bathroom and locks the door.
What was that? Patrick thinks, exhaling slowly and more than a little shakily.
That was an observation, Patrick thinks, but no. That’s not Patrick. Patrick does not find Pete attractive. Patrick does not “mmm” at the sight of his best friend.
But I do, thinks someone who is most definitely not Patrick.
“Who are you?” Patrick asks the empty bathroom in a whisper.
Hey sweetie, I’m Sandra, and Patrick wonders how he ever thought that was his own voice in his head.
“But. How?” Patrick mouths silently.
Welcome to possession, darlin’, Sandra says in his head, and as if to demonstrate Patrick lifts his right-hand and waves to himself in the full-length mirror. Only Patrick didn’t move his hand.
Patrick goes to stare at it, dumbfounded, but he can’t. He can’t turn his head or move his eyes.
“Mmm, full control,” Sandra says, but it’s his voice and the only reason he can tell for sure that it’s not him speaking is because he’s at a loss for words. He watches through eyes he doesn’t control as she wriggles his fingers, stretching, and forms a wicked grin that doesn’t fit his features.
“Time to get me some afterlife.”
---------------------- x --------------------
Patrick’s confident stride as he enters the kitchen is completely missed thanks to the very recent arrival of the My Chem guys. Joe’s already talking animatedly to Ray, and everyone else is admiring Frank’s new tattoo - a birthday present to himself. Well, everyone except William, who is busy pouring dangerous amounts of vodka into the bowl of blood-red punch.
Patrick is kind of freaking out. But as much as being possessed is a very good reason for freaking out, Patrick doesn’t like freaking out, so instead he tries to take in everyone’s Hallowe’en efforts as Sandra directs his eyes over the group. Bill is a cat - ears, tail and eyeliner whiskers. The Butcher is… a surfer - Patrick matches his shorts to the board in the corner of the room. Ray is a Viking - plastic helmet perched atop his masses of hair and a toy axe, which Patrick hears Joe declare is “totally pwned by my lightsaber.” Ray argues that he’d still win, because he’d have Bob on his side, and Patrick hears Sandra’s voice in his head asking, Who’s Bob?
The ninja, Patrick answers, still surprised when the words don’t come out. Bob’s striking blue eyes stand out against his black coverings.
Sandra continues looking around the room. Who’s Robin Hood?
Gerard. I think he’s Peter Pan, actually. Note the skinny un-amused guy in fairy wings. That’s his brother, Mikey. I think he’s supposed to be Tinkerbell. Patrick doesn’t remember getting used to having conversations with someone else in his head, but right now Mikey dressed as Tinkerbell is easier to think about.
Tinkerbell is pretty, Sandra thinks, as they watch Pete tackle Mikey, laughing.
What? Patrick isn’t really used to it, he supposes. Eh, he’s engaged.
Affairs get people hurt, I’ll be good. Sandra smiles, and Patrick can feel it, on his face. It’s strange. He’s still pretty, though.
Sandra flicks her attention to the last guy in the room. Frank is-- hot, Sandra supplies.
Not what I was searching for, thanks, Patrick thinks. But Frank is pretty hot for a guy, Patrick reluctantly admits. Frank is wearing a black and white striped tee, a black eye mask and is rifling through a sack marked “swag.” Patrick quickly finds himself on the other side of the room.
“Hey,” Sandra greets Frank, and when he looks up Patrick is so sure he’s going to know.
“Hey Patrick,” Frank grins and there goes that hope. “Chocolate coin?” Frank offers, pulling a handful out of the swag bag. Patrick takes one and thanks him.
“Nice costume,” Patrick hears himself comment.
“Thanks. Same to you,” Frank grins.
“Pete,” Sandra says by way of explanation and Patrick decides he would prefer it if she weren’t doing such a good job of pretending to be him.
Patrick is saved from feeling too disgruntled by Andy’s arrival. Frank grins when he sees his costume and waves him over.
“Dude, they caught you? No way. I hope you broke out.”
Andy laughs. “Yeah, I just need to work out how to get rid of this,” he points at the plastic ball and chain attached to his left ankle. Andy is dressed as an escaped convict, in an orange jumpsuit, complete with stencilled number.
Frank nods, “Nice. I don’t always bother, but everyone else made the effort.” He gestures around the room. “Even if Mikey is getting paid for his.”
“I was wondering what was going on there.” Andy smiles.
