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The Redemption Of Pete Wentz (5/?)


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

It is astounding how ordinary passerby would not notice such bloodshed, but alas, there were no real witnesses to account for. This was what made the Dandies so merciless, that they left no survivors, witnesses, or prisoners to really live and tell. Beckett was there to orchestrate it all, keeping watch over his carnivorous flock. He had reason to keep a close eye. It had been almost seven months to the day that he'd taken Pete in, his prize. As with all things that go his way, the hold he has on his two favorites is beginning to falter. William simply tells himself I will fix this.

Back in the financial district, amid the frantic sirens and emergency vehicles, Pete had just dropped the limp body that had been slowly dying in his arms and made his way to Brendon, crouched at the ledge of the roof, running the brim of his hat along his fingertips, as he frequently did when an infinite number of fleeting thoughts ran through his mind. He hadn't bothered to feed tonight. Despite the nagging urge to satiate the the blood lust raging and ripping inside of him, something told him to pass it off. Brendon stared unblinkingly to the horizon, and this perplexed Pete beyond comprehension.

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

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

Without missing a beat, Pete answered with confidence, staring at Brendon with coal eyes. "No, I have nothing to miss." Brendon faced him now, twisting his torso with supernatural precision, and stared longingly with disbelief. Not even the rabid Pete was immune to Brendon's pleading eyes, entrancing and as brown as the dirt beneath his fingernails.

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

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

Brendon ignored his remark that somehow had a tone that applied to him also. "I want to remember what it feels like, to have that kind of warmth crawling across your skin and sink into your pores. I want to remember what real warmth is, and it's so aggravating because my body temperature never rises above forty-five degrees. I can only remember certain things from when I was human, like living in a scorching desert suburb, and having a girlfriend. God, there's always something that she said, about me feeling so warm and inviting around her. I feel so useless and pathetic because whenever I try to recollect, I get this pain in my temple that feels like a feral cat is tearing my mind to shreds." Brendon confessed, all of this coming out from pent up frustration like word vomit. Pete listened patiently, then looked back to the surrounding avenue.

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

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

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

"I've just begun putting the pieces together. All of these bits of memory that come to me in my sleep are starting to make sense." He gestured between the two of them. "We have a history, Pete, that goes farther back than what we are now. And don't you dare deny that instinctual feeling of knowing deep down that this friendship goes back farther than this."

"Yeah? How far?"

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

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

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

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

He even takes the time to refrain from sleeping, watching the wall with intense curiosity at Pete thrashing in his bed to the same nightmares he's been having for weeks. It was obvious now, even his complexion when Beckett would give him instructions, then stare worriedly at his appearance. As anal-retentive as he is about his outward presentation, Brendon can't help that his hair is lifeless, lips chapped as a desert, and eyes dull and boring, sunken against his cheekbones. As Pete pointed out, he hadn't fed in days. He was a sickly mess and near prepared to do anything to compensate.

____________

Brendon awoke with a start, bolting upright in a frantic pant. His bare chest rose and fell in a familiar elevated rhythm. If he could produce any, he'd be covered in sweat.

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

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

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

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

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

"Four or five days, I suppose."

William calmly lifted himself from the chair and sauntered to the footboard of the bed. Pete's screaming slowly became more desperate. "Brendon, you know that I need you for reasons that go beyond discussing with the others. Please tell me that I still have your loyalty."

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

"Funny," William stated, biting the corner of his lip. "Normally when you refuse to feed, your mind wanders to things that potentially make you weak."

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

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

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

 

The Redemption of Peter Wentz (4/?)

Though Patrick knew that this point in time had left them no other option, he had hated Pete's idea from the start. The idea of just givng himself to the Dandies was without doubt the most idiotic thing he had ever heard come out of Pete's mouth. It was common knowledge that William wanted Pete as badly as he craved blood, and that was saying something, but despite William not beng the target, he didn't believe that risking whatever ounce of humanity Pete had was worth it.

Pete had given him the details. There was a very grave and morose tone to his gritty voice as he warned Patrick of what was to come. Andy and Joe would know nothing of this; being if they did, they'd hold back and slip the fact that this was all a big scheme against the Dandies, so fragile that a single look could topple the cards. This was why Patrick never went on hunts even before Pete had left. Joe and Andy would always question Pete's whereabouts and all Patrick could do was shrug to them sadly; Pete had sworn him to secrecy. It killed him that he knew where Pete was while millions of scenarios flew through his mind of what could be happening or what he was doing.

