Archaic ||Peterick||

Flowers

Pete looked around warily. Things looked better inside, not as worn down looking, though the house still gave him bad vibes. With some cleaning it could've had an almost homey feel. Maybe it had, once upon a time. Maybe Patrick used to live here with someone he loved. Maybe Patrick had had a heart.

Patrick looked around, reminiscing. He tutted, picking up broken objects. He looked worn down himself, like part of him still lived within the house. "Those stupid teens."

"You were a teen once too," Pete spoke up.

Patrick rolled his eyes and walked dutifully into the kitchen, not bothering to look around and arouse old memories. He wasn't the type to feel nostalgic. He didn't see a point in trying to make himself sad for something he couldn't change.

Pete paid him no mind. He wandered around, trying to get a feel for what Patrick was like. What he was really like when he wasn't out murdering or unhaunting.

Pete only found one mildly interesting thing. It was a picture. Golden plated. Pete noted that it was the only one on show. He blew some of the dust off and looked at it. Staring back up at him was a younger, happy Patrick. He was standing with two boys. One had an awesome afro, the other covered in tattoos that Pete couldn't help be jealous of. They were all holding some instrument. They must've been in a band.

Pete gently brushed Patrick's face with his finger. Pete always wanted to live in the past. When things were easier. Yet he couldn't think of a single time he'd like to be transported to. He sighed and placed the frame back down, wiping some of the grime off the golden frame.

Pete eventually followed Patrick into the kitchen and jiggled the chair a bit. "What're you doing?" Patrick raised an eyebrow.

"Making sure it won't break."

"Wow, you mean to tell me you actually thought about something?"

Pete playfully pouted at him before sitting down on a cushion of dirt. "Is this where it happens?" Pete couldn't bring himself to say the words, like it would flip a switch in Patrick.

Patrick sighed and sat down across from Pete. "Listen, I don't-" Patrick was cut off by violent, shoulder-shaking coughs. Pete didn't move to help like he would've only days ago. He silently waited. They had both changed a lot.

Patrick cleared his throat and sighed. "I wasn't meant to kill you at the start. But then she showed up and I was ordered by Ger-" Patrick was once again cut off by himself. Pete could finish that sentence for himself though. Gerard Way.

"Because of Mikey? Wait, she?" Pete asked with a hint of bitterness and confusion lacing his words. Patrick opened his mouth and grabbed his chest. He covered his mouth and hacked into it. He waved his hand dismissively. "Later." He croaked out.

Pete couldn't help but become angry at that. He had a right to know. There was no later for him. "Tell me!"

Patrick glared at him, hand over his own mouth. "He wants to dead because of your-" Patrick tried and failed to hold back a spluttering cough.

"Because of my what?!" Pete screamed.

"Because he's not the one that tur-" Patrick fell into a fit of coughs again. Pete made a frustrated noise and slammed his hands down on the table in defeat.

He got up again, his chair toppling over. He needed to move, to get rid of some pent up anger. Patrick watched him, shoulders shaking. For some reason, Patrick couldn't help but notice Petes beauty. How his wide eyed browns shone, how his full lips tugged down and up in reaction to whatever he found. Patrick hacked again and shook his head. He concluded that it was just how he looked in the light.

Pete looked at the dust covered worktops and all the odd, definitely not for cooking, utensils on them. He feared them. He opened all the cupboards one by one but came up empty handed. "Did you take everything with you? Where did it all go?"

Patrick sighed, Petes tone was stale. "It must've been stolen." Patrick noted the gruff edge to his voice and cleared his throat again.

Pete came to a grimy fridge, stained with things he didn't want to know about. There was no magnets and pictures, no notes or reminders. Patrick must've lived a boring life or had always kept to himself. Maybe he was the same. Pete decided the only thing left to do was open it.

He grunted and tugged the door open. It cracked open slowly, a thick layer of dirt holding it together. Patrick got up in a flurry. "Stop!"

It was too late. Petes eyes widened almost comically at the sight in front of him. "Holy shit.."

The fridge was filled with hoards of jars, bottles and vials of blood, ranging in colour. Each container was deemed with a label of a mythical creature or the name of a person. Petes stomach growled at the sight. "What the fuhk?" He turned to Patrick who looked livid.

"You can't just-" Patrick coughed again. Pete rolled his eyes.

"Spit it out!" Pete was on his last nerve now. Patrick was walking on a thread.

Patrick did just that. He spit and coughed, littering the floor with every shade of the colour blue. Pete watched in shock as the flowers fell to the ground, bringing Patrick with them.

Pete gasped and fell to his knees. "Trick! What's happening?!" He screamed, holding Patrick's head on his lap.

Patrick looked up at him tiredly, blood pouring from his mouth with an odd petal mixed in. Pete looked terrified.

"I'm sorry.." Patrick croaked before falling unconscious in Petes arms. Pete watched in horror as Patrick passed out in his own pile of regurgitated Hanahaki flowers. They were blue, resembling forbidden love. Pete felt himself get choked up. Pete shook him quickly, slapping him. "Patrick! Wake up! This isn't fun-"

Pete heard it before he felt it. Heard the air whistle as the object flew through it. He heard the thump before he felt as though his head had been spilt open. Petes eyes drooped before he too fell unconscious.

Pete fell, draped over Patrick.