“Yeah. He told Gee to go as Peter Pan, and he said sure, as long as Mikey went as Tinkerbell, at the same time betting him $300 that he wouldn’t. Mikey’s just trying to prove him wrong and even though he’s doing so, Gerard still wins in my book. I mean, Mikey’s wearing sparkly wings.”
Andy nods.
“It’s a shame his skirt ripped.” Frank adds as an afterthought.
Pete drags Patrick away from Andy and Frank when the doorbell rings. Hemingway follows them.
“You alright?” Pete asks, as soon as they’re in the hall. “I know you don’t like the huge party thing, but I want you to have fun, yeah?”
Patrick wants to scream at him that of course he’s not alright, that he’s freaking possessed and no one’s noticed - that Pete hasn’t noticed. But he can’t. Sandra says, “I will” and, “It’s cool, I’m fine” instead, and Pete doesn’t look totally convinced, but nods and opens the door to a pirate, a cowboy, a mummy, and a baseball player.
“Happy Hallowe’en!” Brendon cries through his bandana/kerchief thing, and Ryan rolls his eyes, but eye-rolls don’t mean that much when one is wearing an eye patch.
The place fills up pretty fast. Almost as soon as Pete closes the door, someone knocks on it and the entirety of Cobra Starship are joining the party. Gabe is dressed as a Roman Centurion, and is viciously guarding Vicky T, who is in a toga, with his plastic sword. Alex is dressed as a chef, and even brought food, and Ryland is a very convincing stoned hippie and Nate--
“Oh my god,” Pete says laughing, “ Did you come as Ryan?”
“Shut up,” Nate frowns, “I am sick of people thinking I’m dressed as Ross. I am a hobo!” Nate hits Pete with his cardboard “Help the Homeless” sign, and Gabe doubles back with a grin.
“He’s totally dressed as Ross.”
---------------------- x --------------------
Brendon is bouncy and excitable, because “it’s Hallowe’en, Patrick, Hallowe’en!” And sure, Patrick isn’t stupid. He has noticed he is currently possessed by a woman. A very straight woman. A very straight and quite horny woman, but what is she doing? This is scarring him. For life, he screams at her, as she attacks Brendon’s mouth. Sandra, Patrick thinks, seems to be finding this way too much fun. (Damn right, I am.)
Oh come on, it was too easy, Sandra thinks. And Patrick kind of agrees, if only because right now he wants to be thinking about anything but the feel of Brendon Urie’s hands pushing up the inside of his t-shirt.
--- --- ---
“Trick or Treat?”
Brendon puts on his filthiest expression and asks, “Do I have to pick just one?”
And before his face has a chance to break out into a big joking grin, Patrick (Sandra) answers, “No.”
--- --- ---
Brendon gets bored and Sandra doesn’t seem to mind when he flounces off to find Ryan. She steers Patrick’s body to the living room and stands against a wall, watching the room.
Mike and Sisky have just appeared, and everyone is making a fuss of their costumes. Mike’s dressed as a cop, and is very quickly tiring of the whistles and Bill’s frequent cat-calls (no pun intended) of “Who called the stripper?” and “Take it off!” Sisky has procured one of those huge step-in costumes - an ostrich with a pair of legs attached on top. He’s got an old bicycle helmet on too, and keeps telling people he is “the best ostrich racer the world has ever seen.”
Can you leave my body please? Patrick decides to try an actual request. Y’know, now that you’ve completely ruined my life.
Don’t exaggerate, he wasn’t that bad. Your life ain’t the one that’s over. And Patrick might feel a pang of guilt there. The next guy’ll be better, okay? And right, guilt is gone.
What?! No, no thanks. Please, please, just leave. Just go somewhere else. You must have options. If you don’t fancy heaven or hell, how about haunting? That’s gotta be fun. No?
Look Patrick, I can appreciate that I’m invading your, well, you but I’m not an expert at this or anything. It’s just... it’s my unfinished business.
Sandra sounds (if thoughts can sound) serious and a little bit sorry, but Patrick still can’t help but think, Brendon is your unfinished business?