The whole point of this misery was the one thing Pete had been obsessing over for a little over a year. Patrick dismissed this as some form of memory attatchment, a thing newborns tend to have after they've been turned: recalling certain memories from their previous life with intense emotion and obsession. In this case, the obsession was Brendon Urie. Pete had been there the night he was turned, and took him in shortly after. Back then, Pete held unconditional love for Brendon despite his new parasitic urges. Instead, his hatred channelled toward William Beckett, the sadistic vampire that ruined Brendon's life. He doesn't recall how Brendon got the idea to go back to Beckett, pretty much thinking he was out of his fucking mind how he could return to the sadistic bastard that turned him into this monster, not the apprehensive, warm Brendon Urie he befriended.

What tore him apart was when Beckett finally moved to Pete. Backing him into a corner, he turned him with Brendon at his right hand. Pete couldn't let that go. More than the urges to drain everyone in the warehouse mindlessly, he wanted Brendon back. And this troubled Patrick to his core, like with most things that Pete took too far.

He couldn't bear to look Andy in the eye when Joe burst through the door, carrying the bruised vegan on his back, beaten and bloodied with at least three visible bite wounds on his arms and wrist.
"What happened to you? They were supposed to be Hoods!" Patrick gasped, trying his best to at least be surprised.

"We ran into the Dandies." Joe gasped, eyeing Andy cautiously as he winced under Patrick's gentle hands. "They came out of nowhere, 'Trick."

Andy cried out in agony as Patrick dabbed hydrogen peroxide to the lacerations. "How did you get this way, Andy?" he asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Andy muttered.

"Try me. I know I've seen these bite marks before...."

"I didn't even see him. One minute I had Chislett on the ground, then the next thing I knew, Pete had thrown me into asharp corner of a dumptster. I never thought he could move so fast until he started going feral on me like he had rabies."

Patrick sighed. "I know."

"No, Patrick," Andy growled. "I don't think you do. He was in Dandy uniform. He had blood down his chin. Pete had human blood all over him."

Patrick looked Andy in the eye.
"I know."

The Redemption of Peter Wentz (3/?)

No one could’ve anticipated how out of control this situation was becoming, but some were expected to be pleased with it.

William had him.
Wrapped around his finger.
Just as he had wanted for as long as he had layed eyes on him.

If a passing vagrant were to set eyes on Peter Wentz at this moment, shocked would be a massive understatement. It was a far cry from what he was months ago. He had empathy, compassion, and humanity then. That was nonexistent now, replaced with a thirst for carnal pleasures so severe it would make a black hole cry. If you were to look into his eyes, limitless pits of noir would trap you in a mindless gaze until he got what he wanted from you. Pete was murderous now and living up to every meaning of a bloodthirsty predator.

And he was loving every minute of it.

Freddie Highmore, I choose to stalk...

Is it just me, or does Freddie Highmore look like a mini version of Ryan Ross?
I've had an epiphany that is this is the legendary livejournal, and can go on a freaking rant.

I hate that people have called me Paris Hilton in the past.
I hate how I was called a dumb blonde. (I hate that they still do)
I hate how I'm not perfect enough for my parents.
I hate how I'm still running on empty and reamaining unloved.

I figure that's all I need.
LOVE.   too bad I refuse to believe it genuinely exists.

Who will step up to prove me wrong?

Writer's Block: Smells like teen spirit

Are there any scents that invoke childhood memories?

The smell of The Jungle Cruise at Disneyland.
Indiana Jones has been my favorite attraction for so long, and beside the fact that waiting in line for that is half the fun, the smell of the Jungle Cruise next door wafts through the attraction constantly. I'm instantly brought back every time a smell something similar elsewhere.
What is your favorite John Lennon song, and why?

Gimme Some Truth, hands down. He was always dealing with fakepeople, and those who just wanted to atch the world cave i on itself. Then, this was basically just a huge rant with a melody, though that is how most of his songs are. The fact is, this still applies to us after thirty years.

The Redemption of Peter Wentz (2/?)


As Pete perched at the apex of roof tiles, he felt a sting of penance. Screams echoed up the faces of buildings as he watched the scene before him. He couldn't help notice that he would naturally care less if it was some mugger or rapist, of course, it happens as often as rabbits breed. But this wasn't some urban-Chicago mugging. It was a feeding frenzy. If they were Punks, he'd be happy to break up the scene. But they were not the latter. These were quick, efficient Dandies.

