Peroxide (Peterick)

smells like teen angst jk nirvana's dead

A forthright temper saturates Dallon's shoes as they're struck by the cackling wind on his course outside, and not even the frigid temperatures can sway him from vilifying the man strapped tightly in his clutch, the one he's come to despise without a lawful deduction.

And he's back outside in the cold, the place where his smoke rose into the air in a creek of chemicals the last time he was there, and the memories aren't as convenient to him as they were, considering Pete is making a show out of his old friend, yet Dallon continues to assure himself that he doesn't care about the kid, but like Patrick, he hates to lie.

But lying is all he's been doing up here in Caribou, where it seems as though lying is coincidentally the least of one's concerns by virtue of the other activities swarming its residents, and now his beloved Patrick Stump finds him to be an arrogant cunt, which is beyond his ambitions. He wouldn't have confronted Patrick at the bar if he knew it would turn out this way, but they haven't spoken in two years, and attitudes can be altered in that time.

It appears that Patrick's attitude has been tailored against the man, for he barely can so much as glance at his so-called "attacker" without fragments of spite splotching his tongue as he speaks an inimical tale meant to punish him.

Still, Pete is open, and Patrick is ostensibly comfortable enough with the boy for it to be clear that Dallon's identity has not been disclosed, so why not give it a shot with Mr. Wentz?

"Dallon, what the hell are you doing?" Pete whines as he's pulled from the interior of the house with a forced tact.

Dallon's focus is sold to the pillow of ground in front of him, bones pressured in an override of his actual emotions towards the subject. "We need to talk."

Pete struggles to keep up, feet gamboling in the snow as his energy is abducted from him, making it particularly difficult to say even a simple word. "About?"

Dallon wheels around, still perpetuating his rough clamp on Pete's collar. "About you and Patrick."

"Why does that bother you?" The younger man's brows grab each other, half unnerved and half flummoxed.

"When did I say it bothers me?"

"You wouldn't be taking me outside privately if it didn't." Pete's argument censors his partner, and their dander is distilled in the ivory blanket accentuated by the shades of the moon.

"I suppose not." Dallon's voice is frail, as tenacious as he's heard Patrick's, and it's a discordant eruption in his larynx that nettles him so fully, but he can't see it ever stopping now that it's commenced.

Pete indents his waist to accommodate his hands, a frank point to his lips. "Just tell me what you have to say, and we'll be off."

"I want to tell you that Patrick isn't the person you think he is."

"What do you mean?" Pete gapes. "Apart from him being mostly covert, there's nothing under the layers beyond regular human secrets."

"Are you so sure about that?" Dallon's brows undulate on his face, feasted by his counterpart's chagrin. "The idea of secrets is to keep them hidden." He shrugs, dismissing the notion in a subtly sarcastic fashion. "Plus, he's an anxious kid who never unveils anything, so you're mistaken in whatever you think you understand."

Pete's turmoil deliquesces into humor, a sardonic extravaganza furnishing his amaranth lips. "I love how you're so sure in this."

"I know Patrick," Dallon enforces, a dash of sincerity eating away at his crystal veneer.