No. Sandra rolls his eyes, and resumes surveying the room. But he could be…
---------------------- x --------------------
Spencer is starting to think maybe the punch was not such a good idea. He had totally planned on staying at least somewhere near sober tonight and it is starting to feel more and more like somebody spiked the punch with every sip he takes. Spencer stops thinking and nearly throws his punch in the air when he feels a hand low on his back. He was pretty sure he’d been standing against a wall. And yup, that’s a hand on his ass now. Spencer turns and finds himself looking at the top of Patrick’s hat. If Patrick looks a little predatory when he smiles at Spencer, it’s probably just the punch. Until Patrick grabs his shirt and pulls Spencer towards him, closes the door and pushes Spencer roughly against it. And maybe Spencer has the tiniest crush on Patrick - cute little Patrick who blushes when Spencer raves about the first time he saw him play drums. And as hard as it is to even watch someone’s hands when they drum, Spencer has no doubts about the fact that he wants Patrick’s all over him. So he’s not exactly pulling away when Patrick rips off what is left of his toilet paper bandages.
Patrick is forced to watch his own fingers card through Spencer’s hair. As he tries desperately to ignore the sound and feel of Spencer moaning into his mouth, Patrick is granted the distraction of memories that are not his own, playing in his mind.
A handsome young man smiling in a supermarket aisle, holding a tin of peaches.
The same man, his hand entwined with Patrick’s. Except Patrick is tall and slender and his long fingers have neatly manicured nails. The man is laughing and squeezing Patrick’s hand.
Patrick is returned to the now of his body and Spencer’s, the latter having just collapsed to the floor.
I think he blacked out, Sandra tells to him.
What did you do!? Patrick yells silently.
Calm yourself, sweetheart. I think it must have been the alcohol. It does smell pretty strong. Sandra toes the cup on the floor with Patrick’s shoes.
Patrick takes in the scene at his feet, as Sandra surveys it. Spencer’s slumped body propped up against the door, as a pool of dark red slowly spreads out, soaking into the carpet.
Is that… Patrick doesn’t finish the thought, wishing that if he should regain control of his body ever again it would be right now so he could look away.
It’s punch, Sandra thinks, softly, and exhales long and slow with relief. I’m not here to hurt anyone, Patrick. I promise.
---------------------- x --------------------
Frank’s outside, smoking. He’s alone and the lights on the decking haven’t been switched on. Patrick closes the sliding door quietly behind him and walks towards the floating speck of light that is the end of Frank’s cigarette.
Patrick slips his arms around Frank’s waist, and Frank turns towards him.
Frank blows the smoke out of the side of his mouth and says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Patrick says back and smiles. Patrick may know it’s useless but he is not resigning to this again. He’s concentrating really hard but all he is able to accomplish is a chant of walk away, walk away, walk away bouncing around his head. Patrick gives up and is once again granted distraction, as both he and Frank lean in.
“He’s going away,” Patrick hears himself say, “for the whole weekend. From Friday morning to Sunday night.” The painfully wide smile on Patrick’s face is mirrored by the tall handsome man in front of him. But his eyes are sad. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he kisses Patrick softly on the forehead, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Can’t you leave him?” the man whispers into Patrick’s hair as he holds him.
As Patrick pulls away, there are tears in his eyes. In both their eyes as he says, “He’d never let me.”
But Patrick isn’t pulling away. Frank is.
“I’m sorry, Patrick. I can’t.” Frank does look genuinely apologetic, “Maybe. A few years ago…” He shakes his head. “I can’t, Patrick.” And neither Patrick nor Sandra misses his glance through the glass sliding doors, into the room beyond.
Patrick can’t help but be a little amused. He probably should have seen that coming. Sandra hears him think so.
“You mean you don’t want to.” Frank looks even more sorry, but it’s said kindly and Patrick’s smiling. “It’s okay.”
Frank smiles back. “Yeah, I guess. To be honest, I’m surprised you’re not in a similar position.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow at that, and hang on. That is so not fair. Patrick had to work really hard to learn to raise one eyebrow. His face seriously just does not like to do it. Sandra should not have better control of his face than he does. Even if he currently has no control of it.
Patrick stops huffing just in time to catch Frank say, “I’m going to head back in.”
He stamps out his cigarette on the deck, and heads back in.
“Good luck, Frank,” Patrick calls out quietly to him. Frank acknowledges it with a small wave and Patrick can feel the tears forming in his eyes.
You okay? Patrick asks.
I’m fine, Sandra thinks. But Patrick can hear and feel her swallow, before she heads back inside.
---------------------- x --------------------
Patrick is back in the living room, watching people dance. Well, he’s attempting to watch people dance, but Sandra keeps focusing his attention on Nate, who is similarly not dancing, but standing against the opposite wall watching.