How they fascinated him. How silently they would act, and the speed and intensity of their reactions and ferocities. The fact that he'd starved himself did not make things any easier, and he longed for the same satisfaction they took for themselves. A part of Pete wanted to stop them from ravaging the helpless college students, but he couldn't peel his eyes away. The darker side of Pete, however much he suppresses and exaggerates, wants, knows he should join them. It is a longing he wishes he could never express. Pete denies it even from himself at times. He feels that he belongs with them, among them, yet their ways go against every moral and ounce of humanity he has.

The moment ran in slow motion. He processed every movement and sound meticulously. It was in the close examination and detailed thought process running through his head like a play-by-play that he felt himself slipping ever deeper into the abyss.

He had lost track of who was who in the commotion between his own thoughts, and he refocused to meet eyes with Brendon's staring up at him from the bodies they'd thrown aside. He stared at Pete with intense fascination and wanting, almost daring him to come down from the roof. An electric jolt of adrenaline shot through Pete when the situation registered. He had not made a sound or motion. He only became lost within himself silently. But Brendon knew exactly where he was. He lifted an arm, beckoning Pete to come down with his index finger.

He turned away, expecting a route of escape from the shame he was committing. He knew several getaways, and he was now certain that this whole idea was fucking suicide, endangering his sanity and what family he had left. He couldn't just throw his friends into Death's lap like this. But he needed to, morals stretched and broken past their breaking point, he concluded that there was simply nothing else left to lose. Facing back to the alleyway, a shadow caught his attention in his left peripheral, and he had just enough time to identify it as Brendon’s lapdog Michael Carden. A dark scowl adorned his flawless face. With a flash of his lethal teeth, he smacked Pete off of the roof with great force before he had time to react.

The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him, causing Pete to gasp as he freefalled from the five story high roof. His mind was fogged also. He hit the ground with a crack, smashing the asphalt beneath him causing a small crater of debris. Pete groaned loudly, grasping his side where Carden hat struck him. He failed to notice the group of Dandies closing in around him, cutting off any room for escape. He stood in slow motion as pain raced through his nerves like a raging forest fire. Yet Pete focused his eyes on the one person he was interested to find here, one he was hoping to find.

Pete stood his ground as Brendon circled him like a vulture, slowly licking the excess from the corners of his lips. Brendon's brown eyes shone like orbs, flashing in the dark as the shadows traveled across his smirking face. The moment was tense. The other Dandies were waiting with anticipation. Shockingly, all of them ignored the pool of blood reaching their shoes from their former victims.

Pete's eyes traveled with Brendon as he circled, trying anything to distract himself from the sweet stench of fresh blood. Brendon removed his Derby hat now, running the rim between his fingers whilst grinning to himself that he'd gotten Pete into such a corner, simply by fate.

"Tell me, Pete, you were turned, what...twenty six months ago, am I right?" he asked curiously, setting a formal mood to his taunting.

Pete growled, resonating in his dry throat. "You should know, Urie. You watched it happen."

"Yes, I remember." He laughed, prompting the others to do the same despite their ignorance of the memory. "You were in pain then. Oh well, look where you are now. Pain seems to have done you some justice." Pete's fists clenched in restraint. "Yet you are so weak as to seek us out of desperation. I'm surprised that you've held on this long." Brendon's pace halted as he examined Pete, sizing him up. "Well, I'm here now, mind as well say what you wanted to out loud and not pleading me with those godawful eyes." Pete had Brendon's full attention, yet he couldn't form a sentence out of the shame. "Oh, come now, Pete," Brendon moaned, stepping forward and circling him at less than arm's length. "Though we have eternity, you are definitely wasting my time."

Aromas hung in the air. The transparent mist traveled as a breeze picked it up and sent it down the boulevard. Pete shut his eyes tight and took in a merciful breath. Brendon snickered, running his nose up Pete's shoulder, into his hair in one lingering, taunting sweep. He exhaled heavily.

"Carden, go fetch something." he ordered. Michael Carden promptly left out onto the sidewalk as a swift current. "Oh, Peter," he moaned, "I smell your hunger. In all honesty, I pity you, going on this long without the one thing you really crave most."

Pete was slowly losing himself as the seconds ticked on, as the fantasies began, and his veins burned fire. He could see himself in Brendon's malicious eyes, dilated and calculating like his own. He winced at the human scents entering his consciousness. Oh, how badly Pete wanted to ravage them.