Seriously, Patrick thinks, a hobo? Your standards are slipping.
I could go for the Roman Soldier, if you’d prefer.
God, no.
Sandra smirks. He can feel it on his face. Anyway, would you prefer I went for someone sober, who is definitely going to remember it in the morning?
Patrick frowns. Or, well, he thinks about frowning. Frank was sober.
Frank was different, Sandra thinks. You’ve obviously been there before. Don’t make me dig in your memories for proof.
Patrick is thinking about frowning again and they’re on the move.
“Homeless, eh?”
Nate nods, smiling a little. “Not Ross.”
“Definitely not Ross,” Patrick says and Patrick can hear her quietly asking, Who’s Ross? while he thinks, Thank God not Ross, he’s Pete’s protégé. And, oh god. Pete.
Patrick had kind of successfully not been thinking about Pete. Really successfully actually. Successfully enough to feel really guilty now. Not that he could help being possessed or anything, y’know, but it’s Pete’s party, and he should have been helping instead of making out with every pirate, mummy or hobo that crossed his path.
Could you stop thinking so much? It’s really annoying, Patrick hears and notices that he already has Nate pushed up against a wall.
Oh my god! Sandra! People. Dancing. All. Around. Privacy woman! Please, god, move away from the roomful of people.
Finally Patrick’s screaming inside of his head has an effect as Sandra moves Nate and herself (himself, myself, Patrick reminds himself) into an empty room. It all feels like déjà vu as Patrick slams the door shut and pushes Nate against it. He’s about to delve into his own memories, to think about anything but what’s right in front of him - what he’s doing - when he doesn’t need to, being thrown into Sandra’s instead.
Patrick hears the slam of a door, banging, more slams and as he tears his eyes from the beautiful man leaning over him to throw a terrified glance at the door, he hears a shot. And all Patrick can see is blood. Blood soaking into the bedclothes, blood running down his lover’s chest, blood spattering his face and he hears himself shriek. And before he can recognise the feel of the blood, the taste of it as it mixes with his tears, there is only darkness.
If Patrick’s mind and body were connected, he’d be shaking. He feels physically sick as he is returned to the now.
My God, Sandra, he thinks, what happened to you?
Nothing, Sandra thinks, but he passed out.
Patrick’s hand points to where Nate is lying on the floor, against a wall.
“Not having much luck tonight,” Patrick hears himself sigh, but it’s deeper. Too meaningful for this.
Sandra, Patrick thinks, slowly.
You know what happened to me Patrick, she thinks, and this time Patrick can feel the tears spilling out, running down his face. He collapses to the floor and Patrick listens to her sob, feels his body shaking, completely helpless.
I’m so sorry, Sandra. I’m here. I’m here, he thinks softly.
---------------------- x --------------------
Patrick surveys the living room with something like defeat. The party is very much over. Almost everyone has left over the past hour or so, minus those too drunk to make it home and too daft to have arranged a lift. Joe is wrapped up tightly in his brown cloak, asleep in one armchair. Hemingway is snoring lightly from the other. William has passed out on top of Sisky on the couch, at the foot of which Sisky’s ostrich lies looking no more dead than its owner. One of Bill’s long arms is stretched out towards the floor, where Carden handcuffed him to the coffee table, before leaving.
“Oh, hey. You’re still up,” Pete enters the room, carrying a stack of blankets.
“Yeah,” Patrick gives him a small smile.
“Hey, you don‘t look… have you been--” Pete swallows whatever he was going say and drops the blankets on to the low table. Hemingway twitches in his sleep. “Are you alright?”
Pete takes a few steps forwards and lifts one hand to Patrick’s face, looking into his eyes. He looks concerned and Sandra thinks, last chance, and Patrick’s suddenly screaming inside his head.
No. No, no, no. Stop, please god, stop.
And Patrick’s kissing Pete, and Pete’s surprised, but kisses back. And Patrick is still screaming.
No. You are not allowed to fuck. With. Him. No! No. Not him. Not “…Pete.”
The last word comes out as a whisper. But it comes out. Patrick spoke. Patrick, not Sandra. It’s barely a word at all, more a breath. But Pete is pulling away. Pete is pulling away to ask Patrick if he’s drunk, to ask if he knows what he’s doing. Pete is pulling away and Pete hears it, and it is more of an answer than he needs.
Pete takes his hand. He’s leading him upstairs and Patrick is still yelling, but it’s not making a sound. The only result is the beginning of a headache for himself and Sandra.
No, you can’t. STOP. God, please stop. And Patrick’s not screaming now, but if he had control he might be crying. Please, please stop. He’s my best friend. I… you… we can’t do this. We can’t. Please don’t, Sandra. Please.
I’m sorry, Patrick. I have to.
No. No, you don’t. Anyone else. Please.
There is no one else. Not for you. Sandra smiles sort of sadly when she thinks it.
What? No. I don’t know what you think but-
Patrick. I’m in your head. And honestly, I don’t even think I’d need to be to see this.
God, just, please don’t hurt him.
Pete stops in front of Patrick, in his bedroom. He looks nervous, and he’s still and it’s one of the strangest things Patrick’s ever seen. “Are you sure?” he asks, and it’s slow and quiet, and so very un-Pete.
Patrick sits on the bed, and nods. He’s kicking off his shoes and Pete’s doing the same.
Patrick can’t help but notice everything. How cold the sheets are, when he is slipped between them - the tightness of them, tucked around the mattress. They’ve probably not been slept in for days. Patrick notices that he doesn’t really question the actions he can’t control. He notices how he’s pointedly not thinking about where he would have been sleeping tonight without Sandra’s intrusion. He notices all of this before he is granted the feeling of Pete’s skin on his. His smell surrounds Patrick, and it’s familiar and comfortable and warm. What Patrick doesn’t notice is his need for a distraction. It’s not there to notice. And even if it was, he has nothing more to learn about Sandra. He knows why she’s here. Knows why she needs this.
The last thing Patrick notices is Pete’s eyes searching his. Searching for him.
---------------------- x --------------------
When Patrick wakes up the next morning, Pete’s arm is slung across him and his nose is tickling the back of Patrick’s neck. Patrick sighs and thinks, thank you. He rolls over to face Pete, and watches him sleep for four minutes and eighteen seconds before he realises he just rolled over. He just rolled over. And he wanted to. Patrick grins widely, and kisses Pete on the forehead.
“Sh’ said thanks,” he mumbles.
“What?” Patrick asks, a little shocked.
Pete doesn’t answer, and Patrick figures he’s asleep again, or always was. But when Patrick sits up, Pete claws at him and pulls him back down. “S’cold,” he mumbles into Patrick’s neck.
---------------------- x --------------------
Epilogue ---
It’s November 3rd and Patrick is on Pete’s couch, eating cereal while watching the news.
“There’s coffee,” Patrick calls out, when he hears Pete at the bottom of the stairs, “but it‘s probably cold.” The reporter is telling the viewers at home all about some recent development that could be “the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for” in solar power and Patrick’s not overly interested, but he likes to keep up to date.
Pete’s standing against the doorway when he says, “I don’t even know why you watch the news. They only show what they want you to see.”
Patrick snorts into his cheerios and says, “Yeah, whatever.”
“It’s true,” Pete says like someone’s disagreeing. “Been any murders on the news this morning, eh?”
“It’s the afternoon,” Patrick mutters.
“Any double murders?” Pete continues, “Doubt it.”
“What are you talking about, Pete?” Patrick puts his empty bowl down on the coffee table, and turns to face the door.
“My mom was telling me, about some guy that murdered his wife and her lover about a week ago. Found them in bed together - when he just happened to have a gun in his hand. Bet that hasn’t been reported. It’s all been hushed up, because the guy was a judge. Dad told mom. S’obviously not to be spread around, but apparently dad had met the girl. Says it’s a real shame. You won’t see that on the news.”
Patrick is glad he’s already put his bowl down, because Pete would probably notice the rattling if he hadn’t. He clasps his hands together, but they are still shaking a little when he says, “He shot them?”
“Yeah. They’ve got him, but it’s fucking sick. If he knew, why couldn’t he have just divorced her?”
“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, and sits back against the couch, leaning against it heavily. Pete comes over and drops himself down beside Patrick, who murmurs, “At least they went together.”
Pete leans up and gives Patrick a light peck on the lips. “Life is shitty, and the news doesn’t report all of the shit.” Patrick leans his head on Pete’s shoulder as Pete’s arm slips around his waist.
Pete tickles at Patrick’s side, “Ooh, sports news. Turn it up.”
Patrick does.
-----
Love it(me) or leave it(me) or rip it(me) apart.