"Tell me, Peter, how did you degrade yourself to this level of desecration?" Brendon inquired.

Sirens blared far beyond them.

"Choice. I am not a soulless parasite like you." His voice was now a strained whisper, more animalistic than ever.

Brendon inched closer, his breath dancing on Pete's earlobe in a venomous tone, and a second, colder voice backing his own. It was vicious and definitely familiar, yet not his own that held the warmth Pete remembered. "Let me tell you something, Pete Wentz. I've been around far longer than even before the idea of your existence was even conjured, and do not think for one minute that I am soulless. I accept what I am, though at the expense of my humanity. Brendon has accepted the same, so it appears that you are really the only parasite, a dying one at that, living on a delusional notion that you still belong to a far weaker and flawed species. And for that, Peter Wentz, you disgust me. You are the one who is soulless by not living to your potential. I should've left you to die, rather the pathetic, naïve newborn that you were."

Pete had fallen pathetically to his knees under Brendon's strong influence. "Then what really is the difference, Brendon?"

Brendon knelt close to Pete's ear. Word after word, the other voice bled into nothing. "I don't wallow in my misery."

Pete wanted to smack him, throw him into a brick wall, anything to just take his anger out on Brendon, the Dandie. But he couldn't bring himself to. He knew he needed Brendon. On the long list of things he wouldn't admit publicly, that darker part of him longed for Brendon, the said aspect of him that was quickly consuming him. Pete tried to speak, but his mouth was void of any sound he tried to produce. Brendon leaned close in ample curiosity.
"I don't want to anymore...can't." Pete gasped. A darkness slowly crept into his consciousness, nearly swallowing him whole as much as he tried to fend it off.

In this brief moment, Pete had found what he was looking for: a meager weakness, a break in the defenses, a window between Brendon's split personalities. He took advantage of this spontaneous vulnerability.
"What are you saying, Pete?" he asked, with that familiar warmth in his voice.

"I'm so thirsty."

"Finally." Brendon grinned sympathetically toward his former friend. "Carden, bring that girl over here."
 

The Redemption of Peter Wentz


Title : The Redemption of Peter Wentz
Summary : All Pete wanted to do was regain control of his life. He is about to do something risky and incredibly stupid.
Author : crave_summerlin
Rating : R- for violence and language
Author's Notes : This is my first ever post to this community. It is in 3rd Person omniscent, but mainly focuses on what Pete is feeling. Think of it as a Quentin Tarantino film, jumping from scene to scene, though I don't have tarantino's talent. I try.



In the silence of the night, sirens blared into the distance. Iridescent glows of street lamps cast orange hues into the crevices that were vacant between buildings. The thick blanket of looming stratus clouds hung, their undersides scraped by the commercial towers and buildings. Air was thick with ozone, a scent of looming precipitation that was threatening to pour.

The silence sat as it usually did, as it had been for millenia, peaceful and stifling. Abruptly, it was shattered by shrill screams of agony. An isolated patch of urban industrial yards became disturbed with consistent cries of torture.

In a formerly condemned warehouse, lights poured forth from gaps left by drapes and window shades. Shadows paced behind the light. The screams continued their horrible song, and a faint thump of body against door echoed from its walls. A moment of peace and quiet followed. Alas, it was only a moment until the screams resumed in much of the same fashion.

Inside, the atmosphere was hellish, strained, and above all, complete and utter chaos. In the confines of the connected makeshift kitchen nook to the makeshift common living room, countless dishes were shattered amid shredded and scattered papers from various publications. Stuffing billowed from the innards of the ancient sofa and recliner. Likewise, the coffee table was left broken, split in two. In fact, the entire scene and through the hallway was much the same as an obvious path of destruction into a lone door at the end of the extended administrative hall. A long line of scratches from fingernails danced an ordered line to said door.

The hall was vacant, to the voice's dismay. All remaining souls aside from the prisoner sought refuge in the storage library, the most secure and reinforced area in the entire warehouse. They wandered around aimless and hopelessly in thought as one buried himself into jotting down notes from an oversized book.
The voice trapped in the room at the end of the hall evolved to threatening pleas. Agonizing screams poured from the cracks on the steel door.

Inside the room, a single, huddled figure dug bleeding fingernails into the finished surface of the bolted door. His white, lethal teeth were bared as he spoke earnestly to whoever was listening at this very minute. He bore a black mane of groomed hair, unchanging and tangled from a fit of frustration, and his usual hazel, kind eyes were bottomless pits of black hunger and malevalence.
"Please, Patrick, let me out!" he pleaded.
Absolute silence.
His forehead met with the cold, metal surface, not much different from his own, and let out a drawn out growl before completely exploding into a storm of fury; clawing and throwing himself at the door.

He turned slowly, letting his back slide down the door until he remained as a crumpled mess on the carpet. Pete's breathing was labored and heavy as it whistled past his teeth. He wanted to cry, burying his fists into stray wads of raven hair. So badly did he want to cry that his chest heaved with dry sobs. He slammed his head against the wall several times more with frustration. He needed to get himself together. As he shifted to rationality at a snail's pace, Pete's mind started to clear. The guilt crashed down tenfold. He despised himself yet again. He brought his knees up to his chin, burying his face away from what he considered himself too monstrous to be a part of. Rocking took hold of him paired with a sort of mantra he recited to himself.
"You won't kill. You won't kill. You won't kill. You won't kill."
He remained this way for almost three hours. Yet the bloodlust raged on. Gnawing, clawing, and burning away at his throat.

Pete knew he was slipping. He was slowly losing himself to the thirst. Every day, every hour became more difficult to maintain self-restraint. What worried Pete most, above anything, was that every evening when he awoke, there was a period when he forgot everything: his childhood, family, friends, morals, everything but the prevading thirst. What terrified him so about this was the fact that each time he rose from that makeshift coffin in the floor, these episodes would last longer and longer. Not only was he losing to the thirst, but also to himself, to what he was.

The mantra went on. In his prison, the walls were bare, save for outlines of where tape used to be. A dresser sat idly opposite him beneath the window. Restraints lay crumpled on the floor, mere inches from Pete's half-worn shoes. Their chains and padded cuffs disappeared into the concrete wall. Pete began to slowly realize how lenient Patrick had been toward his recent actions.

Four hours, thirty-five minutes, and seventeen seconds ago, Pete had completely lost it. He refuses to confess, even to himself, that he was fully aware and concious, driven by the bloodlust that he had let build the past two weeks. It was all he could focus on. The only truth he will reveal is that he does not remember tackling Joe to the ground and attaching himself to him at the neck. The scene replays in this head, over and over. Despite the mantra, all he can think about is killing, how he would love to do it again. Pete wants that sweet relief and satisfaction. The monster is tightening its grip on him.

Footsteps near the door, getting louder with each step closer. A knock follows paired with a voice. It is Andy Hurley, the voice of reason.
"Pete, are you alive?" The door creaks open slightly with a screech into the silence. Pete's mantra has faded into breathing again, his jaw set. His body bars the door from opening a centimeter more than the sliver it is now.

"Barely." he growls is response. Andy shoves the door again against Pete's dead weight and enters the room, kneeling before him. His inquisitive eyes are peering behind thick lenses, and Pete averts his, not help noticing the probing stares of Andy's. His mane of blonde hair is tied back with a rubber band, falling loosely onto his shoulder blades.

"You haven't been taking your subsitute." The statement was lashing. There was no hinting to question in it, just a blunt remark.

Pete shook his head, slowly and silently. Andy sighed. "You can't keep doing this to yourself, Pete. Man, I know you hate yourself for it, but you need to feed, and you need to take that subsitute. You must drink it so that shit like tonight won't happen again."

"I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't want to kill him." Pete's voice shook with regret.

"You very nearly did." There was a brief window of quiet between them as Andy put his hands gingerly onto Pete's folded forearms.

He flinched at the contact, and recoiled further into the door. He wanted to ignore the inviting pulse, the beckoning aroma of Andy that was well within reach. Pete ran his tongue over his teeth as his breath quickened. Sensing this, Andy backed off but stood his ground, letting go of him.

"Why won't you take it, Pete?"

"It's like drinking air. It does nothing but fill, not satisfy." His voice was husky and coarse as he spoke. "But I don't want to kill. I can't."

"You can stay with your decision, but I can't stand seeing you like this." Andy spoke softy, getting to his feet. He pulled Pete up with him, heading out into the hall. Almost literally, he was carrying a corpse. "I'll go to the hospital in the morning and come back with some O positives for you."

"No, Andy, I can't--"

"They're donations, Pete, relax."

You've Got To Hide Your Love Away


"How can I even try?"
You never could win, could you, John?

Honestly, what kind of person can you be to where you can't love your son the way you want to, or even look at your wife with real affection? I'm disgusted with myself. Look at the state I'm in, I don't even deserve real sympathy.

I trapped myself in the studio, trying to bide my time until it was time to put on that smiling face and pretend everything was fine. Who am I kidding? I was a complete daft to believe that I was truly in love then. How can I really punish myself effectively for something you have to hide, despite everyone knowing what’s really going on in your life even if they're fabricated lies.

I held my head in my hands, facing the wall and away from the studio door. For now Abbey Road was silent, at least with the room and state I'm in. I tried fighting off the tears, but who am I kidding? These were the moments when I really needed Stu. He would know what to say when I was like this. I seem to repel affection though. I did it with Stu, Mimi, Cyn, Julian, even Paul. I'm damn broken, and no matter what there is no one I can really depend on but myself these days. I've thrown my love out there only to have it crumbled and spit back to my face.

The door opened behind me, and voices followed, playing joyful tunes with a mandolin. I inwardly groaned. I wasn't noticed yet in the rugged corner, sobbing silently. As the disembodied voices crescendoed toward me, one was thrown to my direction.

"John, get up, mate."
I didn't respond.

"John, you've got to get up, we've got a song to finish."
Paul's hand reached out for me, and I flinched at the warm contact, closing tighter into my ball. I felt ridiculous, like a child. But when was I ever not behaving like one?

"No, not now." I answered, muffled by my arms.

"Don't be like this, John. Come on and have some tea and we'll finish this song."

"I don't want to write a bloody song, Paul."

"John, you're acting like a child." There you go, a child. “You wouldn’t have to do much.”

I exploded, tearing away from my world of pity.
"I don't want to write a bloody song, Paul! I'm tired of your bloody, godforsaken songs. The world isn't all sunshine and fuckin rainbows, Paulie. Grow the fuck up."

The room went silent at my outburst. All eyes were on me now, astonished that I'd lashed out at my other creative half. Tears swelled with anger in my eyes as they reflected in Paul's. Fists clenched and unclenched. I stared everyone down in that room daring them to push me any further. Paul slowly backed off with his bass in hand turning slowly to the piano in the far corner of the sound stage.

I now felt incredibly guilty, as I always had after an outburst. I did it to Mimi.
I did it to Freddie.
I did it to Stu.
I did it to Cyn.
And now I've taken it out on Paul.

He looked at me now as if I'd grown fangs and a tail, ready to tear him to shreds. George only held some form of contempt for my action. Setting his teacup down, he was the only one to advance, taking my arm and dragging me upstairs into the rehearsal space, blank of windows or wall decor.

He shut the door and locked it, barring my path and any chance of escape. "Tell me, John. This has been having at you since Alaska." he said quietly, trying not to provoke me again. I sighed, brushing my finger through my hair and biting my lip.

"Do I deserve love, George?"

He looked at me with disbelief. I was as honest as I could be for all intents and purposes. If George couldn't take me seriously, I wouldn't know what to do with myself.

"I-what...h-how could you say that about yerself, John?" He started toward me, putting a hand to my shoulder gingerly. "Of course you do. Y-you just don't know what to make of it."

"No, I don't. I can't see it even when it's put in front of me face. I can't even give it back." I mumbled. I was ashamed at how he could open me up so easily.

"John, please listen to me, because I know for a fact that Hell will freeze over before you take advice from Paul or Ringo." He swallowed before making eye contact that couldn't be broken.

"I'm not forcing you to do anything. Take a good hard look at where your life is right now. You were young when you and Cyn had Julian, naïve as a bloody nit, but don't think for one second that you do not deserve their love."

"But I don't believe when she says love will find a way, George! How am I supposed to love her when I can't believe a word she says about it? How can I love her when I can't even return that love in the first place?!" I was shouting exasperatedly now, my voice straining against the confines of my throat. The tears began to resurface, hot and unwanted.

George gripped my shoulder to shake me back to reality. I stared at him now, at his deep brown eyes that held all of the wisdom I'll never have. "Hey...John, hey." he cooed softly. "Let me tell you this. In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. You can't have it if you don't give it in return. Find that other half and you'll understand what I'm saying."

What he said hit home. Really. That was probably the wisest thing anyone has ever said to me. I'll keep it in mind. The more I thought about it, the more the tears began to dry up. He ended on a lighter note though, giving me a slight tap to my left cheek before heading out the door. "And, John, stop hiding your love away, mate. It's giving you wrinkles."